Volume Two: The Boy of a Thousand Faces, False Yet True Chapter Sixty: The Silent Wind

The battlefield map took Huo Ye by surprise—it was a Daoist temple, a small shrine nestled amid a ring of mountains.

Yet, when he glanced at his opponent, clarity dawned. It was Feng Wuming, president of Wind Chime Valley, Dao Births One. Huo Ye had already defeated Flame Demon Hall; his hidden score was extremely high, so he’d long prepared himself to be matched with a president-level adversary. Facing Feng Wuming was hardly unexpected.

A one-on-one map would never be too large; otherwise, it would take both sides too long to find each other. Huo Ye tried to leave the temple, but could only go twenty meters beyond the main gate—beyond that lay an invisible wall, the system’s rule marking the map’s boundary.

Huo Ye turned and reentered the temple, seizing this opportunity to get acquainted with Feng Wuming. At least, he wouldn’t be left in the dark when the coming society war began.

He pushed open the door to one of the rooms and found Feng Wuming seated leisurely at a table, brewing tea.

Upon seeing Huo Ye, Feng Wuming smiled and greeted him, “Come, President Huo, please—hey—!”

Before Feng Wuming could finish, Huo Ye struck with his blade.

Second Form: Sunset Slash

The blade cleaved the table from below, sending the tea set flying through the air. Before Feng Wuming could react, Huo Ye’s other sword followed, executing the Sunset Slash.

Feng Wuming was sent flying backward, his horsetail whisk whipping out. The myriad silver threads didn’t lash at Huo Ye, but instead snaked toward the airborne tea set.

With a pained shout, Feng Wuming cried, “Hey! Such waste! That’s top-grade Qimen Black!”

The tea set was caught by the silver threads, while Feng Wuming’s wind-based ability formed a small tornado beneath them, preventing them from crashing to the floor. Even so, he failed to save every piece—a teacup full to the brim spun through the air, most of its precious contents spilling, just as the rare tea was about to be lost to the earth.

Huo Ye had been in a foul mood, so upon seeing Feng Wuming, he’d lashed out with two strikes—one to the table, a warning to take things seriously, and the second for real combat.

He hadn’t cared about the tea on the table—after all, in this virtual world, wasting tea didn’t seem a loss. But when Feng Wuming uttered the words “Qimen Black,” Huo Ye’s pupils contracted sharply. He shouted, “Why didn’t you say so earlier!”

Huo Ye had few hobbies, but his greatest passion was tea. He’d thought the tea in this virtual world was nothing to mourn if wasted, so he hadn’t hesitated to destroy the table. But those two words—Qimen Black—struck him like an arrow to the heart, instantly sobering him. Qimen Black Tea, full name Qimen Hongcha, was a historic and renowned tea of Huaxia, a true treasure among teas.

In this age of supernatural powers, many lands remained wild, unreclaimed; regional specialties were hard to reproduce—like the brandy that could only be distilled in Cognac and its environs, or the Kobe beef of Japan, or the Qimen Black Tea from Qimen in Anhui, Huaxia.

Now, some had managed to simulate the soil and climate of the Qimen region with advanced cultivation technology, producing Qimen Black Tea. But the cost was prohibitive, the yield minuscule—rarity made it all the more precious. The market price was ten thousand Sola per tael, and even at that, it was rarely available.

Huo Ye was not short of money—the royalties and copyright fees from “Rhapsody on a Rainy Night” amounted to an astronomical figure. But he was not the only rich man with a love of tea. Wealth alone offered no way to acquire it; that was Huo Ye’s predicament.

Now, hearing that the spilled tea was Qimen Black, Huo Ye’s heart ached bitterly. No, he couldn’t let that cup fall.

Fourth Form: Thousandfold Mirage

Thousandfold Mirage amplified his speed. Since he couldn’t use Gale Rush in front of Feng Wuming, this was his fastest technique. With a flicker, Huo Ye’s figure blurred; one long blade stabbed into the ground, freeing his hand to catch the teacup, gathering every last drop of spilled tea along its arc in midair.

Staring at the trembling surface of the tea in his palm, Huo Ye murmured, “That was close. That was close.”

Feng Wuming’s face darkened. “It took me a great many points to exchange for that. I’d hoped to chat with you for a bit first. Who would have thought you’d attack right away? Virtual reality may be for battle, but there’s no need to be so hasty.”

