Martial artists, for the most part, are a rough-and-tumble bunch. The so-called Heroes' Summit is nothing like a modern business conference for elite professionals. Last time, when the United Front was established, the gathering was shockingly efficient and focused—lightyears ahead of its era. But in the minds of these martial folks, a real get-together means swigging booze from big bowls, wolfing down meat, schmoozing and gossiping at the table, tossing compliments around, then, once everyone's full, duking it out, maybe spilling a little blood, and only then getting down to business.
This time, the Hero Summit is all about big, serious matters—but food and drink are still a must. Chinese culinary traditions go way back, and even by the Song Dynasty, this was already a thing. The venue for this Hero Summit is massive, and so is the crowd of guests from all directions. Every sect and gang got an invitation. In fact, George Kwok and Helen Wong made it clear: anyone who shows up is a guest, invitation or not. Everyone's welcome to join in.
When a famous martial arts veteran arrives, the Beggars' Guild disciples announce it loudly for all to hear. Nowadays, that'd be considered noise pollution, but back then, martial artists loved that sort of thing. If it's just a random guest with no reputation, there's no need for a big announcement—they're politely invited in and seated with the other unknowns.
Tom Seven—now that's a name nobody in the martial world recognizes. No nickname, no legend, no stories. The Beggars' Guild disciple greeting him couldn't even pull off a fake 'I've heard so much about you!'—just a polite 'Nice to meet you' before leading him inside. Tom Seven headed to the unknowns' area, didn't mingle or make small talk, and just sat quietly, studying the whole venue. People came and went, masters and rookies mixed together. His narrow eyes glimmered as he seemed deep in thought.
Tom Seven didn't stand out—plenty of folks were way flashier. Over here, a bunch of monks; over there, a gaggle of nuns. From the west, a group of Daoists; from the east, a bunch of scholars. That's right, even some bookish guys showed up at this martial arts gathering. They weren't part of any sect, clearly didn't know the rules, and stuck out like sore thumbs at the Hero Summit. Still, they all had a touch of arrogance in their eyes—far from feeling out of place, they looked down on the 'country bumpkins' around them.
The leader of these scholars was actually pretty sharp and capable, but he, too, refused to chat with any martial artists. He led his scholarly crew, acting like their own little sect—definitely unusual. Tom Seven gave them a few extra glances, a mysterious smile flickering at his lips before he wiped away the mystery and blended in as just another martial nobody.
Not far off, a noisy crowd bustled with greetings and farewells—that was the social scene for second-tier martial artists, all hustling for connections. At the heart of this crowd, an imposing old man with white hair and beard was the center of attention.
"Isn't that the South Sea Sage himself, Old Master Cao? Let me pay my respects!"
"Oh, please, everyone—you're too kind. I hardly deserve the title 'Sage.' You're embarrassing me!" The old man with white hair and beard clearly knew the martial world's social rules. He might've been sharp, but his smile was all warmth and friendliness. He mingled smoothly with the other second-tier folks—everyone hyped each other up, and after enough flattery, it was like they'd all leveled up their skills by ten years.
Really, this crowd made up the backbone of the martial world—though, honestly, most were just cannon fodder on the fringes. If you compared the old Wu Huan gang to the whole martial world, they'd be top-tier among this bunch. Strictly speaking, these folks don't stand out, and they're even more low-key than lone wolves. It's like a classroom: the top and bottom students have distinctive styles, but the average kids? They're just generic faces in the crowd.
That South Sea Sage—he's the definition of a forgettable face in the crowd. His demeanor is just average, not bad but not great, a thoroughly mediocre old-timer in the martial world.
"Senior Cao, this young lady is...?"
"Ah, that's my daughter. I brought her along to broaden her horizons and see the world. Sigh, I've spoiled her since she was little—she doesn't know much about social etiquette. Please, everyone, forgive her."
"Of course, of course!"
