Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Deep Bond Between Master and Disciple

Huayang Peak.

A group of mountain patrol disciples stood, faces flushed with embarrassment as they endured a harsh reprimand. It was said that last night, someone from another peak had managed to sneak into the sect’s gate; had Steward Zhao Jing not chanced upon the intruder, fought them fiercely, and driven them off, who knows what trouble might have ensued.

“All right, get out—every last one of you,” the young steward barked, his mouth dry from scolding them, shooting them a fierce glare. “If this happens again, don’t blame me for taking away your Dao swords and sending you to sweep the South Hall!”

The disciples hurriedly bowed their heads in apology, shuffling out of the courtyard in disgruntled silence. Only when they had gone some distance did they start murmuring among themselves.

“What rotten luck! Any cultivator capable of going head-to-head with Steward Zhao is far beyond anything we could ever stop.”

“Going head-to-head?” another scoffed, drawing curious looks. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Zhao Zhenren was the one who ended up fleeing, you know. In all my years on this mountain, I’ve never seen him in such a sorry state. Now he’s just venting his frustration on us!”

His words left the others uneasy and doubtful. “What nonsense. Only the Core Formation elders could best Steward Zhao in a duel, and why would any of them sneak onto Huayang Peak in the dead of night, risking their reputation for no reason?”

The first disciple glanced around, making sure no one else was listening before he murmured, “Who said it was a cultivator from Dongyue Sect? Think about it—over fifty disciples sealed off every path down the mountain in just the time it takes a stick of incense to burn, and yet that person managed to slip away from Huayang Peak without a sound unless they were riding the clouds. What else could explain it?”

He crouched down, spitting quietly. “My master told me—Yang Mu has disappeared.”

The rest of the patrol disciples exchanged glances. Anyone connected to Yang Mu among the Core Formation cultivators could only mean his uncle.

Back when the boy was brought up the mountain, many of them had seen the man themselves—imposing and extraordinary, with the fierce aura of one who had long guarded the borders against demons. A true demon-slaying cultivator, worthy of the title.

Such a person would not have stormed Huayang Peak and forcibly taken Yang Mu away—let alone strike at Zhao Jing—unless driven to the utmost rage.

But what could have incited his wrath?

“Do you remember seven years ago, when Junior Brother Yang condensed his Qi Sea in just a single month?” The disciple who spoke earlier walked away with an air of mystery, leaving the others standing in uncertainty.

Though he hadn’t said it outright, the implication was clear—he was blaming Steward Zhao for failing as a teacher, perhaps even hinting at a breach of conduct.

Utter nonsense!

The elders of Huayang Peak had always been upright and aboveboard; they would never stoop to such disgraceful acts. To spread such rumors would be a disgrace to their ancestral teachers.

“To slander one’s elders is a crime of the heart!” an impulsive disciple already had his hand on his sword.

“Let it go—he’s always been one for wild stories. He’s just resentful after being scolded. Take it as a joke and leave it be. Besides, the affair is indeed rather strange,” a milder disciple interjected with a soothing smile, holding him back.

Just then, a tall figure approached from the mountain, carrying two gourds in hand, his brow furrowed as he looked over the group. “What are you all doing gathered here?”

“Senior Brother Jinian.”

At his words, the disciples quickly bowed in greeting.

“Disperse—this is hardly appropriate.” Zhao Jinian arched an eyebrow and strolled down the mountain at an unhurried pace. Of course, he had heard the rumors of the previous night, but he paid them little mind. There were more pressing matters at hand than idle chatter.

Once he was out of sight, furtive whispers broke out anew.

“Tsk, with that tone, you’d think he was already a steward.”

“Don’t be jealous. Zhao Jinian managed to form his Dao Foundation in less than twenty years since joining the sect. That’s no small feat.”

“I don’t see what’s so special, but he does have a knack for currying favor. Switched masters three times in ten years—who else could pull that off? Even sweet-talked Zhenren Li into trading several years’ savings for a Foundation Establishment Pill for him…”

“Enough!” An older disciple shot him a stern look, and the others dispersed sheepishly.

…

…

Zhao Jinian made his way unhurriedly toward Little Green Mountain, thoroughly enjoying the envious glances cast his way.

He was unlike the other disciples—he hadn’t entered the Dongyue Immortal Sect as a mere mortal. Long before, he had built a solid foundation in cultivation under the guidance of the old man.

By the age of ten, he had already begun practicing Dongyue’s breathing arts.

But such things, Zhao Jinian would never reveal to others—otherwise, his reputation as a prodigy might lose some of its luster.

The gourds in his hand were filled with fine immortal wine, costing him half a spirit stone—a considerable expense.

“Old man, don’t let me down.” He chuckled softly. After waiting so many days, he had finally caught his master, Zhenren Li Lin, away on business, and seized the chance to visit the old man on Little Green Mountain.

It was said the old fellow was busy solving disciples’ doubts—some foolish business, no doubt.

Ah, after all these years, he still hadn’t shaken off the habit of playing the teacher.

With a sigh, Zhao Jinian shook his head.

What future lay in pinning hopes on ordinary disciples? On the arduous road of cultivation, some pursued technique, some cultivated the heart, but he honed the ways of the world.

As long as he maintained good relations with powerful cultivators, why worry about his progress stalling?

He recalled how, when he first joined the sect, he was all alone—friendless and forlorn. Had he not dutifully served tea and water for classroom stewards, showing filial respect like a true son, he would never have attracted the favor of the Huayang Peak steward and been taken in as a disciple to learn their techniques.

As for now, that steward, out of respect for Zhenren Li Lin, had to address him as “Junior Brother Zhao.”

“To hold connections with Core Formation cultivators and not know how to use them—better to let a disciple put them to use.” Zhao Jinian gazed at the outline of the green mountain ahead, a faint smile on his lips as he stepped onto the stone stairs.

Though he hadn’t seen Lin Ze in over ten years, he felt no anxiety whatsoever.

No one knew the old man’s temperament better than he did.

Some were tigers in the mountains—arrogant and fierce. Some were eagles in the sky—free and unrestrained. But Old Lin was a tireless mule, ready to be exploited by clever people like himself, until he was squeezed dry of every last drop of value.

Back in Xiao Family Village, all he had to do was whimper pitiably and call “Master,” and the old man would rush to give him the last morsel of meat from his bowl, even singing childish ditties to soothe him.

How grating that was.

A trace of mockery flashed through Zhao Jinian’s eyes.

Since the old man cared for him so dearly, it was only right to help his disciple connect with Qin Hongxiu and rise to prominence. It was perfectly natural.

He could already picture Lin Ze’s tearful face as he stroked his head in gratitude.

A master wishes to enlighten the sect; a disciple naturally comes to help. Even at the risk of earning the enmity of every peak, to stand by his side—what loyalty and devotion! The mere thought was enough to bring tears to the eyes.

His steps slowed as he looked up, quietly gazing at the end of the stone stairs, a faint, ambiguous smile at the corner of his lips.

Master, your disciple has come to see you.