One day, during training, Father said.
“In the Central Plains, there are those known as the Seven Swords and Three Fists.”
Heat intense enough to be scorching.
It’s somewhat puzzling talk for the midst of heat that could more than warm the training room.
“Suddenly?”
I speak out of the blue, but Father continues the story as if he doesn’t mind.
When training with Father, such things often happened.
He would say things unasked.
At times, it seemed a bit chatty, to the point where one might wonder.
Even so, I didn’t spit out any reproach asking why.
What can I say.
“Decades ago, during the war with the Unorthodox sects, they were the ones who showed strong appearances.”
It was because I felt that this situation wasn’t all that bad.
“The Plum Blossom Immortal of Mount Hua was one, and so was the Sword Immortal of Wudang or the Fist Emperor of Zhejiang. Even the now-deceased One Sword of the Blue Sea was among them.”
Beyond that, talk about several figures continues.
I had to sense a strange air there.
For the Plum Blossom Immortal or the One Sword of the Blue Sea, and one other, he attaches honorifics.
But for the other Seven Swords and Three Fists, he uses speech close to condescension.
“Their power is strong. Each one is like a moving aristocratic family.”
“I see.”
“If you ever happen to meet them, be careful. They are not only strong in power but also deep and sharp in scheming.”
I’m sorry, but Clan Lord.
Your son doesn’t fall behind in that regard either.
I tried to say that but barely held back.
“Then, are you saying they are stronger than you, Father?”
Words spat out as a joke.
From the start, I knew to some extent that they weren’t even opponents.
Yet, upon hearing this, Father stares at me silently…