All these exchanges and actions seemed perfectly normal and ordinary. But behind the South Sea Sage, the so-called "daughter"—surrounded by people who looked like disciples—was secretly watching the scholars with an icy gaze. "The intel was right. The Wenchang Institute folks really did show up." She quietly ordered her companions, "Keep an eye on them—don't let up. We cannot fail this time. Our Sacred Flame must be recovered!"
"Yes!" her people replied softly—even the so-called "father" nodded in obedience. Clearly, the group's real hierarchy wasn't what the rest of the martial world assumed.
Where there are second-raters, there are always first-raters; where there are hidden types, there are always the flashy ones. At the south gate, two figures arrived and instantly drew everyone's attention. Both wore cloaks that hid their faces—one tall and burly, the other short and skinny.
"This place is packed—we absolutely can't blow our cover early," the short one whispered to the tall one. "Hey, are you sure you've handled those 'meat ticket' invitations?"
"Relax, relax. With me on the job, nothing ever goes sideways. I dragged those two into a dark alley and gave them a proper beating—full iron-grip treatment. No way they're waking up for at least three days! Lucky for us, too—just as we turned into that alley, we ran into two folks headed to the summit. Never even saw their faces, but we scored the invitations right away. Sometimes it's all about luck, not timing!" the big guy whispered back.
"Hey, look over there—it seems like you don't even need an invitation to get in." The short one noticed something. "Maybe we should just blend in with the crowd. If someone recognizes our 'meat tickets,' that'll only bring more trouble."
"Look at you, all chicken-hearted and worried! Today, we're here representing all our brothers. We're here to show off our organization, our mission, our strength—if we don't, we'll never really take off. If we get exposed, so be it! We're not afraid of being outed, only of bad timing. So, until the right moment, we lay low. But when the time comes, we go all out!" The tall guy spoke quietly, but his passion was clear.
The short guy got fired up, too: "You jerk, sometimes you actually say something smart—doesn't even sound like you! Fine, let's open these invitations and walk in like we own the place. Let the whole world see—" Whoosh, both dropped their hoods. One was a bear-like man with a dark face, the other a pale, scholarly type. They strode up to the Beggars' Guild disciples at the door, handed over the invites, and finished their thought: "Let the whole world see—our United Front!"
That's right—it was Barry Sherman and Stayfree.
The Beggars' Guild disciple took the invitations, opened them, and immediately looked puzzled.
An old beggar ought to have picked up a knack for reading people after years of hustling. As a chosen greeter, he should be able to keep his cool with anyone. But now, his expression turned weird. He glanced between the invites and the two men three times before finally asking, "So you two are... Zach Ironpillar and Wayne Sledgehammer?"
Zach Ironpillar? Wayne Sledgehammer? Seriously, we should've checked those names before! What kind of monster names are these? "Ironpillar" is passable, but "Sledgehammer"—that's just awful! No way am I letting that one stick. To avoid becoming a laughingstock, Barry Sherman immediately claimed the less embarrassing name, thumping his chest: "That's right, I'm Zach Ironpillar!"
Stayfree's mouth hung open, but in the end, he just nodded, shamefaced, and accepted the leftover name: "I'm Wayne Sledgehammer... Weird name, but hey, my parents picked it—I can't help it..."
Damn it, if word gets out, my Lord Sevenfold rep is toast! I mean, I've sacrificed enough here—just let us in already!
But the Beggars' Guild disciple didn't go back to normal—instead, his expression got even weirder. He stared at the two for ages, then added, "Married couple?"
Married couple?! Everyone who heard nearly spit out their food. Even the Beggars' Guild disciple thought it was ridiculous, so he held out the invitation and pointed at it: "Look, it says so right here!"
Barry Sherman and Stayfree immediately looked down, eyes wide and sweating bullets. Sure enough, the invitation spelled it out. The disciple pointed to the words and asked, syllable by syllable, "Are you really 'Zach Ironpillar and Wayne Sledgehammer, married couple'?"