C20 He Had a Son Meiander and Mo Yanxiang!

In the remote mountains of Thvelond!

"Damn it, old man, you could've at least told me to savor the last serving of Songbird meat!" Zopyrus exclaimed, his chopsticks dancing wildly in the massive stone pot. Broth splattered everywhere as he greedily slurped, his mouth dripping with oil. He was so full of the succulent meat that he could barely fit any more in; his cheeks puffed out with food, steam billowing from his mouth.

"Damn it, you tell me to savor it, yet you're gobbling it up like a beast!" Clements swore, his face beet-red with anger.

Neither he nor Kallisto could keep up with Zopyrus's frenetic pace. His chopsticks moved with the speed of lightning, and nearly all the Songbird meat had ended up in Zopyrus's belly before Clements had even gotten a taste.

"It's mostly because Kallisto's cooking is so good," Zopyrus said lazily, his eyes rolling back as he nearly choked.

"I'll cook it for you every day from now on!" Kallisto declared with a smile, her eyes curving into crescent moons.

"One can get sick of too much of a good thing," Clements sighed.

"Old man, what are you saying?" Kallisto snapped, her displeasure evident. Her eyebrows furrowed, fists clenched, teeth grinding in frustration, she looked ready to pounce.

"The old man's saying your cooking isn't good," Zopyrus teased, nudging Clements aside to monopolize the stone pot.

"Kallisto, don't be mad. This rascal is slandering me—blatant slander!" Clements protested, waving his hands, clearly intimidated by Kallisto.

"Come on, admit it. It's not nice to pull rank just because you're older," Zopyrus chortled, thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Hmph, deny it and you'll go hungry tomorrow," Kallisto threatened with her ultimate weapon.

"Fine, I admit it, I was wrong," Clements conceded grumpily.

"See, that's what I thought," Kallisto said, still miffed.

Zopyrus, clutching the enormous stone pot to himself, nearly toppled into it as Kallisto and Clements continued their heated argument, spittle flying in all directions.

Outside the courtyard, a slender figure stood silently on a large tree, observing the trio inside.

"Master is finally not alone anymore! I'm so happy!" Maeander mused quietly atop the tree, nibbling on a steamed bun. The dry, hard bun was difficult to swallow, carrying a faint musty taste.

Since leaving Clements and joining Bucolus, steamed buns had been his sole sustenance.

'Walkers in the dark, if they indulge in riches and savor exotic delicacies, might forsake their kin!'

'Desire isn't easily resisted by everyone, particularly by those who tread in shadows. They commit ignoble acts, subsist on bland fare, and lack a warm, joyful home!'

'Succumbing to desire is not only lethal for them but a disaster for their loved ones!'

These were Bucolus's words to Maeander upon his initiation.

A walker in the dark always stands ready to make the ultimate sacrifice, enduring the harshest of days, all to safeguard their family. Such is the duty rooted deep within them.

From that day forward, Maeander had eaten nothing but steamed buns.

From that day forward, Clements had earnestly taken up cooking, a role Maeander had previously filled, and his culinary talents surpassed even Kallisto's.

He could recreate the flavors of home, and Clements had once declared that taking Maeander as his apprentice was the best decision of his life.

After swallowing the last bite of steamed bun and gulping down a swig of cold water, Maeander's eyes sparkled brilliantly.

"My junior brother is so adorable, and my junior sister is beautiful!" he said, a rare smile gracing his face. Then, his silhouette twisted and vanished from the treetop.

Meanwhile, in the courtyard, Zopyrus was embroiled in an epic struggle with the stone pot.

"Feeling dizzy?" Kallisto's eyes narrowed as she swayed slightly.

"Damn, I'm a bit dizzy too. It's not your fault, is it?" Clements blurted out with a curse.

"Thud!"

Kallisto was the first to collapse onto the table with a dull thump.

"Haha, you little rascal, look! Kallisto's been knocked out by rage!" Clements let out a mocking laugh, turning to Zopyrus.

But Zopyrus was already out cold, his head lolling comically from side to side at the edge of the stone pot.

"There's trouble!" Clements exclaimed, his expression turning stern as he scanned his surroundings.

"A spell of slumber!"

A chilling voice seemed to echo through the darkness.

Even Clements, graced with otherworldly prowess, couldn't resist the wave of dizziness that overcame him. Eventually, he slumped onto the table with a loud thud, his snores booming like thunder.

In the shadows, the air shimmered, and a tall figure emerged.

Maeander was a sight to behold, terrifyingly so. In one hand, he wielded a magic staff, while eight more were strapped to his back. These were the Skystaffs, unparalleled Divine Weapons that Everett had retrieved from a desolate wasteland.

Unlike the Divine Weapons of this world, the Skystaffs required magical manipulation.

