A master of both medicine and martial arts, he picked up a beautiful CEO as his wife.

The phrase "You don't deserve it" hit hard.

Shen Yu's face turned pale instantly.

"Uncle-Master!" He stepped forward, his voice trembling, "How could you say such a thing about Junior Brother? When the sect was in trouble, he was in Dongyang. It was Master who personally sent him down the mountain! I saw clearly what kind of life he had down the mountain for those six months, and he almost lost his life several times—"

"Shen Yu," the old man stopped him, "You protect him because you value loyalty. But loyalty can't protect this mountain."

He turned back and looked at Ye Feng again.

"My name is Cen Heming. Your master, Hanya, is my senior brother. In terms of seniority, you should call me 'Uncle-Master'."

As soon as he uttered the words "Cold Cliff," the dozen or so disciples behind him all lowered their heads.

Ye Feng nodded: "Uncle-Master Cen." He addressed him readily. Cen Heming frowned at his ease.

Among the dozen or so disciples behind him, the young man standing at the front, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old, had very sharp features and a smile on his lips as he looked Ye Feng up and down.

"Uncle-Master, why waste your breath on him?" the young man said lazily. "I've heard that this junior uncle-master is quite popular with his medical skills down the mountain. He charges a million for each treatment of a wealthy merchant and has even extorted money from people who were saved—the rule of Nirvana Mountain is that medical practitioners cannot make money. We've been eating wild vegetables in the mountains for six years, while he's down the mountain drinking soup from a golden bowl."

"Cen Zhao," Cen Heming said calmly.

The young man named Cen Zhao immediately fell silent, but a hint of a smile remained on his face. Ye Feng wasn't annoyed. He put his hands in his pockets and instead smiled: "That million was extorted."

Everyone was taken aback.

"I'm extorting money from the Lin family," Ye Feng said slowly. "When someone's heart stops, I can pull them back from the brink of death in ten seconds. I asked for a million, not a penny more."

"As for those six years of wild vegetables—" He turned his head to look at Cen Zhao, "I also ate them during those six years on the mountain. Guess what? The slope I ate on was at the east end of the medicinal herb garden on the back mountain, right in front of a century-old snow ginseng."

Shen Yu burst out laughing, then quickly suppressed it. Cen Zhao's face flushed red.

"You're just being glib." Cen Heming's voice turned serious. "Ye Feng, I'm not stopping you today to argue with you."

He slowly raised his hand and took something out of his sleeve. It was half a charred piece of wood from a door plaque, with a crack still visible along its edge. The lower half of a character could be vaguely discerned on it—"槃".

Ye Feng's pupils suddenly contracted.

"On the day the mountain gate was breached, I led twenty-six disciples into seclusion behind the mountain. We didn't emerge until three days later." Cen Heming's fingers caressed the broken piece of wood. "This is what I saw when I arrived at the mountain gate."

His voice was flat, but the veins on his hand, which was gripping the broken piece of wood, bulged out.

"Thirty-seven lives. The youngest one had only been practicing for four months and hadn't even mastered the breathing techniques."

The ancient road fell silent. The wind whistled through the pine forest. Ye Feng stared at the half-broken piece of wood, speechless.

He had seen that knife mark before. Half a month ago, he had stood under that crooked door plaque, looking up at it for a long time. At that time, what surged in his heart was hatred, a fire that wanted to dig out the owner from the roots.

But he had never counted the number of people.

He didn't know that among those thirty-seven, one had only been a student for four months. He didn't know that the youngest one hadn't even mastered the breathing techniques. In the past two weeks, he had been checking accounts, stabilizing alliances, adjusting his breathing, and calculating that deadly cycle account in Dongyang—none of these names had even crossed his mind.

Cen Heming's line, "You don't deserve it," hit that very hard.

Lin Yuqing lowered her eyes. She remembered the day she stepped into the dilapidated mountain gate, the indelible dark brown stains in the cracks of the stone steps. At that time, she only felt a chill in her heart, but now she knew that beneath those stains lay thirty-seven names.

"Ye Feng, I'm asking you," Cen Heming raised his eyes, "Did you open the door to the Hidden Vein Hall?"

"Yes."

"Did you take the things from the hall?"

"I took a letter and a piece of jade."

"What about the core traditions?"

Ye Feng did not answer.

Cen Heming sneered, "I knew it. You opened the door, took the letter, and left. You didn't even understand what that thing in the hall was, yet you rushed down the mountain to protect your... Miss Lin."

He spoke "Miss Lin" very softly, but everyone could hear the meaning behind it. Ye Feng's eyes turned cold for the first time.

"Uncle-Master Cen," he took a step forward, "you should only say this once."

With just this one sentence, the peak Yang True Qi that had been suppressed within his body and refined to an increasingly pure state by the Meridian Harmony silently leaked out in a thin stream from his body.

The few withered grasses, each about half a person's height, on the ancient road bent backward in unison.

The young disciples standing behind Cen Heming all changed their expressions at once—they felt as if a scalding hot stone had been pressed on their chests, making it hard to breathe.

Cen Zhao took a step forward, standing in front of Cen Heming, and the slight disdain in his eyes finally turned into vigilance.

"Want to make a move?" he said in a deep voice. "Ye Feng, don't think you're something special just because you beat up a few thugs down the mountain. This is Nirvana Mountain, and the rules of the sect apply here—"

"Then let's follow the rules," Ye Feng interrupted him.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket and casually rolled up his sleeve.

"I remember the rules of Nirvana Mountain. If a fellow disciple has doubts, they may challenge each other to a duel; the victor speaks, the loser listens. I haven't forgotten this rule, have I, Uncle Cen?"

Cen Heming's eyelid twitched.

"You want to volunteer for the battle?"

"I'm not inviting him," Ye Feng said, pointing to Cen Zhao. "He's inviting me."

Cen Zhao was taken aback: "When did I—"

"You just said I'm 'unworthy'," Ye Feng chuckled, a hint of street thuggery in his smile. "Down the mountain, saying that would have meant you had to fight, or you'd get beaten up. You choose?"

Cen Zhao's chest heaved twice. He turned to look at Cen Heming. Cen Heming remained silent for a moment, then took a half step back.

That half step is equivalent to being on target.

"Alright." Cen Zhao took off his outer robe and tossed it into the arms of the disciple beside him. "Uncle-Master Ye, then I'll take a look at your skills—"

"That's enough," he said coldly. "I don't want to earn a reputation for bullying my fellow disciples in front of my martial uncle."

Ye Feng nodded: "Okay, you decide." He stood in the middle of the ancient road, his hands hanging down, without even striking a pose.

Cen Zhao's anger flared up instantly.

His cultivation level was already outstanding among his peers. When the mountain gate was breached, he followed Cen Heming into seclusion to escape the calamity. After emerging from seclusion, he trained desperately, all for the day when he could personally avenge that blood debt.

Now, this "junior uncle," who has been hanging around at the foot of the mountain for half a year and wears a gold watch on his wrist, doesn't even bother to put on airs anymore.

"Excuse me!"

With a low shout, Cen Zhao pushed off with his feet and pounced forward like an arrow.

With a "Cloud Opening Style" palm strike, the authentic beginner's palm technique of Nirvana Mountain, he struck with speed and stability. Wherever his palm wind went, the dust on the bluestone path was stirred up.

Shen Yu watched from the side, his brow furrowing. This palm strike was quite powerful. If it were Ye Feng six months ago—

Before he could finish the thought, he heard a "snap".

A very soft sound.

It looks like someone is swatting mosquitoes.