CH 38
#Unstoppable (1)
Meng Yuan Yuan’s appearance was the very embodiment of loveliness.
Her smiling eyes curved like crescent moons, and the dimples in her smooth skin naturally exuded charm.
She was the epitome of a child who had grown up being showered with love.
And today was the day she set out on a long journey to meet privately with the sect leader.
“Take care on your journey, Fifth Princess.”
A tall, middle-aged man with a stern expression and deep wrinkles between his brows saw her off, forcing a smile.
He was Meng Tie Yong, head of the Meng family and one of the three elders.
Though his sharp features and rigid demeanor suggested no capacity for warmth, he appeared exceptionally affectionate toward his niece.
“I’ll bring back something delicious when I return!”
A towering attendant, dwarfing her in size, mounted a horse and led her up the hill.
Meng Tie Yong waved with a smile until she shrank to a speck on the horizon.
Only after she vanished completely did his smile dissolve like scattered dust.
The kindness that had softened his face moments earlier now gave way to a cold, unsettling sharpness.
“You’ve heard, I presume? The Seventh Prince has finally opened the gates of the Heavenly Demon Hall.”
His voice dropped three tones lower.
As he muttered without turning, a timorous voice answered from behind him.
“Yes, I’ve heard.”
“Is that… all?”
“Huh?”
Meng Tie Yong cut him off and glanced back.
There stood a child barely over five feet tall, trembling like a walnut in a storm.
“I asked if that was all.”
“Th-that…”
Meng Tie Yong’s eyes turned glacial, brimming with disappointment.
The child’s own eyes flooded with despair.
“I’m sorry. Father—”
“Again—!”
“Ghk!”
Meng Tie Yong’s murderous glare froze the child mid-apology.
“I’ve told you repeatedly—the Sixth Prince has only one father: the sect leader himself.
Have you forgotten so soon?”
The child’s name was Meng Hui, the Sixth Prince.
Youngest son of Elder Meng Tie Yong and the sect leader’s sixth adopted heir.
A prodigy who had mastered the Four Books and Five Classics by his early teens, inheriting his father’s martial talent to become a successor earlier than Mao himself.
Yet the warmth Meng Tie Yong showed his niece, Fifth Princess Meng Yuan Yuan, was polar to his treatment of Meng Hui—his own flesh and blood.
“F-forgive me… Third Elder…”
Meng Hui bowed deeply, his apology automatic from years of repetition.
At fifteen, he was forbidden to call any man “father,” or even freely express emotion—a cruelty masked as discipline.
“The Seventh Prince opening the Heavenly Demon Hall signals the Ma family’s formal mobilization.
Moreover, rumors claim his new attendant is none other than his master.
Were you aware of this?”
Meng Hui paled as if facing execution.
“I… I was negligent.”
“Tsk. An illegitimate son remains Ma blood.
Any merit could see him embraced by their house.
Must I always explain the obvious?”
“I’m sorry…”
As Meng Hui groveled, Meng Tie Yong turned away in disgust.
The boy ventured weakly:
“But the Seventh Prince is lazy and indifferent to martial arts!
Opening the hall must’ve been coincidence.
Even with a master, his talent…”
“Coincidence? Did you open those gates by coincidence?”
Meng Tie Yong’s venomous stare locked Meng Hui’s neck in place as he shook his head violently.
Of course not.
His years of grueling training to open those gates had been carved into his bones since childhood.
“The Bright Seat Master hinted the Seventh Prince has reached deng feng zao ji.”
Peak of martial mastery—a summit leaving only transcendence beyond.
“The transcendent realm?! Impossible!”
Meng Hui’s mind reeled.
That lay beyond the reach of lifetimes, yet Mao—three years his senior, the lazy fool he’d always overshadowed—had allegedly achieved it?
“The Bright Seat Master speaks in riddles, but such claims imply hidden stratagems.”
Meng Tie Yong watched jealousy darken his son’s eyes before continuing calmly:
“Never forget this resentment.
Once overtaken, all is lost.
Train relentlessly—effort only matters while opportunity remains.
Remember: without the sect leader’s recognition, you are nothing.”
“Yes…”
At the hollow reply, Meng Tie Yong nodded and walked away.
In truth, he gave little credence to talk of transcendence.
The Ma family’s silence and the attendant’s meager history—a seventh-rank demon slayer who’d lucked into killing the Slaughterhouse Fiend—suggested mere kindling for Meng Hui’s ambition.
