Chapter 142: Joy, Anger, Sorrow, and Happiness

The words "Martial Alliance"—in the past, they might have been nothing more than a gimmick of some minor sects, never even mentioned in the presence of the Four Great Sects. But today, the situation was quite different. If someone failed to recognize these words, it was certain they were no true part of the martial world. Because the headquarters were here, in Jinjiang City, originally just a small frontier town, but at this moment, its bustling atmosphere rivaled even that of Xingyang.

With the crowd swelling, the energy naturally surged, and business flourished accordingly. The travelers of the martial world were men of grandeur, unwilling to squabble over petty coins, their generosity evident in every gesture. This, in turn, allowed merchants to reap bountiful profits. Especially in the three months following the death of Shen Wansan, the city seemed injected with a potent stimulant—the atmosphere surged like roaring waves, each crest bringing new excitement.

Before the Martial Alliance’s main headquarters, a sea of people pressed close, the crowd thronging with vibrant life. Among them, faces revealed anxious anticipation, as if waiting for someone. There was no need to guess who: in this era, the martial world seemed to have but one protagonist. His footsteps had just crossed the river outside Jinjiang City, and now he was steadily making his way here.

Upon closer inspection, the young man and woman stood out. Their handsomeness and beauty naturally drew attention, but more so their attire, which differed markedly from that of the Central Plains martial artists. Curiosity stirred among the onlookers, yet no one dared approach; the martial world was vast and wild, filled with all manner of characters, and it was wise not to meddle. If any emotions could be discerned from their minds, it was suspicion—after all, anyone appearing here at such a time had but one goal: to rise above the rest. And this moment was the perfect opportunity.

A large banner emblazoned with the character for "martial" stood tall atop a high platform. Even from a distance, it was unmistakable. The martial world revered strength above all—those who were strong commanded respect and voice. Moreover, the banner perfectly matched the Martial Alliance’s name. Though not grand in size, the platform stretched several meters in both length and width. At its corners stood four middle-aged men, faces grave and stern, each wielding a distinct weapon—swords, spears, staffs, and halberds. Their eyes were fixed, bodies unmoving, embodying the solemn dignity befitting the Martial Alliance’s authority.

“Brother, look at those people. They stand so still, faces taut with tension. Don’t they feel tired? I’m already feeling exhausted just watching them,” the young woman whispered, her gaze lingering briefly on the platform before curiosity overcame her restraint. She was, by nature, inquisitive, and such thoughts were hardly surprising. The young man’s eyes scanned the scene carefully before replying softly, “Little sister, don’t underestimate them. These four are the Martial Alliance’s Four Guardians. When we came, father specifically mentioned the ‘Joy, Anger, Sorrow, and Delight’—that’s them!”

“Those are Joy, Anger, Sorrow, and Delight?” The young woman’s tone betrayed a hint of skepticism. The young man, however, did not intend to argue; compared to his own tasks, these matters were trivial. The Four Guardians were certainly formidable, but not yet threats to him. More pressing were figures like Xia Wuya of the Qilian Mountains and Shen Chengbi of the Bright Moon Villa, who required greater vigilance. For the young woman, though, these questions were harder to avoid. Ignorance might be bliss, but half-knowledge only deepened intrigue. Seeing the young man remain silent, she pressed again, “They say the Four Guardians are elites left over from the Shadow Guard of the previous dynasty. That dynasty ended at least thirty or forty years ago. Even if they were children then, now they should be in their fifties or sixties—old men. But these four look no older than forty. How can they be linked to the old regime? Brother, are you mistaken? Besides, the Shadow Guard were proud and aloof—how could they be doing menial tasks like standing guard here?”

Her doubts were not unfounded. Anyone hearing their supposed identities might harbor disbelief. Even the young man harbored uncertainties. If not for the jade pendants each wore, marking their distinct status, he might have questioned his own assumptions again. “Little sister,” he said, “that’s because you don’t know. Though they appear to be in their forties, the youngest among them is actually over sixty. Their youthful appearance is due to their cultivation. Joy, Anger, Sorrow, and Delight—birth, growth, illusion, and extinction—are not so easily discerned.”

“Brother, you’re not much older than me; how do you know these things?” The young woman’s doubt lingered. Yet she did not intend to challenge him further. As she spoke, her gaze returned to the platform, studying every detail as though to find some hidden clue to confirm her suspicions. But such proof was elusive.

“Have you forgotten father’s former status?” The young man’s voice lowered thoughtfully as he cast his eyes upon the platform once more. Though quiet, his words silenced her doubts as if she had found the answer she sought.

“It should soon be the turning point. This demon is truly formidable, able to weave such an illusionary formation alone. If I hadn’t known its origin beforehand, I’d have long been ensnared in its design. Now, I must be cautious—one wrong move, and all is lost.” In her mind, this was the sole thought. Outside, the passage of time marked the onset of night. The dimness ought to have been the dominant hue, yet here, the scene was different. Dense mist thickened the air, cold and biting. A faint mountain breeze whispered through, a hallmark of the forest beyond. Yet the fog seemed to grow heavier with her every step, pressing in until even open eyes felt strained. At first, she fought to resist, but soon realized the futility and closed her eyes, allowing herself to be guided by the sensation, moving forward slowly.

“Who are you? Where do you come from? It’s so dark and eerie here—aren’t you afraid? Don’t go any further. You cannot see what lies ahead—one step more could mean a bottomless abyss, or a mountain of blades and sea of flames. Why risk it? Turn back now—just look behind you, and you’ll see the path you came from. That’s safe, that’s what you want.” With her eyes shut, these whispered words floated on the wind, initially faint and sporadic, now continuous and unyielding. Each phrase, each word grew more enticing, sowing doubt in her resolve. Her steps faltered: “Is it worth it? Don’t waste your youth chasing those you don’t care for, only to miss what truly matters. Do you have someone you cherish? If so, it’s not too late to turn back. Don’t cling to the past, or when everything slips through your fingers, regret will come too late—like sand through your grasp.”

Worth it? Cherish? These words swirled endlessly in her mind. Though aware it was but an illusion’s cunning, banishing them entirely was no easy feat. The more she tried, the clearer the voice became—like an incessant chant, threatening to fracture her mind. Her hands clenched the windswept strands of hair, seeking solace through the gesture, but relief was nowhere to be found. The voice closed in, dragging her toward despair. Only one person was pleased at this moment. As she glanced back toward the thick mist behind her, a triumphant smile crossed a face shrouded in shadow.