The might of a Divine Weapon was unfathomable, capable of annihilating the heavens and causing the sun, moon, and stars to plummet. The Skystaffs, however, were a different breed—more enigmatic, with unpredictable attacks and unheard-of incantations.

In a confrontation with Maeander, even a vastly superior opponent could fall victim to the bizarre power of these Divine Weapons.

Clements, mighty as he was, had succumbed to the invasion of his Divine Sense by the spell, spiraling into a deep slumber.

"Master, you really are showing your age!" Maeander remarked, stepping over to sit on the table, his gaze on Clements filled with complexity.

Once upon a time, Bucolus had convinced him to feign death on the eve of the sect's turmoil, leading others to believe he had perished. Yet, he had personally taken up the Skystaff and thrown himself into the ensuing bloody conflict.

The carnage was unspeakable; nearly all the sect's disciples perished, and the protective circle had yet to be deployed. A mysterious figure had cast the Cosmic Seal, sealing the eight ancient cauldrons in an attempt to capture the Holy Weapon.

The ensuing battle had roused Old Golden Roc, who shattered the Divine Rock with brute force. A Supreme being intervened, and with a single blow, the celestial bodies burst asunder, and the whole of the Guiltlands trembled.

That night, from the direction of Thvelond Mount in the Guiltlands, a colossal beam of light pierced the heavens, cleaving through clouds and sun alike. It was said to be visible from all eight continents.

The aura was absolutely terrifying. A Supreme warrior, with a single strike, annihilated thirteen Wing Commanders and made a name for himself in one fell swoop!

That night, Maeander had the privilege of witnessing Old Golden Roc unleash his might. A golden Roc that eclipsed the sun and shrouded the earth took to the skies. With wings outstretched, its span was immeasurable, like a cloud descending from the heavens.

With a piercing roar, the thirteen Wing Commanders were obliterated instantly. They had no chance to flee; it was utterly horrifying. The roar, laden with fury and murderous intent, echoed across the entire Nine Continents.

Following this battle, Old Golden Roc's fame was cemented. No one would dare harbor a shred of pity towards Thvelond!

Now, as turmoil loomed and war was on the horizon, Old Golden Roc, with little of his lifespan remaining, was preparing for his final battle.

Once this venerable ancestor departed, Thvelond would face peril.

"Master, I'm exhausted!" Maeander said, his expression somber as he noticed the white hair on Clements's head, his voice tinged with emotion.

"Junior brother, junior sister!"

Patting Kallisto and Zopyrus on the head, Maeander's eyes shone with affection.

"I'm sorry. Please forgive me for only being able to visit you like this!" he said, smiling at the two of them.

"Five years have passed, and Master has grown a full head of white hair, and now there's a junior brother and sister!" Maeander mused, feeling the relentless march of time.

"Let's taste junior sister's cooking!"

He gently pried Zopyrus's hands from the stone pot, chuckling at the comical sight.

"Mmm, Little Junior Sister's culinary skills are impressive. You're nearly as good as me," Maeander complimented, after savoring a spoonful of soup.

For a moment, he was lost in a reverie, imagining Kallisto smiling at him with that tender, familial warmth that comforts the soul.

Drinking the hot soup voraciously, Maeander's eyes brimmed with tears.

There should have been four of them, gathered around the table, sharing a meal and laughter.

After the meal, they would have placed four chairs in the courtyard, each with a steaming cup of tea, exchanging jokes and stories.

However, one person was now missing.

"It was supposed to be the four of us!" Maeander said in silence, tears streaming down his cheeks, a piercing loneliness gnawing at his heart.

He longed for the past, the familiar scent of his family. How he missed joking around with Clements, teaching his culinary skills to Kallisto, and, as an elder brother, urging Zopyrus in his training.

But once he had stepped into the darkness, there was no turning back. From the day he took up the nine Skystaffs, he ceased to be the flesh-and-blood Maeander and became No. 1, the one who protected his family by doing all the deeds that couldn't bear the light of day.

After finishing the soup in the stone pot, Maeander wiped his mouth and donned his black mask once more.

"Little junior brother, you have such great talent. You must cultivate it well!"

Maeander spoke softly, patting Zopyrus's head with a tender smile.

"Master, war is on the horizon. All mages above the Quintuple-Mountain must join the battle. Please, be careful!"

Kneeling before Clements, Maeander bowed deeply three times.

"Little junior sister, turmoil is approaching. You must survive. Your brother will keep you safe!"

Finally, he cast a lingering glance at the three people deep in slumber at the table, then turned and decisively walked away.

His thick black hair swayed with his movement, long bangs obscuring his eyes.

His tattered cloak billowed, rustling in the wind as the solitary figure in the dark, bearing eight magic staffs, vanished from his home.

From this moment forward, he was No. 1.

To protect his family, No. 1 would walk in the shadows. To nurture growth, he would draw nourishment by any means necessary.

His steps through the perpetual night, a relentless march of solitude, became an anthem to the dark.