Not only did he fiercely resist contact with others, but he also possessed a whole host of bizarre traits like a sharp tongue, sinister temperament, and a black-hearted lotus persona—making him seem even more villainous than the actual antagonist, leaving the villain with no way out.

So, the popularity of this novel...

To put it mildly, it really wasn’t very high. No one knew how the author managed to soldier on alone and write so many words.

Back to the topic of Henry Clark.

He had an astonishingly beautiful face, with upturned phoenix eyes that carried a hint of allure, yet most of that charm was dispelled by the deep, inky ruthlessness in his gaze.

A bloodthirsty aura and seductive charm blended seamlessly, intertwining in subtle layers. The deep red tear mole at the corner of his eye was especially striking, like a drop of cinnabar or a bead of congealed blood. Paired with his tightly pressed, pale thin lips, he was even more captivating than the ink-wash landscape behind him.

Not to mention, the black robe outlined the youth’s tall, slender figure. Where the sword energy had struck, several tears had opened, revealing unnaturally pale skin and bright crimson blood beneath—

No wonder so many supporting characters liked him.

By now, the battle was drawing to a close, with both sides battered and bruised.

Unlike Owen Brooks, who had received personal instruction, Henry Clark, as an outer sect disciple, could only practice the sect’s basic sword techniques in the Sword Hall—yet he had managed to gain the upper hand in this duel using only moves that everyone knew.

Without a master’s guidance, he explored on his own day and night; without fixed sword forms, he assessed the situation and advanced step by step, unbound by conventional techniques, moving according to his own will.

This was the vast difference in talent—Owen Brooks lost completely.

By this point, anyone with eyes could see who would win. Grace Carter saw it clearly, knowing the protagonist was about to face the first major turning point in his life.

Amidst the flashing swords and shadows, several exclamations suddenly rose from the crowd. Grace Carter knew the moment had come and followed everyone’s gaze.

Above the dueling platform hung an ancient, icy blue sword radiating cold, reflecting dazzling, crystal-like brilliance in the sunlight.

Two young men stood atop the sword, both with hair tied up and dressed in white robes, handsome and otherworldly.

One had starry eyes and a playful smile, lips curled in a lazy manner; the other wore light robes and a calm expression, dappled sunlight flowing over his white clothes, ethereal as an immortal.

Someone exclaimed in surprise, “It’s... it’s Elder Skyson and Senior Brother Jack Morgan!”

Grace Carter squinted against the light and saw the always-smiling young man wave at her.

Though she didn’t want to admit it, this sword cultivator, who looked like a carefree, unruly playboy, was indeed her master.

That’s right—the ethereal one beside him was her senior brother, Jack Morgan.

From the wildly arrogant name “Skyson” alone, it was clear that their master had always done things his own way.

He was a legendary figure in the Xuanxu Sword Sect, spending three hundred out of three hundred sixty-five days each year traveling the world to learn every sword style. He rarely attended any gatherings, either vanishing on his journeys or burying himself in practicing new sword techniques.

Besides that, he was a true sword fanatic—whenever he saw a sword he liked, he couldn’t wait to buy it. Despite being hundreds of years old, he was still living paycheck to paycheck.

According to the original story, as soon as Skyson returned to the sect, he heard that Grace Carter had lost to an outer sect disciple. Always eager for excitement, he immediately flew his sword to the dueling platform and witnessed Henry Clark’s fierce battle with Owen Brooks.

Then, slapping his forehead in perfect character, he decided: This one’s a genius! From now on, he’ll be my disciple.

Thus, Henry Clark soared from outer sect disciple to become the personal disciple of Elder Skyson, and his life was forever changed—no longer bullied by others.

A heavy thud sounded as the giant sword hit the stage. Owen Brooks finally lost consciousness and collapsed; the black-clad youth beside him was breathing lightly, his thin chest rising and falling.

Blood streamed from his clothes, the side of his face slashed by sword energy blooming with crimson, his black hair and pale skin forming a striking contrast—utterly captivating.

Though Henry Clark was in a sorry state, his back remained straight. As if sensing something, he lifted his dark, clouded eyes.

And met the gaze of Skyson, who was standing on his sword.

Grace Carter knew—it was done.

“Not bad.”

The young man on the sword had a naturally smiling mouth; with just a slight lift of his brows and eyes, he exuded a sense of spring breeze and melting snow. His tone was as irreverent as ever: “Want to be my disciple?”

At that moment, he was so elegant and otherworldly that his new disciple would surely never forget this dazzling image, and from then on would take “My master is the best in the world” as a catchphrase.

Unfortunately, just as he finished saying “Want to,” Henry Clark on the stage ran out of strength and, supporting himself with his sword, half-knelt on the ground.

His eyes even closed.

Skyson: …

Give me a chance to look cool, man.

=====

An unknown outer sect disciple was suddenly accepted as a personal disciple by an elder with just one sentence—the dueling platform erupted.

What was an outer sect disciple? Someone with a trace of spiritual energy but mediocre talent, not even qualified to enter the inner sect. Being able to speak to an elder even once in a lifetime was considered lucky.

And after just one match, he became a personal disciple?

It was simply unbelievable.

Henry Clark had lost consciousness, and Skyson, extremely interested in the surging sword energy within him, cheerfully followed him to the medical pavilion on Tianhe Peak.