One day, during training, my father spoke.
âThere are those in Zhongyuan known as the Seven Irons and Three Fists.â
The heat was stifling. It wasnât the kind of topic one would expect to discuss amidst the sweltering air that could easily heat up the entire training hall.
âSuddenly?â
Though I asked out of surprise, my father continued as if it didnât matter.
This often happened when I trained with him.
He would talk about things I hadnât asked.
Sometimes, I wondered if he wasnât being a bit too chatty.
Even so, I never rebuked him for it.
I guess...
âDecades ago, during the war against the Unorthodox Sect, they stood out as some of the strongest.â
I didnât mind these conversations.
âThe Plum Blossom Immortal of Mount Hua. The Sword Saint of Wudang. The Fist Emperor of Zhejiang. And the now-deceased Sea Sword of Qinghai were among them.â
He continued to list several other names.
Thatâs when I noticed something odd.
He addressed figures like the Plum Blossom Immortal and the Sea Sword of Qinghai with honorifics.
But for the rest of the Seven Irons and Three Fists, his tone was more casualâbordering on informal.
âThey are powerful. Each one of them is like an entire faction unto themselves.â
âI see.â
âIf you ever meet them, be cautious. Theyâre not just strongâtheyâre sharp and cunning.â
I almost blurted out, âSorry, Father, but your son isnât exactly lacking in those areas either.â
I barely managed to hold back the remark.
âSo... are they stronger than you, Father?â
It was a joke.
I had a general idea of the answer even before asking.
Yet, my father looked at me calmly and said,
âThey might make me itch.ân/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om
â...â
The way he said it so casually made it even more terrifying.
Anyway.
Maybe it was this meeting, but that memory surfaced again.