The Seventh Prince will likely be dealt with by that kid Maishin. Do you think he’ll back down after just one defeat? With his ruthless temperament, there’s no way. He’ll probably cause a major disaster in Wolha Village soon. It might even burn to ashes completely.
Meng Cheolyong nodded. For now, leaving the Seventh Prince matter to the Ma family’s eldest son and observing would suffice. What required attention, as always, was the First Prince, Cheon Mugi.
To outsiders, the three great families of the Demon Sect—the Ma, Cheon, and Meng—appeared united in supporting Cheon Mugi. But Meng Cheolyong had never once abandoned his ambition. He was waiting for the moment his youngest son, the Sixth Prince Meng Hwi, would ascend to the Sect Leader’s position.
Thus, his true concern wasn’t some Ma family bastard, but Cheon Mugi of the Cheon bloodline—the First Prince.
"Gwioryang."
At Meng Cheolyong’s call, a man stepped forward—a steel mask engraved with a demon’s face, ponytail swaying, long spear held behind his back. He prostrated himself deeply.
Gwioryang, aide to the Sixth Prince. A top 100 expert of the Demon Sect, better known as the "Ghost-Faced Iron Demon." Once Meng Cheolyong’s personal guard, feared for his ruthless prowess.
"The Sixth Prince will soon enter closed-door training. You will monitor the Cheon family’s movements."
"Y-Yes, Third Elder!"
Meng Hwi paled at "closed-door training." But Meng Cheolyong showed no mercy.
"Did you not hear me earlier? If you don’t wish to be devoured by your younger brother, you must strive relentlessly. I made this clear."
"But..."
"If you refuse closed-door training, then shatter walls and soar like your brother. Or earn merits."
How could he be so cruel? Tears pooled in Meng Hwi’s eyes. Since childhood, he’d been isolated. But nothing repelled him more than sealed cultivation.
Don’t go.
He stared desperately at Gwioryang, silently begging his aide to intervene.
But—
"Gwioryang! Why linger? Go!"
At Meng Cheolyong’s roar, Gwioryang bowed without hesitation, mounted a brown steed, and departed.
Meng Hwi watched his vanishing aide, consumed by betrayal and emptiness.
Whose aide is he, really? Some have aides who’d place blades at their own throats, yet mine...
"What are you gaping at? Go thrust your spear a hundred more times. Tsk."
The venomous remark made Meng Hwi tremble. He yearned to retort a thousand times—but futile. Obedience was all he’d ever learned.
Even his anger had nowhere to go but inward.
Maoh—have you truly reached the pinnacle of martial mastery? Or is that aide of yours merely inflated? I’ll see with my own eyes!
Meng Hwi turned sharply, eyes sparking.
He walked past his residence, steps small and deliberate, trudging endlessly.
Wolha Village’s Chilso Palace.
Where his younger brother Maoh resided.
Next dawn, Meng Hwi arrived at Wolha Village after a day’s journey, single spear on his back. He frowned, thick brows twitching as he scanned his surroundings.
"Was this place always... like this?"
Ahaha! A picturesque bridge spanned the azure Wolha Lake, children his age chasing kites across it. At the center loomed an eight-story tower adorned with multicolored lanterns, radiating elegance.
Timidly approaching the railing, he peered down. Carp swarmed below, greeting him like old friends.
"Wow..."
Momentarily entranced, Meng Hwi shook his head violently and widened his eyes.
"Focus!"
This was once a crumbling village—gloomy faces, no splendid bridge. Now? A vibrant hub of noise and color.
"Hmph. Still a backwater where delinquents dwell. Jumaji has quiet dignity—over three hundred prized steeds!"
Yet no one asked.
Meng Hwi stomped the ground, jealousy contorting his face, and shuffled forward. The sight of cheerful peers and harmonious villagers only deepened his bitterness.
"Maoh. You think you’ve surpassed me? Just wait—I’ll show you true skill!"
His rage simmering, he reached a bamboo forest. The earlier clamor faded, leaving only wind through leaves.
Swoosh—
Bamboo swayed, tension coiling in his chest like the creaking stalks.
What if he’s truly stronger?
No. Impossible. Absolutely not. Meng Hwi shook his head furiously.
Then—gurgle.
"Ugh, why now?"
Flustered, he glanced around. Relieving himself roadside? Unthinkable for the Sixth Prince.
But Chilso Palace loomed ahead.
Meng Hwi clenched his buttocks and hurried inside.
