◎In Hundred Swords Mountain, he found a legendary divine weapon named Kuayu◎
The next day, Mingzhu was jolted awake by a knock at the door. He had spent the night sprawled on the floor, and his whole body ached as he groped his way up, mumbling blearily, “Who is it? Come in.”
The door was gently pushed open. Zhou Fuxue’s small figure stood at the threshold, fully dressed, regarding him coolly. “Senior Brother, it’s time for morning lessons.”
Mingzhu scratched his messy hair, still irritated at being woken. “What morning lessons? I never attend morning lessons. Go by yourself. I’m dead tired.”
As he spoke, he crawled out from a pile of clutter on all fours and struggled toward the bed.
Zhou Fuxue’s expression didn’t change. “If Senior Brother spends his days in such a muddle, how will you ever take up the Position of Sect Master one day and make Rizhao Mountain flourish?”
Mingzhu let out a wail of despair, clutched his head, and rolled around on the messy bed. “Junior Brother, I’m begging you, stop nagging. Whoever wants to be that blasted Sect Master can have the job. I promise I’ll be grateful and respectfully usher him into the position.”
Zhou Fuxue seemed determined to drag him to morning lessons. “As the Eldest Senior Brother of Rizhao Mountain, you cannot be so idle. If you carry on like this, what will the people of the Five Continents think of Rizhao when you go out in the world?”
Mingzhu rolled around again, hugging his blanket, and shouted, “Someone! Get this mosquito out of here! So annoying!”
Mosquito Zhou buzzed and buzzed for a full quarter of an hour before finally buzzing Mingzhu right off the bed.
Pale as parchment, Mingzhu clutched his stomach as he shuffled out of the room. Draping half his weight over Zhou Fuxue, he muttered listlessly, “Fine, let’s go to morning lessons—little bastard. I must have owed you in a past life.”
Seeing that he had finally gotten up, Zhou Fuxue raised an eyebrow slightly. “Aren’t you going to wash up and change your clothes?”
Mingzhu was still wearing the Rizhao Robe from his trip to the Longevity Hall the day before. He had knelt all day, then rolled around on the floor half the night; the robe was a crumpled wreck, thoroughly disheveled. Naturally, the fastidious Zhou Fuxue couldn’t bear the sight of it.
Mingzhu only wanted to sleep. He pleaded, “Junior Brother, are you my nanny? Can you stop fussing over everything? Can’t we just go to morning lessons?”
Zhou Fuxue had thought it over half the night and finally made up his mind to see if he could twist that lazy streak out of his Eldest Senior Brother—lest he grow into a good-for-nothing who coasted on his looks and embarrassed Rizhao Mountain.
Zhou Fuxue also understood the principle that haste makes waste. Since Mingzhu had reluctantly agreed to attend morning lessons, he didn’t waste any more breath, and half-dragged him all the way to the Hall of No Blame.
Today’s morning lesson wasn’t taught by Little Shishu, so the female cultivators of West Mountain didn’t come. Only the senior brothers and sisters of North Mountain sat around in loose clusters inside the Hall of No Blame, making the place look rather empty.
When Mingzhu—a wild-haired, disheveled mess—crossed the threshold, the entire hall went silent for an instant, then promptly exploded.
The disciples all clamored, “Eldest Senior Brother? Did you take the wrong medicine today? You’re actually attending morning lessons?”
Even Lu Qingkong in the corner lifted his head, gloomy eyes casting a cold glance at Mingzhu.
Mingzhu was annoyed to death already. “What are you looking at? Never seen such a handsome Eldest Senior Brother? Less chatter—go do whatever you’re supposed to do and don’t bother me.”
Wandering over to the last row where Shen Di’an sat, he rolled up a few books, set them on the bench, and lay right down to sleep.
Zhou Fuxue, following behind, seemed about to say something at the sight of such decadence, but the senior leading the lesson had already sauntered into the hall, so Zhou Fuxue promptly sat down beside Mingzhu.
The teacher was a fierce-looking man with a scar across his face—reportedly a martial instructor of Rizhao Mountain. Since a curved saber was always strapped to his waist, everyone called him “Mr. Dao.”
Every disciple of Rizhao Mountain knew that among the seniors who taught morning lessons, two were true oddballs. One was Little Shishu Guihe, who made people transcribe the Sect Precepts whenever he ran out of things to say. The other was this Mr. Dao, who loved nothing more than taking roll with his roster.
The man was cold by nature and lazy in temperament. Every lesson, he would invariably pull out his dog-eared roster and call names, yet he never punished anyone for skipping. No one knew what purpose his daily roll call actually served.
The moment Mr. Dao entered the hall, everyone fell silent as quiet as baby chicks.
Shen Di’an whispered, “Eldest Senior Brother, Mr. Dao is here.”
Only then did Mingzhu, who had been nearly dead asleep, crack his eyes halfway open and prop himself up on the desk with effort.
Without even lifting his head, Mr. Dao tossed a roster onto the table, his voice so listless that every word seemed to drift out on the air. “Roll call first.”
“Mingzhu.” Mr. Dao didn’t even pause, as if out of habit. “Absent.”
“Yi Fuju.”
“Present.”
“Yan Xueyu.”
“…”
“Sir.” Mingzhu raised his hand, interrupting the routine. “I’m here today.”
Mr. Dao read off several more names before lazily lifting his head, squinting at Mingzhu for a long moment. “Who are you?”
Mingzhu: “…”
“Mingzhu.”
In all his years at Rizhao Mountain, aside from Guihe’s lessons, Mingzhu had skipped every single morning lesson. This was his first time attending Mr. Dao’s class, so it was only natural the man didn’t recognize him.
