Martial Arts Secret Realm: Only I Can Know the Plot?

As he was thinking, he suddenly stopped.

A man stood by the window at the end of the corridor. His back was to him; he wore a wrinkled gray jacket, his hair was a mess like a bird's nest, he held a flask in his right hand, and his left hand was in his pocket. Moonlight streamed in through the window, falling on his shoulders and casting a long, long shadow.

The wind follows the clouds.

Sun Fan was taken aback. This elusive swordsmanship master hadn't appeared at the martial arts school for a long time. After his last substitute teaching session, he disappeared again. Some said he went into seclusion, some said he went to another city, and some said he just changed locations to drink.

"Teacher Feng." Sun Fan walked over and stood behind him.

Feng Congyun didn't turn around. He simply raised the wine jug, took a sip, smacked his lips, and then slowly said, "I heard you've returned from the secret realm."

"Yes."

"I heard you killed Yan Gaotian."

"Yes."

"I heard you killed Blood Saber Ancestor."

"Yes."

Feng Congyun turned around and looked at Sun Fan.

The moonlight shone on his face, a face weathered by time and alcohol, which now lacked its usual lazy and carefree demeanor.

His eyes were bright, as bright as a drawn sword, and they swept over Sun Fan before settling on Sun Fan's eyes.

He stared at it for a long time.

Sun Fan did not avoid his gaze, and just stood there, letting him look at her.

"Opening Meridian Realm." Feng Congyun finally spoke, his voice a few degrees deeper than usual. "His internal strength is quite solid, but his meridians are not fully open yet. There is a blockage in the heart meridian, which should be a hidden injury left by practicing too hastily."

Sun Fan's pupils contracted slightly.

I could tell his problem at a glance.

"But that's not what I care about most." Feng Congyun clipped the wine flask to his belt, put his hands in his pockets, and tilted his head to look at Sun Fan. "What I care about most is what's in your eyes."

Sun Fan remained silent.

Feng Congyun said, "It's not blood rushing, it's demonic possession."

"What exactly happened to you?"

He took two steps forward, getting closer to Sun Fan.

Sun Fan's heart skipped a beat.

This is the first time someone has noticed his problem.

"I also saw this thing in Ye Liuxing's eyes, and not long after, he perished."

Ye Liuxing.

Feng Congyun's disciple, a sword genius who appears only once every ten years at the Dark Martial Arts School, the young man who once single-handedly defeated countless powerful figures in the martial arts school competition, also once went mad in the way of swordsmanship.

Then he perished.

"He was the same way back then." Feng Congyun turned around, walked to the window, and looked at the moon outside. "He learned things he shouldn't have learned at that level too early, and he used a sword that he shouldn't have used at that level too early. His swordsmanship was unmatched among his peers, but his body was being hollowed out little by little. By the time he realized the problem, it was too late."

He was silent for a moment, then his voice became even softer: "He was ruined by me. I made him famous too early, put him in the spotlight too early, and made him think he was a genius too early. He practiced desperately, tried desperately to win, and tried desperately to prove himself. And then—snap, it broke."

The wind raised its hand from the clouds and made a snapping gesture.

His finger paused in mid-air for a moment, then he withdrew it and put it back into his pocket.

"Zhang Guangcheng wants you to participate in the year-end competition?" he suddenly asked.

Sun Fan nodded.

What are you thinking?

"I want to give it a try."

Feng Congyun turned around and looked at him. There was no blame or disappointment in his eyes, only something indescribable.

"I want to try." He repeated those three words, then suddenly laughed. "Ye Liuxing said the same thing back then. 'Master, I want to try.'" He shook his head. "He tried. He won. And then he was crippled."

The corridor fell silent.

In the distance, the sounds of training from the parade ground drifted in—faint shouts, footsteps, and the clash of weapons—mingling with the night wind, floating into the corridor, and then quickly dissipating.

"Do you know why you were able to kill Yan Gaotian?" Feng Congyun suddenly changed the subject.

Sun Fan nodded.

He relied on building up momentum

He looked into Sun Fan's eyes: "But do you know how much it takes to build up strength for your body and mind? You build up for three days, then use one sword strike, and then your internal energy is depleted, your spirit is weak, and the bloodshot in your eyes is intense. This isn't normal consumption; it's overdrawing your energy."

Sun Fan did not deny it.

He was indeed overdrawing his resources. After that sword strike, his inner demons intensified, and the bloodshot in his eyes never completely faded. If this happened a few more times, would he turn into someone like Ye Liuxing?

he does not know.

"The year-end competition isn't something that ends with just one match," Feng Congyun continued. "It's a draw for group assignments, two-on-one matches, win and you advance, lose and you're eliminated. From the preliminary rounds to the finals, there will be at least a dozen matches. Can you build up your momentum once, or five times? Even if you can build up five times, can your body handle it?"

Sun Fan fell silent.

He certainly couldn't hold on. One bout of preparation had already exhausted him, and the bloodshot in his eyes hadn't faded yet. If he did it again, he didn't know if he would vomit blood on the spot.

"Besides, what are we competing for in the year-end competition?" Feng Congyun turned around and looked at the moon outside the window. "We're competing for rankings, resources, and face. Are these things really that important? Rankings are meaningless, face is meaningless, only strength is yours. What you need most right now isn't fighting with others, but calming down and practicing your skills."

He untied the wine jug from his belt, took a sip, and then handed it to Sun Fan.

"Want a sip?"

Sun Fan took the wine jug and took a swig. The wine was very strong, so strong it felt like a knife cutting his throat. He choked and coughed twice.

Feng Congyun laughed, took the wine jug, and took a sip himself.

"Almost as good as yours, but strong enough."

"What you lack most right now isn't fighting experience, it's internal strength," he said. "Your swordsmanship is already good enough, so good that even I can't find any fault with it. But your internal strength doesn't match your swordsmanship—it's like a thoroughbred horse pulling a broken-down cart. No matter how fast the horse runs, the cart can't keep up."

"You need time for your internal energy to catch up with your swordsmanship. This process cannot be rushed. If you rush it, you'll end up like Ye Liuxing—the carriage couldn't keep up, and the horse died of exhaustion first."

He patted Sun Fan on the shoulder, the force neither too light nor too heavy, carrying the kind of stern yet gentle tone of an elder towards a younger person.

"Take my advice: don't participate in the year-end competition."

Sun Fan lowered his head, looking at the hand that had held the wine pot. The scar on the tiger's mouth was still there, left from his fight with Blood Blade Ancestor. It had scabbed over, but hadn't completely fallen off yet.

He recalled Zhang Guangcheng's words: "Young people, it's not a bad thing to be a little flamboyant when it's time to be."

What Feng Congyun said was: "Rankings are meaningless, face is meaningless, only strength is your own."

Who is right and who is wrong?

Both are correct.

But which one is more suitable for him?

He looked up at Feng Congyun. The moonlight shone on the disheveled middle-aged man's face, revealing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the white hair at his temples, and the deep, weary earnestness in his eyes.

The corridor fell silent again.