Prologue: Rainy Night

The wind howled through the narrow gorge, producing a piercing shriek. Raindrops as big as beans pelted the cliffs on both sides, splattering mud everywhere. In the sky, thunder rumbled faintly, and dazzling flashes of lightning occasionally pierced the thick clouds, illuminating the ink-black earth below.

"Pain will always pass!"

Henry Clark sat in the muddy rain, talking to himself.

Pain will always pass!

This was the last thing his father said to him before he died, so he remembered it especially clearly.

The rain was still falling, seemingly growing heavier.

Beside him lay two corpses, long since lifeless. Dark purple blood trickled down to the ground with the rainwater. The torrential downpour washed away all traces of blood, but could not erase the aura of slaughter that had recently filled the space.

A soft sigh sounded in his ear.

Henry Clark's small body stiffened for a moment, then, as if a dam had burst, he suddenly wailed and began to cry.

Once he started, he couldn't stop, crying for a full half hour. Only when his voice was hoarse and exhausted did his sobs gradually subside.

The one who sighed was a middle-aged man, half-mortal, half-Taoist, who walked up to him and picked him up from the ground.

"Alright, child, the dead are gone. Let's find a place to bury them, and then I'll take you back to Ethan Brooks. That's a wonderful place!!"

...

Chapter One: Carefree Youth

Ethan Brooks is a famous mountain in the world, located slightly east of the Central Plains. The mountain stretches for thousands of miles, with lofty peaks and beautiful waters, layer upon layer of ridges, and ever-changing scenery. The landscape behind the mountain is especially secluded and strange, filled with deep forests and great lakes, home to many dragons and serpents, and dense valleys where tigers, leopards, wolves, and other beasts dwell.

Of course, Ethan Brooks is most famous not for its scenery, but for the The Brooks Sect.

Nowadays, cultivators are as numerous as cattle, and famous mountains and great rivers are often occupied by practitioners or sects. Daoist arts and immortal techniques are endlessly emerging. Although cultivators strive for tranquility and detachment, once people are involved, things naturally become complicated.

Among the various sects, there are righteous, evil, and demonic factions. All kinds of conflicts and hatreds boil like water, and the reasons behind them are as foul as dumping a bucket of dung into boiling water—utterly repugnant.

After thousands of years of slaughter, mergers, and survival of the fittest, and following the great battle between good and evil a century ago, the evil and demonic forces retreated, defeated and confined to the remote borderlands.

Those borderlands are perilous, with treacherous mountains and rivers, fierce beasts and predatory birds in packs, poisonous miasmas and venomous creatures everywhere, and barbarian tribes who resist civilization. Many areas are desolate and rarely visited by people. Although the environment is harsh, the righteous path cannot conquer it, so the evil and demonic sects have managed to survive there for over a hundred years, gradually regaining some strength.

Meanwhile, the major sects of the Central Plains have also grown stronger over the past century, forming a vast righteous alliance led by two sects, three schools, and one valley.

The The Brooks Sect is one of the three schools.

Among the many sects, the The Brooks Sect is an old and established cultivation sect, founded four thousand years ago. In every generation, it has produced notable figures, so it has always held considerable influence in the Central Plains. After four thousand years of development, its foundation is deep and its strength unfathomable, ranking among the elite of the two sects, three schools, and one valley.

The sky was clear and the clouds high, not a cloud in sight.

On Ethan Brooks Mountain, at Green Pine Terrace, the crisp, bell-like laughter of children rang out, mixed with the melodious calls of a young oriole, "Second Senior Brother, you lost again!"

With the sound, two figures—one in red, one in white—ran out from the pine forest. Leading was a white-clad youth of about fifteen or sixteen, with delicate features and a clear brow, holding a green-bladed sword that gleamed with a sharp edge—clearly a rare weapon. Chasing behind was a lively girl of about fourteen or fifteen, dressed in bright red, also holding a sword.

"Ninth Senior Brother, you can't get away! Watch my sword!"

The little girl's sword flashed like a rainbow, blossoming into several dazzling sword flowers as she attacked the white-clad youth. The youth smiled, turned, and parried with his sword. The two began to spar, their movements swift and agile, growing ever more intense. Two flashes of cold light, a swirl of white like falling snow, rolled across the Green Pine Terrace. Suddenly, the figures separated—a white blur, trailing a streak of cold light, shot toward a towering pine at the edge of the terrace like a shooting star. With a crack, a large southern branch of the tree was sliced off. The trunk, jolted by the broken branch, shook loose a shower of pine needles, and along with the falling needles, a plump body tumbled down.