Chapter 58: This Is Hua Shan

Among a pile of rubble on the south side, over a dozen people were gathered, compiling the results of their searches today.

The lead man had fine, soft black hair, a slender build, held a chocolate croissant in his left hand, chewing it, and wore a knuckle duster on his right hand.

When the loudspeaker’s voice reached him, he still had a mouthful of bread and simply stared up, stunned.

They’d been staying up late for days, sleeping in shifts at night while staying alert—everyone’s tempers had grown sharp.

A nearby short-haired guy in a black tank top snapped: “Yelling like a broken gong in the middle of the night? ‘Hua Shan Sword Debate’? Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t fall for this!”

The lead man mused: “Zhu Heng really thinks he’s the Venomous West, doesn’t he? Does he even have brains?”

The two people most unforgettable to the Venomous West, besides his son, were surely the Northern Beggar, his peer among the Five Greats.

He was the true rival—the one who, even after going mad, still remembered clearly, and ultimately died alongside him from exhaustion.

Zhu Heng shouldn’t care about the Northern Beggar at all.

But a madman who’s lost his wits, dragging people around to break their legs and force them to be his son? That’s another matter entirely.

The short-haired guy choked, then his face filled with shock.

“Manager Wang, you don’t actually mean this trick might work, do you?”

“If this trash tactic actually worked, then we—we’ve been wasting our time these past few days…”

The short-haired guy grew so furious he felt a toothache flare up and pressed his cheek.

Manager Wang sighed: “We’re all stuck in habitual thinking—we never considered this from a psychiatric angle.”

“But even this tactic isn’t guaranteed to work—it’s probably just a test. We’ll wait and see.”

The loudspeaker’s voice continued spreading, echoing in every direction.

“Old Poison, didn’t you say you wanted to compete with me, Old Beggar, for the title of Number One?”

“I’m here—but where are you? You’re not even here.”

“HAHAHA! Old Toad blustering again—turns out he’s scared of me!!”

Chu Tianshu had gone out in the afternoon to get a beggar’s outfit.

But it wasn’t the real look of an actual beggar—it matched the TV version of the Beggar Sect’s leader perfectly, the clothes thick and sturdy.

Only the blue fabric bore dozens of patches, some deep blue, others brown-red.

He’d practiced for a while, controlling his vocal cords to mimic a rough, coarse, aged tone, with Fang Jun listening and offering feedback.

Though he himself had little confidence in the plan, once he put on the costume and shouted a few times, inspiration flooded in.

His tone grew increasingly like the martial arts character he was portraying.

At this moment, in another unfinished building.

By the load-bearing wall, Kong Wenju sat slumped, face gaunt and vacant, legs bent unnaturally, clutching a large backpack.

He felt he was nearly dead from torment—after his legs were broken, they didn’t even take him for treatment, just left him here.

Since being captured by this old madman, he’d tried every trick to knock him unconscious, but it barely worked, so he switched to hallucinogenic toxins, weaving lies around the madman’s random mutterings, pretending to be his son.

But a madman is a madman—this is how he treats his own son?

Whoever becomes your son is cursed for eight generations!

Kong Wenju had always been slender; now his cheeks were sunken, hollowed out—only the contents of the backpack still gave him comfort and fullness.

Suddenly, the old madman’s figure emerged from behind a nearby load-bearing pillar.

He still wore the same blue-and-white striped hospital gown, filthy and splattered with stains.

His eyebrows and beard were stiff and bristly; half a month since discharge, his hair had grown long enough to hang past his shoulders, streaked with gray and white.

“Who—who called me?”

The madman looked outside.

The unfinished building had no outer walls; outside the load-bearing wall, wind, rain, and cold night could seep in, and one’s view from there stretched wide open.

“That tone—yes, it’s that old beggar!!”

Dazed and numb, Kong Wenju was jolted awake—he realized now, beyond the wind, there was a loud, booming voice outside.

“Hua Shan Sword Debate… Hua Shan Sword Debate…”

The old madman frowned, muttering to himself, glancing around.

“When did I get to Hua Shan? Is this what Hua Shan looks like?”

He stared at the nearby wall, pressed his hand against it, exhaled sharply, eyebrows furrowed, eyes blazing, then unleashed his power.

THUD!!

The reinforced concrete emitted a dull boom; chunks of cement cracked and caved in, forming a spiderweb pattern the size of a washbasin.

The steel rebar inside was visibly warped.

Kong Wenju’s heart pounded wildly; he shrank back involuntarily.

