Chapter Twenty-Three: Heartless as a Shrimp

“The cultivation technique I taught you yesterday—I’ll return in half a month to check your progress. If you’re as lazy as before, hmph!” Master Zhao cast a cold glance, making Yang Mu tremble from head to toe as he watched the figure depart.

After a long while, he forced himself up from the ground, drew out a yellowed manual from beneath his pillow, and spread it beneath the candlelight.

“Tiger Claw Fist?”

Seeing the words, Lin Ze fell silent, feeling the body assume the stance, fists suddenly striking out, fierce as a tiger in appearance, yet not a trace of spiritual energy stirred within. This was not a cultivation technique at all.

Clearly, Yang Mu knew this; grief and anger gnawed at his heart, yet all he could do was pour every ounce of strength into those relentless punches.

Nothing more happened that night.

At dawn, as the rooster crowed and the sky paled, the youth wiped sweat from his brow, then, in a burst of anger, snatched up the Tiger Claw Fist manual and slammed it to the ground. Ignoring his sweat-soaked shirt, he threw on a short jacket and strode out.

He left the small courtyard, gaze sweeping around with a trace of confusion in his eyes.

On the vast Huayang Peak, disciples were already emerging from their rooms, swords in hand, beginning morning practice.

“Isn’t that Yang Mu? Last night, Master Zhao instructed him alone until midnight.”

“With a master like that, truly enviable.”

“What a pity.”

Some disciples shook their heads, casting Yang Mu a look of disdain, thinking he relied on his background to act recklessly, caring little for his master’s painstaking efforts.

The conversation drifted to his ears; a cold sneer appeared on the youth’s face.

As if accustomed to it, he pursed his lips and turned away toward another path.

Following the mountain trail, he soon arrived at the entrance of another courtyard.

Yang Mu steadied his nerves and tapped gently on the door.

Creak.

A young Daoist boy quickly poked his head out. Upon recognizing the visitor, a hint of contempt flashed in his eyes. “Senior Brother Yang, what brings you here so early this morning?”

“I’m looking for Aunt Li,” Yang Mu replied, eyes lowered, uncharacteristically refraining from retorting.

“Is that Mu? Come in.”

A gentle female voice sounded from inside.

A woman clad in a grey Daoist robe stepped from the house, smiling faintly. “Why stand outside?”

Yang Mu quietly clenched his fists, gathering his courage to ask, “Aunt, I would like to inquire about the breathing technique.”

“Hmm?” The woman frowned slightly, pondering for a good while before replying slowly, “You are Senior Brother Zhao’s disciple. If you have doubts, ask him directly. Coming to me—aren’t you overstepping?”

No one liked their own disciple seeking guidance from others. Even though she had a good relationship with Senior Brother Zhao, she would not easily cross that line.

“I…” Yang Mu bit his lip, words swallowed before they could form. With a despondent bow, he said, “Forgive me for disturbing you, Aunt. I’ll take my leave.”

He left the small courtyard, wandering aimlessly across the mountain.

A breeze brushed by.

Stopping at the stream’s edge, he scooped a handful of icy water and splashed it over his face.

He rubbed his nose, baring a row of white teeth in a crooked grin. A sinister smile tugged at his lips as he leisurely made his way toward the lecture hall at the foot of the mountain.

Dressed in the attire of a Huayang Peak disciple, Yang Mu stood out among the outer disciples, but he paid no mind to the odd glances thrown his way, even reaching out to tug at a female cultivator’s hair beside him.

“Hey, this little bun looks quite nice today.”

“Yang Mu, you scoundrel!” The young woman shot him a glare, carefully fixing the hairpin in her hair.

Soon, stewards from various peaks began the lecture.

The youth acted just like the most mischievous student Lin Ze had ever seen—fooling around, interrupting the teacher, and even deliberately letting out a thunderous snore.

“To be so afraid…” Lin Ze shook his head, shifting perspective to stand behind the youth. Under his arm, Yang Mu was hiding the secret cultivation formulas he’d copied.

He seemed terrified of others discovering them.

Those few thin slips of paper were quietly tucked away into his book bag.

When the lecture ended, Yang Mu stretched lazily, strolling back toward Huayang Peak as if nothing had happened.

He stopped halfway up the mountain, moved aside a stone by the road to reveal a small hole, hurriedly stashed the papers inside, then replaced the stone to seal the entrance.

He’d barely walked ten yards before a figure blocked his path.

Master Zhao’s square face was impassive.

Only his eyes betrayed a hint of anger.

“You attended the lecture hall again?”

“Mm,” Yang Mu murmured, head down.

“What for?”

“To play.”

“What’s there to play? With your aptitude, what right do you have to waste time playing?” Master Zhao recalled the stewards’ evaluation of the boy, doubting nothing, but his anger lingered.

“My disciple attending lectures among outer disciples—do you wish others to ridicule your master?”

“I meant no such thing.” Yang Mu appeared obedient, listening to the reprimand, but his palms were already slick with sweat.

Beside him, Lin Ze quietly observed the square-faced Daoist.

One day and night was enough to unravel the whole affair.

Whatever the cause for Master Zhao’s dissatisfaction with Yang Mu, this method of retaliation, in Lin Ze’s view, was utterly despicable.

An adult bullying a child was bad enough, but for a peak Foundation Establishment master to target a mid-stage Qi cultivator—one with no Daoist skills, only a handful of martial techniques—why not act openly? Instead, he crafted the image of a devoted teacher, his efforts wasted on a lazy, ungrateful disciple.

Severing a man’s destiny, wounding his soul.

“Zhao Jing.” Lin Ze rolled the name on his tongue, following Yang Mu back to the courtyard.

By now, he could have exited the simulator.

This boy hadn’t sought him out for guidance at all.

He was looking for a protector.

Someone who could see the abnormality in his cultivation and relay it to someone who could truly rein Zhao Jing in.

Lin Ze pitied him, but didn’t want to play messenger.

Yang Mu was young, but not stupid—if anything, he was smarter than most. To endure seven or eight years without telling a soul proved he believed the matter dangerous, more important than even severed immortality—counting carefully, it could only mean his life.

Moreover, his heart wasn’t wicked.

If he spoke out, how would the listener handle it? Wouldn’t he be dragged unwillingly aboard the same ship?

So Yang Mu let others watch.

His meaning was simple: If you can help, all the better. If not, just pretend you saw nothing.

Lin Ze knew he lacked the authority, and besides, he’d only met the youth once—there was no reason to intervene.

Yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave either.

After all, whether he watched for three days or three years, it cost the same effort—so he might as well stay.

He wanted to see what fate awaited Zhao Jing, the master of Huayang Peak.