But Huo Ye gently sipped the tea. “Ah, truly fine tea. Its gentle fragrance is the perfect balm for a restless heart.”

Feng Wuming’s mouth twitched. This shift in attitude was so abrupt—was he really going to play dumb like this?

Helpless, Feng Wuming tapped twice on his control panel. The table Huo Ye had split dissolved into fragments of the world, then reassembled as a new, whole table.

Returning the tea set to its place, Feng Wuming said, “Brother Huo, let’s sit. This is a meeting of friends over tea, a discussion of martial principles. First… please put your swords away.” Seeing Huo Ye, after finishing his tea, once again draw his twin blades and set himself on guard, Feng Wuming offered this kindly advice.

Huo Ye had come in looking for a fight, and his foul mood from Alice still lingered. Yet with Feng Wuming so affable, Huo Ye couldn’t bring himself to attack directly. He sat down and poured himself another cup.

Feng Wuming said, “Words are the bridge of human communication—a man’s way of speaking reveals much. Before a match, I always like to talk with my opponent, though only if they’re human. Catastrophes won’t listen, after all.” He poured himself a cup. “I’d asked Jiang Feng about your preferences, and hearing you liked tea, I brought out this precious Qimen Black. But today, Brother Huo, you seem to be burning with inner fire.”

Huo Ye gave an awkward laugh. “I admit I was impulsive.”

Feng Wuming waved it off. “No matter.”

The two chatted idly for a while. From their conversation, Huo Ye gathered that Feng Wuming was a man content to live apart from the world, seeing no real meaning in the struggles between the great societies.

Huo Ye asked, “I’m genuinely curious—why would someone as otherworldly as you come to Bancroft to study? Wouldn’t meditating in a temple, cultivating your spirit, be a happier, more peaceful life?”

Feng Wuming’s gaze suddenly turned somber. “Do you truly want to know?”

Huo Ye’s expression grew serious. From Feng Wuming’s look, it was clear the reason was not a happy one.

But then Feng Wuming suddenly burst out laughing. “Haha, don’t be so grave. I’m only joking.”

“….”

Huo Ye’s face darkened, but he said nothing.

Raising his teacup, Feng Wuming said, “My reason is both sad and ordinary.”

Then, Huo Ye listened as Feng Wuming told his story.

“When I was very young, my family was poor. My father was a traditional doctor, sometimes scouring the hills for wild herbs to supplement our income. My mother was frail and sickly, kept alive only by the medicine my father made. One day, while gathering herbs, my father encountered a catastrophe. He returned, battered and bleeding, to warn the villagers, but died from blood loss soon after. The catastrophe was hunted down by a squad, but my mother, without my father’s prescriptions, died six months later. I was only seven.”

“After that, a wandering old Daoist took me in as his disciple, and I became a monk. This very temple is modeled after the place where I spent the next ten years. My master was an ability-wielder, but weak; the hunting teams didn’t want him, and he had no wish to become a mercenary tainted by money, so he chose the monastic path, dedicating his life to fusing Daoist breathing techniques with supernatural abilities. Perhaps everyone’s talent lies in different things—my master was gifted in this. He mastered the method in twenty years, then passed it on to me.”

“Three years ago, my master passed away. After I buried him, I wondered what to do with my skills. If I spent my life in seclusion, what worth would I have as a human being? Meditation and scripture can’t save the world. So I cast myself into the chaos, come what may, simply seeking a clear conscience.”

Huo Ye bowed his head in thought, saying nothing.

Feng Wuming sensed his story had grown too heavy, chilling the mood, so he joked, “No need to dwell on my woes, Brother Huo. My Dao isn’t deep enough to be indifferent, but I can let things go. Besides, in these times, there are countless worse off than me—what right have I to mourn?”

Huo Ye shook his head. “Honestly, I envy you, in more ways than one. I’ve always had a happy family, but I don’t even know who my real parents are. At least you spent seven years with yours—that’s something to envy.”

These words came from Huo Ye’s heart, though he’d never told anyone before. Perhaps it was because Feng Wuming, like him, was an orphan, or maybe it was Feng Wuming’s transcendent Daoist aura that lowered his guard. In any case, Huo Ye felt he could entrust his true feelings to this man.

“And you’ve already found your purpose in life. Unlike me—I have nothing but a hopeless dream, and at its core, that dream is driven by revenge. So what is the meaning of my life?”