Chapter Twenty-Four: Master or Mistress

Early morning.

After being scolded by Zhao Jing the previous day, Yang Mu stared at the winding path down the mountain for a long time, then finally dismissed the thought of returning to the classroom.

He steadied his breath, fists curled like tiger’s claws.

Since he could not cultivate, he might as well train his body.

Lin Ze had thought he would simply watch the boy spend his three years like this, until that afternoon, when the boy quietly began to pack his belongings.

“Hm?”

The youth went to the mountainside, retrieving a slowly gathered bag of paper slips. Many were already blurred with time, some even rotted away.

He carefully placed them in his bundle, then sat quietly in his room, eyes closed in silent repose.

“So he’s planning to leave?” Lin Ze gave a wry smile.

It seemed this boy held little affection for the East Peak Sect, having resolved to slip away unnoticed.

But with a character card of fifty-six points and an elder cultivator in the family, he would never fare too poorly wherever he went—certainly better than staying here to be bullied.

When the moon hung high overhead, a figure darted from the courtyard, running toward the back of Huayang Peak, where a small path wound its way, avoiding the eyes of other disciples.

Yang Mu moved with agility, glancing over his shoulder.

Only once he’d climbed the cliff did he finally breathe easy; had Zhao Jing discovered him, he would never have gotten this far.

To his left yawned a bottomless precipice. On the right, parting the brambles revealed a narrow trail—this way, he could leave Huayang Peak and depart East Peak Sect near the southern hall’s immortal gate.

Now, he only needed to think of a way to distract the gatekeeper.

He pondered this, a faint smile finally curling his lips.

Almost at that moment, a violent, icy wind erupted from the left, as harsh as the depths of winter. Yang Mu had no time to react; in an instant, he was frozen stiff, his body teetering as he toppled toward the abyss below.

…

Lin Ze crouched at the cliff’s edge and peered downward, silently counting out a quarter of an hour. When no notification arrived that the simulation had ended, he switched to first-person view.

He opened his eyes.

Before him was a pale, delicate face, so beautiful it dazzled the senses.

A trace of puzzlement lingered in her long, narrow eyes.

Yang Mu lay on the ground, instinctively trying to retreat, but pain flared through him like tearing flesh. He saw a thin layer of frost covering his skin—he looked as if he’d just been dragged from a frozen tomb.

He quickly looked around.

He was in a dim cave, sparsely furnished: a stone table, a few stone stools, and in a corner, an ice-blue jade bed, bare of bedding or even a pillow.

While he shared Yang Mu’s viewpoint, Lin Ze’s attention was fixed upon the woman before him.

She was in the bloom of youth, with skin as fine as porcelain.

Her jet-black hair fell to her waist, tied simply with a white silk ribbon. Her features seemed painted, her eyes as deep as a cold spring.

She wore a robe of purest white, unsullied by a speck of dust, like a celestial untouched by the mortal world.

“Call me Master.” Her lips parted, her voice as clear and melodious as a mountain brook.

“What?” Yang Mu stared at her in astonishment.

“I saved your life. Naturally, I am now your master.” The woman’s wide sleeves drifted as she spoke.

“You’re insane,” the youth spat, struggling with all his might, his first words a curse.

Lin Ze fell silent for a moment, sorely tempted to slap him.

He had felt this kind of aura only twice before: from the black cloud demon king of Xiao family village, and from Qin Hongxiu atop Little Green Mountain, wielding her greatsword.

In fact, this woman’s presence was even more terrifying.

At the very least, she was a Golden Core true immortal!

That was worth far more than the pile of tattered paper slips in his luggage.

A mere qi-refining novice had no say before such a powerful being, and even if he declared himself Zhao Jing’s personal disciple from Huayang Peak, the woman paid him no heed.

“East Peak Sect holds no sway over my Twin Moon Cavern.”

“Your breathing technique is flawed. Even if you hadn’t fallen from the cliff, you wouldn’t have survived another ten years.”

At these words, Yang Mu was struck dumb.

…

Three years passed in the blink of an eye.

Lin Ze quietly watched Yang Mu grow from boy to young man, his features losing much of their youthful softness.

Though the cave seemed shallow, it contained hidden depths.

There was not only a bedroom for him, but a special training chamber as well. The woman who called herself the Moon Immortal casually destroyed Yang Mu’s old foundation, then imparted to him the “Innate Technique” to rebuild his meridians.

Soon, the aura of a foundation-establishment cultivator slowly filled the cavern.

[Simulation ended]

[Reward calculation: insufficient trust]

At the foot of Green Mountain.

The Daoist slowly opened his eyes.

Yang Mu’s face was taut with anxiety. “May I begin the breathing technique now, Elder?”

Lin Ze regarded him for a long moment, offering no answer.

The boy’s heart plummeted to ice; he quietly withdrew his hand, a trace of bitterness at his lips.

“Elder Lin, have you changed your mind?” the young disciple asked suspiciously. If so, why had he bothered at all just now?

The tall companion turned, pulling Wang Yao with him, intending to leave.

As expected—a fraud.

He couldn’t even properly explain the most basic East Peak breathing technique; what else could anyone expect of him?

“Thank you for your trouble, Elder,” Yang Mu said, standing with a complex expression.

He had no idea what method Elder Lin had used, but just from that glance, he knew the man had seen something.

That the Daoist said nothing meant he did not wish to interfere.

No longer inclined to play the part of a rabid dog snapping at everyone, he turned quietly, only wishing to return and sleep.

“Stop practicing the breathing technique,” Lin Ze suddenly said. He had used the flawed East Peak breathing technique as source material during his simulation, but Yang Mu had never actually practiced it, proving the boy already knew it was problematic.

His reason for speaking was simply to increase trust.

As expected...

Yang Mu glanced back with a wry smile and bowed sincerely. “Thank you.”

For the elder to say this much proved he was, at heart, a good man.

“Tiger Claw Fist is a fine martial art—best practiced at midnight,” Lin Ze said, sipping his tea.

“In two days, at the hour of the ox, behind Huayang Peak’s cliff.”

“There may be progress.”

At this, Yang Mu’s expression shifted slightly.

Even his two days of recent practice had not escaped the man’s notice; furthermore, he’d called it ‘martial art’ and not ‘technique.’

He glanced at the Daoist, a flash of hope in his eyes.

“Thank you, Elder!”

Perhaps it wasn’t that the man didn’t care, but that he wished to find a better opportunity to discuss matters privately?

With this thought, he cupped his fists in gratitude and left.

“What nonsense is this?” the young disciple muttered, utterly confused. Weren’t they talking about the East Peak breathing technique? He’d understood not a word.

The only thing clear was that Junior Brother Yang seemed quite happy.

But...

These cryptic exchanges proved nothing; the puzzled faces of the watching disciples made it plain that their opinion of Elder Lin had not changed on Yang Mu’s account.

“Tch.”

The young disciple prepared to leave as well, glancing disdainfully at the other two. “Get lost, both of you.”

The tall companion quickly managed an apologetic grin.

Just as everyone thought this farce was over, the disciple who had kept his head down suddenly looked up.

Wang Yao stared at him, bewildered. “Senior Brother, why should we leave?”

He could not understand.

The deacon was paid by the sect to teach and resolve problems for outer disciples; why should he not be allowed to ask questions?

He could not understand.

Little Green Mountain held public lectures; as a disciple, he attended—why was he scolded, again and again?

They all sought the immortal path.

Why, just because his parents sold pancakes, should he be looked down on as inferior?

Remembering Yang Mu’s earlier look of wounded anger, Wang Yao straightened his back and asked his question loudly.

“Why should we leave!”