武林侠影-单机武侠rpg 1.2.6

Under the lingering moonlight of late autumn, down a shabby alleyway, stands a run-down small house with a lantern hanging over its eaves. The dim light faintly illuminates the sign above the door that reads "The Wayfarer's Inn."

The inn is modest in size, with two tables and a few benches. One of the tables is lit by an oil lamp, and at the table sits an elderly man facing the broken door.

The old man, thin and aged, with gray hair and wearing a faded blue robe, sits stooped at the table with his eyes half-closed, motionless.

A dark figure abruptly appears at the door, as if it had just arrived, yet also as if it had been standing there for a long time.

"Since you've come, why not step inside?" The old man's voice cuts sharply through the air like a night-crow in mourning.

The figure steps inside, now illuminated by the lamplight. A man in his forties stands before them, dressed in white with handsome features that once must have been strikingly beautiful. However, a scar running from below his left eye has marred his otherwise handsome face.

Silently, he walks over to sit opposite the old man at the bench and softly speaks, "He has grown up."

The old man chuckles dryly and retorts, "And what does that have to do with me?"

The newcomer's tone is gentle yet firm as he replies, "The martial world needs him, and he needs the martial world."

"Sixteen years ago, you left with him, swearing never to set foot in the martial world again! Now what? The once steadfast you are going back on your word?" The old man's words drip with mockery and resentment.

The middle-aged man remains silent.

"Back then because of you," the old man gnashes his teeth. "Brothers died or scattered. Every night I dream of them bathed in blood asking me, 'Wu Laoliu, why haven't you avenged us!' Never did I imagine that you would come to me willingly!" With that, the old man lets out a ghostly laugh that echoes through the inn and beyond.

The middle-aged man falls silent for a moment, then takes out a porcelain bottle from his robe and shakes it gently. With their level of martial skill, it's easy to tell there's a legendary Reversal God Pill inside. "This is what they call the Reversal God Pill in the martial world," he says before astonishing the old man by removing the stopper and swallowing it whole.

Immediately, the middle-aged man's once black hair turns snow-white in an instant. Unexplainable energy radiates from him as his once flawless face becomes wrinkled; his vigorous inner strength dissipates completely.

Despite feeling like knives are piercing him all over, he keeps his back straight and solemnly declares: "This is the first condition."

He then lifts the jug on the table, pours himself a cupful of wine, drinks it down in one go.

After setting down the cup, his body begins to tremble uncontrollably. His hands turn white gradually. "The wine in this jug is made from Cold Marrow," he states. "I smelled it as soon as I walked in. I've lost all my power now. If I want to live, I must spend my days confined to your sect's Earth Fire Chamber without stepping out. This is the second condition set back then."

"As for the third condition..." After a moment of silence, he says firmly: "As long as he roams the martial world, you can come to me with your matters."

The old man's expression is complex as he slowly states: "I, Wu Laoliu has never questioned anyone's worthiness but today I'll make an exception." With each word spoken, his tone also grows layered: "Is he truly worthy?"

The middle-aged man starts to sway as if he could collapse at any moment but continues: "But I have one request."

Wu Laoliu stares straight at him in silence.

The middle-aged man's voice falters yet remains firm: "I want you to keep track of his whereabouts and compile them into records for me to read regularly."

Wu Laoliu purses his lips; he hadn't expected this final request from the middle-aged man. He nods and says, "We can do that. While we can't promise minute details on record, we'll organize intelligence about him periodically into books and deliver them to you."

A faint smile appears on the middle-aged man's face. Despite his now disfigured appearance rendering him frail and elderly, this slight smile feels like a breeze through spring or sunlight awakening the world. In this dim tavern, it becomes the sole beacon of hope. His voice hoarse from pain and cold now carries optimism: "Let this book be named 'The Shadows of Wulin'."