Chapter 46: Ye Qing Disowns His Son!

At Ye Chaofeng’s command, more than ten disciples swiftly darted out, commencing a thorough, sweeping search. Meanwhile, Ye Jiuyao was still deep within the heart of the abandoned land. Let there be no misunderstanding—he was not cultivating the Star Staff Technique, but had simply sought out a quiet place to sleep in peace.

He was waiting for a particular moment, a time when he could rest even better. After spending three days in the tavern, he had already gained considerable understanding of the affairs in Xuantian Town. Yet one matter here preoccupied him most: soon, the Three Sects would hold a projected competition in Xuantian Town, where the outstanding would be free to choose any of the sects for further cultivation.

Ye Jiuyao’s goal was clear: to gain admission to the Tongxuan Sect. For the past three days, he had learned the most about this sect; its reputation and renown were both first-rate. Though the sect’s numbers were pitifully small—only thirty or forty members—each one’s cultivation was extraordinary. It could be said that, were it not for the Ancestor of the Falling Leaves Sect, the true leading sect would be Tongxuan.

The remaining sect was one devoted to swordsmanship, where most were sword cultivators. Their numbers, too, were few, but each was adept in various sword techniques and deeply versed in all categories of swordplay. In Xuantian Town, among the three sects, those wishing to master the sword could not choose better than the Heavenly Sword Sect.

Falling Leaves, on the other hand, always had the most disciples, as it welcomed all without discrimination; anyone with talent and cultivation could join. This led to chaos within the sect—not the chaos of mere appearances, but a tangle of factions within, with few who remained truly neutral unless their cultivation was formidable. The sect’s leadership turned a blind eye, claiming it fostered healthy competition among disciples, spurring them ever onward. Thus, Falling Leaves was a mix of all kinds.

With each breath, Ye Jiuyao seemed to resonate with a certain profound principle, drawing the surrounding vital energy inexorably toward him, which then became a part of him. As his breathing deepened, his Sleep Technique circulated ever more swiftly, as though the longer he slept and the faster his breath, the more potent the catalyst for his cultivation became.

Outside, Ye Chaofeng was nearly driven mad. More than ten people had swept the area several times, yet had not seen the slightest trace of a person. Bound by sect rules, he finally snorted coldly and led his people away.

Unbeknownst to them, directly beneath the spot where Ye Chaofeng had just stood, Ye Jiuyao lay sleeping, hidden from sight. Unless someone vastly surpassed his strength and he wished to remain concealed, none could discover him. Thus, Ye Jiuyao slept soundly.

He did not wake until deep into the night. Blinking away sleep and stretching lazily, he strolled out into the darkness, stepping lightly through the void, and soon arrived outside the Xuantian Tavern.

The Xuantian Tavern conducted business around the clock; there was no such thing as closing up in the dead of night.

“Brother, a pot of wine, a plate of peanuts, and four ounces of meat,” Ye Jiuyao ordered his usual. The tavern-keeper, catching sight of him, looked startled—he was not alone in this; all those present who had witnessed him kill Ye Qi the other day wore similar expressions.

“Brother, you should leave quickly. Ye Chaofeng is looking for you,” the tavern-keeper urged.

“No bother, Brother. He wouldn’t dare make trouble here. Bring me the usual; once I’ve eaten and drunk my fill, I’ll be on my way,” Ye Jiuyao replied with a broad, careless grin, his tone light and grateful for the concern, but not wishing to refuse the kindness.

The tavern-keeper, remembering something, smiled slightly and went to prepare Ye Jiuyao’s order. Yet word of his arrival spread through the tavern like wildfire.

Within, many guests present had witnessed Ye Jiuyao’s terrifying strength before—they now murmured in hushed voices, some even slipping away quietly.

“Aren’t you going to inform on me?” Ye Jiuyao swept his gaze around, his tone cool.

Everyone shook their heads vigorously. Ye Jiuyao burst out laughing, popping peanuts into his mouth with relish, seemingly unconcerned about the Falling Leaves Sect’s pursuit.

“Where is he—where is the man who killed my son?” A figure burst in, ablaze with fury, eyes burning as if they could scorch everything, scanning the tavern with a glare like twin copper bells.

Ye Jiuyao acted as though he hadn’t heard, calmly sipping his wine, eating peanuts, and gnawing on a chunk of meat. All others turned to look at him.

Ye Chaofeng’s footsteps thudded heavily as he strode into the tavern, each step like a war drum, sending tremors through those present as if they faced a mortal terror.

Those seated in the private booths could see everything outside, though those outside could not see within. Thus, all fell under their watchful gaze.

“It was you who killed my son?” Ye Chaofeng advanced, face twisted with rage, looking down upon Ye Jiuyao. Yet Ye Jiuyao ignored him, and the onlookers’ anticipation grew.

With a crash, Ye Chaofeng slammed his palm onto the table, splitting it. The tavern-keeper hurried over, not a trace of panic on his face; rather, he glared indignantly at Ye Chaofeng.

“Steward Ye, no brawling in the Xuantian Tavern. Have you forgotten yourself?” His tone was unyielding, and his sidelong glance at Ye Jiuyao made clear he would be safe.

“Very well, very well—out of respect for Xuantian Tavern, I’ll hold back. Boy, if you have the guts, come outside!” Ye Chaofeng was beside himself with frustration. Here, he was but a steward; even his father would not dare make trouble in the tavern.

“It’s just the death of a good-for-nothing son with a taste for wine and women. With so many people here, just pick another one,” Ye Jiuyao replied with lethal nonchalance.

The tavern-keeper was momentarily stunned, as were all the guests, both in the main hall and the private booths. To so lightly suggest another son after killing a man’s child—no one else would dare such insolence.

All eyes turned to Ye Chaofeng.

Ye Chaofeng’s face went from red, to black, to purple, his expression indescribably ugly. His hands pressed into the table, which creaked and splintered beneath the force of his rage.

“Fine, fine! You kill my son, and now you insult me thus. Leave this tavern tonight, and I’ll see you dead with not even a place to bury your bones!”

“I, Ye Qing, have no son like you!” Ye Jiuyao suddenly slammed the table, and, being half a head taller, glared fiercely down at Ye Chaofeng.

Everyone was stunned, especially the tavern-keeper, who felt utterly at a loss.

Laughter erupted.

“Well said! Well said!”

Suddenly, the onlookers understood—Ye Qing was none other than Ye Chaofeng’s father. For Ye Jiuyao to invoke his name now was clearly meant to provoke. The laughter and mockery grew louder.

“You—!” Ye Chaofeng was so infuriated he could barely speak, managing only a single word before, cowed by the jeers, he stormed out of the tavern and sat cross-legged outside.