After a long while, Ming finally calmed down.
He sat down cross-legged, the forest silent around him, and closed his eyes. The chaos in his mind slowly settled as he reflected on what he had done—on what he had almost become.
The image of the crying boy lingered in his thoughts.
Ming clenched his fists, then slowly loosened them.
In a low voice, barely louder than the wind, he made a vow:
"I will never again raise my blade against the innocent.
I will never kill those who do not practice martial arts…
and those who do not understand the cruelty of this world."
The words were not spoken in anger, nor in grief.
They were spoken as a law.
A boundary he would never cross again.
But Ming was not finished.
As he sat there, another memory surfaced—
the physician.
His assistant.
The sneering faces that framed him, that lied without hesitation, that set everything in motion.
His family's screams echoed in his mind.
The calm shattered.
Ming's qi surged violently, erupting from his body like a restrained beast finally breaking its chains. The ground beneath him trembled as he rose to his feet.
"I will not spare them," he said coldly.
"Those bastards will not walk free."
They were not innocent.
They knew exactly what they were doing.
With that, Ming turned and began walking out of the forest, each step heavy with killing intent.
A sudden rush of footsteps came from behind.
Wrath and Jinhai ran after him.
Wrath stopped in front of him and bowed deeply.
"My lord… where are you going?"
Ming did not slow.
His voice was calm, stripped of all emotion.
"To settle a debt."
He stepped past her and continued forward.
Ming was heading toward the physician.
The very man who had framed him.
The man whose lie had lit the fire that burned his family alive.
Now, Ming was back.
Not as a woodcutter.
Not as a powerless boy.
As he walked down the familiar street, memories surfaced one after another—unwanted, unmerciful.
This was the road he used to take every morning, an axe on his shoulder, hands blistered, stomach empty. He remembered standing here with his sister, listening to her talk about dumplings and silly dreams, pretending hunger didn't hurt.
He remembered his father's tired smile.
His mother's weak breathing.
Each step forward crushed something inside him.
His qi stirred again, responding to his anger like fire answering wind. The air around him grew heavy, distorted by the pressure of restrained killing intent.
"They were innocent," Ming whispered.
His fists clenched.
"And you took them from me."
The farther he walked, the colder his eyes became.
This was not rage without direction.
This was revenge returning home.
After some time, Ming stood before Lian Hua's residence.
The house also served as a clinic.
Nothing about it had changed.
The same wooden door.
The same walls.
The same place where lies had been spoken so easily.
Ming stared at the door.
An unfamiliar feeling rose in his chest—heavy, suffocating. Not hesitation. Not fear.
Anticipation.
Then—
Bang.
With a sharp snap of movement, Ming kicked the door open.
Wood exploded inward. The door shattered into pieces, crashing across the floor.
It was evening. There were no patients inside.
But a place like this was never empty.
Footsteps rushed toward the noise. Servants, guards, assistants—faces twisted with shock as they stared at the ruined entrance and the man standing calmly within it.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then someone swallowed and asked,
"W–Who are you?"
Ming's gaze passed over them.
He didn't recognize a single face.
In just one year, everything had changed.
But that didn't matter.
"Where is Lian Hua?" Ming asked coldly.
As he spoke, he unsheathed his sword.
Steel rang through the hall like a death bell.
"I will give you one chance," Ming said, his voice steady, merciless.
"Leave this place if you wish to live."
The killing intent pouring from him was unmistakable.
They understood instantly—
This was a martial artist.
Panic erupted.
Several servants turned and fled without a second thought. Others hesitated, fear warring with loyalty. A few tightened their grips on their weapons, forcing themselves to stand their ground.
Just as they prepared to fight—
A voice rang out from deeper inside the house.
"What is all this noise?"
A man stepped forward.
The moment Ming saw him, something inside him snapped.
That face.
He remembered it.
Lian Hua's assistant.
The one who had helped frame him.
The one who had watched in silence as his family was slaughtered.
Ming's vision narrowed.
The world shrank to that single figure.
Without a word—
Ming moved.
The ground cracked beneath his feet as he lunged forward, sword raised, killing intent unleashed like a storm.