Chapter 50: The Hundredth Birthday Banquet Shocks the World (Part Four)

April 9th. Wudang Mountain had taken on a whole new look. The mountain paths had been freshly repaired, the palace walls and buildings at the summit newly refurbished. Everywhere lanterns hung and banners fluttered, laughter and merriment echoing throughout. Relying on the immense manpower and resources of the Jiuzhou Trading Company, Yuan Ye had managed to have the entire mountain renovated from top to bottom within three days.

At this moment, flags waved atop the mountain, and the whole scene was alive with joy and festivity. Disciples and young Daoist novices bustled back and forth, carrying and arranging tables, chairs, and tea sets—everything needed for the grand birthday feast.

At dawn, as the first light crept across the sky, third-generation disciples of Wudang were already stationed at the foot of the mountain, welcoming guests. Today was the hundredth birthday of their founder, Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng; no one dared to show the slightest negligence.

Ascending the mountain path, every half a mile stood Wudang disciples, waiting to greet visitors who had traveled from afar.

Half a month before, Yuan Ye had issued a statement to the martial world, and as expected, all of Hubei had remained eerily quiet. Even those wandering ruffians and troublemaking swordsmen who usually stirred up mischief in the countryside had obediently stayed home for the past fortnight.

No one wanted to risk being captured by some sycophantic martial artist eager to curry favor with the Master of No Trace, and be dragged up Wudang Mountain as a trophy.

As for the various sects, lone wanderers, and infamous bandits, they had avoided Hubei altogether—some, like the Three Rivers Gang and the Five Phoenix Blades, had even fled beyond the province’s borders.

Ever since those three renowned escort chiefs had been tossed out of the Purple Cloud Palace like chickens, the martial world had been stricken with fear.

In recent days, as Zhang Sanfeng’s birthday approached, martial artists finally dared to set foot in Hubei again.

Among the disciples welcoming guests at the foot of the mountain, the leader was Zhao Douyun, the most outstanding among them. He too wore a brand-new azure robe, a long sword at his waist, his bearing spirited and proud.

“Senior brother, which sect do you think will arrive first?” Liu Zhichang, tall and lean, asked with a smile.

“That’s hard to say. Logically, Emei is on good terms with us, so they should arrive first. But Shaolin is closer, so they might get here before anyone else.”

“But didn’t the people from Jiuzhou Trading say yesterday that both Kunlun and Kongtong are already gathered in Shiyan Town? Maybe they’ll show up first,” another disciple interjected.

As they discussed, a group of travelers appeared on the road a few miles away. Leading them was an elderly man with white hair and brows and a hawk-like hooked nose. Three men in their fifties followed, all wearing servant’s caps and attire.

One of the three bore a long scar running from his right brow, across his nose, ending at the left corner of his mouth. Another’s face was pitted with pockmarks; the last had skin as black as the bottom of a pot. What they had in common was that all three were remarkably ugly.

Behind them trailed a dozen coolies and more than ten strong, armed men.

“Master, we’re nearly at Wudang Mountain,” said the scar-faced elder, bowing respectfully as he gazed at the looming peaks ahead.

The hooked-nosed elder looked toward the towering mountain, his eyes flashing with urgency. “Wufu, do you think my grandson is as tall as my waist by now? And Susu... these years of hardship overseas, I wonder how much she’s suffered.”

“Rest assured, master. Young master is surely healthy and adorable. Now that the young lady has returned, we brothers will protect her with our lives,” the scar-faced man replied, his eyes glinting coldly. Clearly, he was aware of the recent difficulties faced by Zhang Cuishan and Yin Susu’s family.

“Haha! I, Yin Tianzheng, would like to see who dares trouble my daughter, son-in-law, or grandson.”

Though his laughter was hearty, an icy killing intent pulsed beneath his words.

This group was none other than the White-browed Eagle King, Yin Tianzheng, leader of the Heavenly Eagle Sect, come to offer birthday respects to Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng of Wudang.

As for the three elders, they had once terrorized the southwest as notorious bandits. Pursued by many masters and seeing no way out, they refused to surrender—impressing Yin Tianzheng, who happened to pass by. He admired their spirit, rescued them, and from then on, they swore a life oath to serve him, abandoning their old names and taking on new ones: Yin Wufu, Yin Wulu, and Yin Wushou.

