When was the first time he felt a wall?
He didnât remember.
Not because it had never happened, but because it had happened too many times.
That was his life.
A life of endlessly crashing into walls, again and again.
Such was the path of a martial artist, they said.
But for Peng Zhou, there was nothing more humiliating.
Why were there so many walls standing in his way?
He could have accepted it if they had been older, more experienced opponents.
But the ones blocking his path were all his peers.
The first wall he faced was Sword Dragon.
The grandson of Namgung Jeolcheon, the Patriarch of the Namgung Clan, and the most likely successor to the clan.
Their similar ages led to constant comparisons between Peng Zhou and Sword Dragon.
And ever since their first encounter, Peng Zhou had never managed to best him.
Then there were the othersâWhite Dragon, Little Dragon, Poison Dragon, Sword Phoenix, White Phoenix.
Peng Zhou entered their ranks under the title of Black Dragon.
But even after making it in, his standing hadnât changed.
He remained at the bottom.
Despite the overwhelming support and resources provided by his family, he barely managed to hold his place.
That was the extent of Peng Zhouâs talent.
Mediocre.
Too lacking to be called a genius.
Yet too skilled to be dismissed as untalented.
He occupied that frustrating middle ground.
For most people, it might have been enough.
But Peng Zhou was not like most people.
âIâm the son of the Blade King.â
Peng Zhouâs father, the Blade King, was the Patriarch of the Peng Clan.
A man renowned for his solid character and exceptional martial prowess.
As the head of one of the Four Great Clans, his influence was unmatched.
But Peng Zhouâthe Blade Kingâs sonâwas constantly labeled as inferior.
âA tiger father, but a dog for a son.â
It was a saying reserved for unworthy heirs who failed to live up to their fathers.
Peng Zhou embodied that insult.