◎”I’ll count it as a debt I owe those two bastards.”◎
Within a few days, Mingzhu realized he hadn’t gained a Little Junior Brother—he’d gained a mother who supervised his every move.
Zhou Fuxue, as if he’d swallowed some strange medicine, had become possessed ever since tidying up the courtyard, running over to Mingzhu’s place every single day. Whenever he caught Mingzhu tossing things about carelessly, he would coldly snap at him, leaving Mingzhu feeling constrained and uncomfortable even in his own quarters.
That much Mingzhu could still endure. What he couldn’t stand was that every morning, the moment the hour of Chen arrived, Zhou Fuxue would come pounding on his door with unshakable regularity, dragging him to morning lessons. Each time Mingzhu threw a tantrum in bed and refused to get up, Zhou Fuxue would simply stand silently at his bedside, those cold, thin-lipped eyes watching him with icy indifference until Mingzhu was stared awake—left with no choice but to follow him to the Hall of No Blame and suffer through the lesson.
Within days, Mingzhu was nearly at breaking point. He’d fancied himself clever and snuck off to sleep at Shen Di’an’s place, thinking he’d finally have one peaceful day. Who knew that the very next day, that bastard surnamed Shen would team up with Zhou Fuxue, the two of them tag-teaming him with endless nagging before dragging him off to morning lessons, one on each arm.
These past half a month had been the darkest days Mingzhu had known since coming to Rizhao Mountain. Just thinking about it turned his face green with misery—he’d sooner end it all on the spot.
Without looking up, Lu Qingkong fiddled with a pile of scattered iron pieces on the desk, replying perfunctorily, “So?”
Mingzhu lay sprawled across the table, exhaustion written all over his face, even the red tear-marks at the corners of his eyes dimmed. “So, Old Ninth, you’re the only one who can save your Senior Brother—let me crash here for the night, will you?”
Lu Qingkong’s residence was called Four Fragrances Garden, laid out completely differently from the Wenxian and Buzhiya residences. Calling it a residence was generous; it was more like a storeroom.
Four Fragrances Garden was crammed full of mechanisms and Formation Arrays—even a single blade of grass might have a tiny mechanism hidden on it. The room was dim and gloomy; a closer look revealed the ceiling hung with iron-cast mechanism parts of every shape, densely packed and rather terrifying. A chill hung in the air everywhere.
Lu Qingkong, dressed in black, knelt on the floor working two iron pieces between his fingers. His fingers were long and deft, weaving gold thread swiftly through the hollowed-out array on the metal as he split his attention to answer Mingzhu. “No.”
Mingzhu stayed sprawled on the floor, pleading, “It’s just a few days. I won’t touch your things.”
Lu Qingkong straightened up slightly, reached up with practiced ease, plucked a jet-black iron piece from the ceiling, and continued threading his gold needle through the metal, saying coldly, “I said no, so it’s no. Get out.”
Lu Qingkong probably dealt with these cold iron pieces all day long; the whole man was gloomy and frigid. He loved tinkering with strange arrays and mechanisms, and once absorbed in them, he would forget to eat or sleep. Year-round he looked half-starved and perpetually cold, his face shrouded in a dark pallor—anyone who didn’t know better would think the people of Rizhao were starving him on purpose.
But Mingzhu was naturally thick-skinned. Being refused didn’t embarrass him at all. Instead, he idly flicked at the iron pieces overhead, listening to the pleasant wind-chime-like ring of clashing metal, and remarked casually, as if it had just occurred to him, “So are you actually going to Hundred Swords Mountain in a couple of days or not?”
Sure enough, the moment Lu Qingkong heard “Hundred Swords Mountain,” the gold thread flashing through his fingers came to an abrupt halt. He raised his jet-black eyes and gave Mingzhu a cold stare. After a moment, he pressed his lips together and said stiffly, “Didn’t Master already decide I was going?”