“Oh?” The perpetually listless Mr. Dao seemed to perk up with sudden interest. He put away his roster and slowly walked down from the platform as he spoke. “I hear that some years ago, you found a legendary divine weapon in Hundred Swords Mountain called Kuayu. Well, since you’re here, care to have a friendly spar with me?”
Mingzhu replied earnestly, “No.”
Mr. Dao said, “Good. You’ve got backbone. Come on, let’s head to the Martial Arena.”
Everyone: “…”
Mr. Dao was usually terribly cold, treating even the Sect Master with that same dismissive attitude. For some reason this time, he insisted on dragging Mingzhu into a spar, and so the hall’s morning lesson was relocated to the open-air Martial Arena nearby.
The arena was truly vast, its four-sided platform built of stacked bluestone jade. The moment the two entered, the bluestone jade slowly began to glow, and in an instant, a barrier of azure light formed, sealing everyone else outside.
Mingzhu looked like he could barely stand. He yawned, eyes brimming with tears. “Sir, spare me this time, won’t you? Look, I came empty-handed. I didn’t even bring a sword. What would I even spar with you against?”
Mr. Dao said, “Then this Shishu will let you have three moves. Go ahead, attack.”
Mingzhu: “…”
Would it kill you to listen to people properly?!
Mingzhu had always considered himself a willful, self-important nuisance, but he never imagined that this cold, aloof Mr. Dao would be even more annoying and self-important than he was—the man only heard what he wanted to hear and simply ignored anything that didn’t suit him.
Mingzhu was sleep-deprived and aching all over, already frazzled, and after all this hassle he was running out of patience. He extended a slender hand, and a tiny knife no bigger than a finger dropped out of his sleeve, a red tassel tied to its hilt.
Zhou Fuxue, watching from outside the arena, tilted his head slightly. “What’s that in Eldest Senior Brother’s hand?”
Shen Di’an snorted. “Probably just some little knife he picked up randomly in Hundred Swords Mountain. Supposedly it’s called ‘Kuayu.’ Anyway, I’ve never seen that sword leave its sheath since he got it. There might be a Crippled Spirit inside.”
Weapons retrieved from Hundred Swords Mountain would develop an Artifact Spirit after the wielder reached Core Formation Stage—but if one was unlucky enough to draw a Crippled Spirit, the weapon was no different from an ordinary mortal blade.
With a face dark as still water, Mingzhu drew the delicate little knife and flung it at Mr. Dao like a throwing dart with a whoosh. Mr. Dao simply drew the saber at his waist and flicked it casually. With a single metallic clang, the legendary divine weapon, the Kuayu Sword, was knocked flying, clattering to the ground before going still.
The crowd was stunned.
Mingzhu, acting as if nothing had happened, trotted over, sheathed the little knife, and gave Mr. Dao an elegant bow. “Your saberwork is truly extraordinary, Sir. Mingzhu has learned much.”
He spoke with the pride of a hero who had battled an opponent through hundreds of exchanges before finally falling with grace—his face showing not a trace of shame or embarrassment at having his weapon swatted away in one blow.
Mr. Dao also sheathed his saber, his expression unchanged. He cupped his hands in salute. “If you don’t wish to take it seriously today, we can spar another day.”
Mingzhu nodded with a smile, thinking, Bastard. If I ever attend your morning lesson again, I’ll change my surname.
After the lesson, ignoring the jeers and mockery of the whole hall, Mingzhu strolled back to Buzhiya on his own and flung himself onto the bed, sleeping like the dead.
By the time he woke again, the sun was already setting in the west.
Sunset glow poured in through the open window, the dying sun red as blood, carrying an ominous, gorgeous splendor.
He sat up in bed and only belatedly noticed that his dog’s mess of a room had, at some point, been cleaned spotless. Even on the small side table sat a little carved incense burner, its incense apparently burnt out, a single wisp of lingering smoke curling slowly in the air.
Pressing a hand to his aching head, Mingzhu rose from the bed and surveyed the tidied room with amazement, clicking his tongue in wonder.
Somehow his pigsty had been cleaned by some unknown hand. The scattered scripture fragments on the floor were neatly stacked on the desk, the Four Treasures of the Study were arranged in order, the floor was spotless, and a thick blanket had been placed by the bed—apparently so he wouldn’t have to step on the cold floor.
Mingzhu’s room had never been this tidy since he’d moved in. For a moment, the neatness almost felt unfamiliar.
Just then, Zhou Fuxue walked in carrying a stack of clothes. Seeing Mingzhu’s dazed, lost-in-time expression, he said flatly, “Senior Brother can really sleep. You skipped all three meals of the day.”
Mingzhu blinked, watching him stow the clothes into the wardrobe he hadn’t used in ages. “You… did this?”
After spending these few days with Mingzhu, Zhou Fuxue had learned that his Eldest Senior Brother was thick-skinned, good-natured, and never held grudges. So he stopped hiding his naturally barbed tongue, his every word laced with sarcasm. “I didn’t do it. Senior Brother must have done it himself while half-asleep.”
Mingzhu blinked again. The red birthmark around his left eye burned vividly in the sunset light spilling across half his face, making him look all the more bewitchingly lovely. Yet utterly mismatched with that face were his eyes—bright and clear as a child’s, as if none of the world’s wear and tear could leave a single trace in them.
Watching him stand there blankly, Zhou Fuxue said, “Take off those clothes. Don’t they feel awful?”
Mingzhu gave a dazed “oh,” and without a shred of modesty, undid his belt right in front of Zhou Fuxue.
Zhou Fuxue: “…”
How shameless can you get?