The scar-faced one was Yin Wufu, the pockmarked one Yin Wulu, and the black-faced one Yin Wushou.

After hearing Yin Tianzheng’s words, Yin Wulu suddenly said, “Master, with that person here, even if all the heroes under heaven gather today, they’ll not dare make trouble. Besides, with Grandmaster Zhang atop Wudang, and so many skilled heroes at his side, who can challenge them?”

Yin Tianzheng nodded slightly, but his thoughts drifted to two years ago, to the youth who had stormed the Heavenly Eagle stronghold as if it were empty.

That youth exchanged only a hundred moves with him before defeating him with ease, leaving behind a single comment: “The Eagle Claw skill of the White-browed Eagle King is indeed peerless,” before vanishing like a wisp of smoke.

With thousands of men at his command, not one could touch the hem of that youth’s robe—a humiliation that was both terrifying and deeply embarrassing.

Later, after much investigation, Yin Tianzheng learned that the youth was the final disciple of Grandmaster Zhang Sanfeng. Upon leaving Wudang, he had promptly defeated the Blue-winged Bat King Wei Yixiao, who had once been his equal as one of the Four Great Protectors of the Ming Sect.

This youth’s swordplay was supreme, his internal strength profound, his lightness skill ethereal—so much so that he seemed to walk the earth like an immortal, leaving no trace behind. Thus, the martial world honored him as the Master of No Trace.

In the years since, the fame of the Master of No Trace had only grown, and people gradually stopped thinking of him as merely a second-generation Wudang disciple, instead regarding him as a true giant of the martial world.

Over time, his reputation evolved: the Master of No Trace was renowned for unrivaled lightness skill, peerless swordsmanship, and unmatched prowess in unarmed combat.

Moreover, his journey left rivers of blood in the martial world—but those he killed were all unforgivable villains. None could say he was in the wrong. Unable to best him in arms, his critics dared only mutter behind his back, calling him “the bloodthirsty butcher.”

“Two years have passed. Who knows what heights his skills have reached now?” Yin Tianzheng sighed, still brooding over his easy defeat by a mere teenager.

“I can’t imagine how Young Master Yuan trains. So young, and already his power dominates the world. His fists and sword are equally invincible. Just last month, he and his followers went to Shaolin—his two subordinates alone defeated the monks of the ‘Kong’ generation, and even Shaolin’s elders were routed,” said Yin Wulu, baring his blackened teeth.

Such secrets were unknown to most, and Shaolin, shamed, kept silent. Yet they could not escape the notice of those with ears in the martial world—especially the Heavenly Eagle Sect.

“That boy is a monster, and so are his followers,” Yin Tianzheng muttered irritably to himself.

Slowly, the party reached the foot of Wudang Mountain. From afar, the peaks stood tall and proud, the ranges stretching in emerald majesty, shrouded in mist and cloud.

Meanwhile, atop Wudang, in the Purple Cloud Palace, the second-generation disciples, including Yuan Ye, had donned new robes and were taking turns paying their respects to their master. At the end were the gentle-looking Song Qingshu and the sturdy, tigerish Zhang Wuji.

Seated at the head was Zhang Sanfeng, his complexion rosy, hair and beard gray, his eyes deep, his presence calm and serene.

Today, on his hundredth birthday, he too wore a fresh new azure Daoist robe, a white silk shirt within, peach-pink trousers visible at the hems, wide sleeves, and river-puffer shoes. On his back was emblazoned a Taiji diagram. He sat upright, exuding a natural air of tranquility and harmony.

Just as the birthday greetings concluded and the third-generation disciples prepared to step forward, a Daoist novice entered to report: “The Heavenly Eagle Sect’s Master Yin has arrived to pay his respects to the Grandmaster!”

The crowd was momentarily taken aback, but soon their eyes turned to Zhang Cuishan and his wife. Mo Shenggu, ever the joker, teased, “Fifth Brother, your father-in-law is here! Shouldn’t you hurry to welcome the guests?”

Zhang Sanfeng smiled, “Let’s not tease Cuishan. Since Master Yin has come all this way to honor this old Daoist’s birthday, let us go together to greet him!”

With that, he led the Wudang disciples out in single file. By now, Yin Tianzheng’s party, escorted by Zhao Douyun, had already passed the Sword-relinquishing Pavilion.