The participants had been decided during Little Shishu’s morning lesson a few days prior: from Rizhao’s North Mountain, Eldest Senior Brother Mingzhu, Zhou Fuxue, and Lu Qingkong; from West Mountain, led by Ming Fuhua with Younu—five in total.
Mingzhu winked his right eye at Lu Qingkong. “Fuhua and I are the ones leading you there. Whether we swap anyone out is just a word from us. Right, Junior Brother?”
Lu Qingkong nearly sprang up, hands slamming the desk. He glared at Mingzhu darkly, and just as Mingzhu braced for an explosion, Lu Qingkong unexpectedly calmed down. He sat back and resumed fiddling with the intricate mechanism, saying flatly, “Fine. Consider it the Karmic Retribution for threatening you last time.”
Mingzhu broke into a grin. He hadn’t expected his Ninth Junior Brother to be so magnanimous. He laughed. “I was only joking. How could I change the people Little Shishu picked? But for the sake of all my hard work leading you to Hundred Swords Mountain, do me this one favor.”
Lu Qingkong frowned impatiently, threading three iron pieces together with gold wire before answering coldly, “Fine. But I don’t have a spare room. You sleep on the floor.”
Mingzhu leapt up with a whoop of triumph—but he rose too fast and cracked his head squarely against one of the dangling mechanisms overhead. Joy turned instantly to grief as he crouched down, clutching his head.
When it came time to sleep that night, Mingzhu naturally had no intention of obediently sleeping on the floor. Waiting until Lu Qingkong was fast asleep, he sneaked onto the spacious bed and dozed off contentedly, hugging the blanket.
Over at the Wenxian and Buzhiya residences, Zhou Fuxue stood at the door staring at the lamp across the way that never lit up. His brow knitted fiercely; he asked a Daoist Attendant and learned that his Eldest Senior Brother had gone to sleep at Four Fragrances Garden. He snorted coldly and slammed his own door behind him without a backward glance.
Early the next morning, Mingzhu—who had spent the whole night using Lu Qingkong as a body pillow—was promptly and mercilessly kicked off the bed by said pillow, and didn’t manage to climb back up for a good long while.
Lu Qingkong looked down at him from on high. “Didn’t I tell you to sleep on the floor?”
Mingzhu lay sprawled on the ground, refusing to get up, whimpering, “The floor’s too hard. I can’t sleep.”
Lu Qingkong gave a dismissive snort, rose, grabbed the black robe set aside, and draped it over himself. “If you’re afraid of hard floors, go home and sleep.”
With that, he turned and left.
Mingzhu sprawled there a while longer before crawling back onto Lu Qingkong’s bed and drifting groggily back to sleep.
He sheltered at Lu Qingkong’s place for two days. Though he did end up sleeping on the floor, at least no one nagged him all day or dragged him to morning lessons. He was perfectly content.
On the third day, the five disciples bound for Hundred Swords Mountain rose early and waited on the Disciples’ Steps for Daoist Master Guining.
Mingzhu was of the firm belief that if he could sit, he absolutely would not stand. While everyone else stood at respectful attention, impeccably dressed in their Rizhao Robes, terrified of disgracing Rizhao on this trip down the mountain, he was different. Though he’d—rarely—put on a Rizhao Robe today, he had yanked open the two cloth buttons at his collar, baring his collarbone and half his chest, and his belt was tied in a loose, sloppy knot. Utterly unkempt.
He sat on the Disciples’ Steps, yawning out of boredom, and catching sight of Zhou Fuxue beside him, some wire in his brain snapped. He reached out and tugged the Little Junior Brother’s sleeve, whispering, “Thirteen. Little Thirteen. Still angry?”
Zhou Fuxue gave him a cold glance and flicked his sleeve away. “Fuxue wouldn’t dare.”
Mingzhu’s eyes shimmered with moisture as he beamed at him, coaxing like he would a child. “All right, all right, don’t be mad. So I skipped morning lessons for a couple of days. Is it really worth all this fuss?”