That wasn’t just plain cement—when steel rebar was properly distributed, the wall’s load-bearing and compressive strength increased dramatically.

How had this madman grown stronger than before, while I’m growing weaker?

No—this can’t continue. Even my strongest hallucinogenic toxin will soon fail on him.

“This—this really is Hua Shan.”

Kong Wenju mustered all his strength: “Uncle, among the Five Sacred Mountains, Hua Shan belongs to Metal—its metal qi is sharp, perilous, and steep.”

The old madman turned to him, stern-faced: “Don’t call me uncle. Call me Father.”

Kong Wenju cursed inwardly.

I’d believe you if pigs could fly.

He’d initially pretended to be his son by calling him Father—but after a few times, the madman started doubting him, accusing him of being fake.

Calling him “Uncle” was safer.

“Uncle-Father.”

Kong Wenju mumbled the title, brushing it off, then added: “Look at these mountains—aren’t they all straight and sheer?”

“Look at these rocks—every single one hides iron inside.”

“That’s the true mark of Hua Shan!”

Zhu Heng’s face lit up with realization as he gazed outside.

Those “mountain peaks” were indeed all steep and vertical.

None had the gentle slopes of ordinary peaks—they stood straight up from the earth.

Some even had “thin iron rods” jutting from their summits, piercing the sky.

“No wonder they say: ‘You can’t see Hua Shan’s true face, because you’re lost inside it.’”

The old madman twisted the poem: “So this is Hua Shan—I’ve been inside Hua Shan all along!”

“I never noticed before—how utterly extraordinary these mountains are.”

Kong Wenju felt a quiet surge of relief.

The people outside were clearly targeting this madman. If he walked out there, even if I had to crawl, I’d escape this building—even if I crawled only a little, I could mislead passersby.

Even if, worst case, I didn’t meet anyone and starved to death here—

It was still better than staying beside a madman who was unpredictable and Suishishikong .

Sometimes, Kong Wenju even felt the madman wanted to swallow him whole—only because the madman believed he was his son had that terrifying impulse been suppressed.

If the hallucinogenic toxin failed, Kong Wenju couldn’t bear to imagine what torment awaited him.

“Hua Shan Sword Debate…”

Zhu Heng stared at the moonlight outside, his expression filled with longing, murmuring to himself, like a quiet yet broken beast.

“This time, I won’t go.”

Kong Wenju’s fleeting joy froze on his lips.

Zhu Heng, as if making a monumental decision, turned back and looked kindly at his “child.”

“Son, I won’t go this time. You must be happy.”

He sighed deeply: “Back then, the martial and business worlds were cruel—bulldozers tore down walls, cement buried men, docks at night saw me and my brothers fighting dozens of Southeast Asian assassins, battling South Asian witch doctors.”

“We finally achieved fame and fortune—yet still fought on, chasing the Five Greats’ throne, seeking the treasure of the Nine Yin Vault.”

“But money is garbage. I was enslaved by it—only when I looked back did I realize I already had more than enough. Yet greed stole so much from me.”

As Zhu Heng spoke, he moved closer, crouched down, and seemed about to reach out and touch his son’s head.

Kong Wenju didn’t care what fractured memories the madman had stitched together to invent this “Nine Yin Vault” treasure.

He only wanted this madman to stay far away.

“Uncle!”

Kong Wenju poured every ounce of strength into releasing invisible, colorless hallucinogenic toxin toward the man before him.

“Uncle, you’re the greatest hero in the world—I’ve always believed you surpass that old beggar!”

“You needn’t sacrifice yourself for me—I only want to hear you’ve won. I’ll wait here for your triumphant return!”

Zhu Heng breathed in the invisible poison, seeing before him the face of a young man.

That naive face—the one who became general manager thanks to family connections, believing business was just business.

“You want me to go? You support me?”

The old madman was deeply moved, rising to his feet.

“Good, good—I’ll win for you.”

Zhu Heng turned again to gaze at the row of unfinished buildings.

The same scene—the same ruined towers.

But now they ignited in him a fierce desire to win; his chest rose and fell, lungs expanding, blood in his veins seeming to flow like thick smoke.

"My child, wait here—I shall return victorious!"

The old madman leapt from a height of three stories, his feet slamming into the ground with a muffled thud, kicking up dust as he sprinted away.

Since ancient times, Huashan has had but one path.

The roads walked, the karma accumulated—there is no chance to turn back or start over.

This is Huashan!

(End of Chapter)