None of these guys are idiots—if they were, they wouldn’t be sitting here as chiefs of their own strongholds. Up until now, they’d been riding high on the joy of the Blackwind Mountains’ transformation, never considering the flip side.
But now, after Ian Song’s reminder, everyone snapped out of it—they realized that what happened to the Blackwind Mountains might not be such a good thing for them after all.
“Chief Ian, since you’re the one who brought this up, you must have a way to solve it, right?” asked a gaunt, fifty-something bandit chief, looking at Ian Song with hopeful eyes.
Ian Song shook his head. “What solution could I possibly have? There are 108 peaks in the Blackwind Mountains, and the qi density on every single one is at least fifty times higher than outside. I’m sure you’ve all felt how much easier it is to train here. So trust me—very soon, the Blackwind Mountains will be the center of everyone’s attention again.”
Last time, when that mysterious treasure fell from the sky, you all saw how many martial artists showed up—even though the treasure itself never appeared, there were eighty thousand people searching for it. Now, the benefits are obvious: even if you only occupy some random peak in the Blackwind Mountains, your training will be ten or twenty times better than anywhere else. Tell me, do you think the Three Great Holy Lands, the Nine Great Sects, or any other martial faction wouldn’t be tempted by that?
Let’s be honest: everyone here is just a bunch of small-time bandit chiefs. Forget the Three Great Holy Lands or the Nine Great Sects—even a minor sect could wipe you out without breaking a sweat. So if you don’t want to die, your only option is to give up your peaks and get out of the Blackwind Mountains.
Of course, if you’re not willing to leave, then out of respect for fellow bandits, I’m willing to take you in—just join Clearwind Stronghold!"
“Chief Ian, that’s a nice little scheme you’ve got there. Are you just trying to scare us so you can swallow up all our strongholds?” came a sly, mocking voice. It was a fat, middle-aged bandit chief who’d just broken through to the first-rate realm and was riding high on confidence.
As soon as he said that, the other thirty-one chiefs exchanged uneasy glances, suspicion written all over their faces as they looked at Ian Song.
“Chief Ian, you’re not really trying to scare us, are you? Why would the Three Great Holy Lands or the Nine Great Sects care about our tiny little peaks?” another chief chimed in, his voice thick with doubt.