Zhou Fuxue, who had just said “wouldn’t dare,” immediately whipped his head around to glare at him, correcting, “Three days.”
Mingzhu: “Uh… fine, three days it is. Stop being angry now, Thirteen… big brother?”
Zhou Fuxue was so furious smoke practically poured from all seven apertures. Mingzhu seemed to have conciliatory words ready on demand—shamelessly calling “big brother” to a ten-year-old child. Just how thick was that face of his?
While the two tussled back and forth, Daoist Master Guining finally sauntered over at his leisure. Everyone hurried to bow. “Greetings, Sect Master.”
Mingzhu’s backside was leaden. Even when the Sect Master arrived, he remained seated as immovable as a mountain, showing no intention of rising to greet him, only lazily humming “Greetings, Sect Master” along with the others.
Daoist Master Guining spared him a cold glance, apparently concluding that this one was mud that couldn’t be plastered onto any wall and couldn’t be relied upon. He turned instead to the frost-faced Ming Fuhua and said flatly, “On this trip to Hundred Swords Mountain, guard against arrogance. Once you find suitable weapons, return at once—do not linger. On this point, I trust you are capable.”
Ming Fuhua bowed slightly. “Yes.”
“Hundred Swords Mountain holds no great danger, but you must remain vigilant at all times and never be careless. Above all, do not even dream of exploring the Sword Tomb. The Sword Tomb is treacherous at every step—like crouching over a firewood pile. Stray into it, and death is all but certain. Proceed with the utmost caution.”
Everyone: “Yes.”
Only after giving all his instructions did Daoist Master Guining turn to the slouching Mingzhu. “You.”
Mingzhu finally deigned to sit up from the ground. “This disciple is present.”
Daoist Master Guining’s eyes were sharp as sword-light. He seemed about to say something, but the moment his gaze fell on Zhou Fuxue and Lu Qingkong beside them, he stopped. After a pause, he waved a hand. “What I want to say, you already know. Conduct yourself.”
At those words, Mingzhu sneered inwardly. What do you want to say? You’re worried I’ll use this chance to escape Rizhao Mountain, aren’t you?
But with the other junior brothers and sisters present, he couldn’t be too brazen, so he merely gave a slight nod and said nothing, his face unusually cold.
Ever since Little Shishu had announced the three names from North Mountain, Mingzhu—who had been scheming to use this chance to escape Rizhao—felt his heart sink by half. He had originally assumed that even if Yi Fuju couldn’t go, Yan Xueyu would count as half a fighting force to protect Zhou Fuxue and Lu Qingkong, letting him slip away from the group at some point. The world was vast; even if Rizhao Mountain teemed with talents, they would never find him.
But now, Mingzhu’s carefully clacking abacus of a plan had been cleaved apart in one stroke—along with his heart, shattered into pieces.
These past days, such thoughts kept surfacing in his mind. Maybe I should just run. They won’t run into any real danger in Hundred Swords Mountain. I wouldn’t be any help there anyway—I’d probably just get in the way.
But then he would wail, clutching his hair, banging his head against the table. But Lu Qingkong has a Crippled Spirit Vein, and Zhou Fuxue is Spirit-Veinless. If they run into danger, they can’t even protect themselves. What if something happens to them?
If I don’t take this chance to escape, I’ll never get another one.
But if I abandon those two Little Junior Brothers this time and something happens to them, won’t I regret it for the rest of my life?
“Run!”
“But what if they’re in danger…”
His mind was endlessly ping-ponging between these two extremes until it drove him so mad he pulled out fistfuls of hair—another week of this and he’d go bald—before he finally collapsed in despair.
“I’ll count it as a debt I owe those two bastards.” Mingzhu stared hollowly into empty space and muttered, “If those two idiots can’t find suitable weapons, I’ll just leave them in Hundred Swords Mountain and not bring them back.”
