Ci Hua Chapter 71

Li Zhameng stepped into the loge seats, his arms cradling his Shizun, with careful reverence. The sharp smell of herbal salves and the muted cheers of the crowd below filled the air. Xue Laohu's face burned crimson, not from injury but sheer embarrassment. As soon as they entered, he wriggled out of Li Zhameng's arms, his movements stiff and hurried, as if eager to regain his dignity.

Clearing his throat, Xue Laohu straightened his robes and avoided meeting Li Zhameng's gaze. "You should head to the medical ward and have your injuries examined," he said, his tone firm but laced with a touch of awkwardness. His hands fidgeted with the sash around his waist, betraying his nervousness.

Li Zhameng lowered his head slightly, cupping his hands respectfully as he replied, "It is as Shizun says." But as he turned to leave, he couldn't resist a final glance. Xue Laohu's face still held the faintest hue of pink, a soft contrast to his usual composed demeanor. A small, knowing smile tugged at Li Zhameng's lips as he exited, the memory of his Shizun's rare vulnerability lingering like a pleasant echo in his chest.

The atmosphere shifted as Elder Zhiwu entered the loge. His presence was commanding, cutting through the light tension like a blade. His sharp eyes, dark as storm clouds, swept over Xue Laohu and Elder Yanse with thinly veiled disdain. The lines etched deep into his weathered face, paired with a jagged scar that crossed his brow, gave him a hardened, battle-worn appearance. His jet-black hair, pulled taut into a high ponytail, only emphasized the severity of his demeanor.

Elder Zhiwu wore a modest violet robe, the fabric plain but immaculate, reflecting his disciplined nature. The stark simplicity of his attire stood in sharp contrast to the vibrant red of his disciple Ci Hua, whose flamboyant robe seemed to shout rebellion against his master's austerity. As he strode toward his seat, his movements were calculated and deliberate, carrying an air of authority that brooked no defiance.

Xue Laohu felt the weight of Elder Zhiwu's intense gaze settle on him, and for a moment, he clenched his jaw, as if bracing for a mocking comment. Elder Yanse, seated nearby, sipped tea with a faint smirk playing at the edges of her lips, seemingly amused by the tension.

The hum of the arena below grew louder as the announcer's voice boomed, signaling the next match. "The following battle pits Xue Tuzi against none other than Elder Zhiwu's esteemed disciple, Ci Hua!"

When Ci Hua first entered the sect, it was as if a storm had arrived. A prodigy like him, with natural talent and an unshakable aura of confidence, stirred the elders into a frenzy. Many fought bitterly over the chance to mentor him, each extolling their virtues and the benefits they could offer. All except Xue Laohu. The Grandmaster hadn't even spared a glance in Ci Hua's direction, let alone entertained the thought of taking him under his wing. For Ci Hua, it was a stinging blow.

At the time, Ci Hua had secretly hoped that his unmatched cultivation abilities and raw potential would earn him Xue Laohu's favor. Surely someone of his caliber could not ignore a talent like his. He had even scaled Mount Dingbu, the summit often seen as a test of a disciple's resolve, in hopes of impressing the elusive Grandmaster. But when he reached the top, exhausted yet triumphant, Xue Laohu wasn't even there. He hadn't bothered to show up.

In the end, Ci Hua accepted Elder Zhiwu as his master. The man had promised to help him grow stronger, to refine his power and push him toward greatness. And while Elder Zhiwu was a capable mentor, the bitterness remained. The sting of rejection from Xue Laohu lingered like a wound that refused to heal. Why had the Grandmaster ignored him, the prodigy that every other elder had fought tooth and nail to claim?

Years passed, and that bitterness transformed into smoldering curiosity. Ci Hua learned, through whispered conversations among the sect's disciples, that Xue Laohu had finally taken not one, but two disciples under his wing. The news struck him like a bolt of lightning. Who were these exceptional young men who had managed to capture the attention of the Grandmaster? What kind of brilliance could they possess to sway the man who had dismissed him so easily?

Eager to meet them, Ci Hua's anticipation simmered as the introductions approached. When he finally laid eyes on Xue Laohu's first disciple, Li Zhameng, his excitement deflated in an instant. His lips curled into a frown of disappointment, and his sharp gaze raked over the man with disdain. This is it? he thought, suppressing a scoff. Li Zhameng, at twenty-five, was utterly unremarkable. He lacked cultivation, stumbled over the basics of martial arts, and couldn't wield a sword with even the slightest competence. He was, in Ci Hua's eyes, a bumbling fool—a man whose presence felt like an insult to the sect.

Is this some kind of joke? Ci Hua thought to himself, his bitterness swelling. What could Grandmaster Xue possibly see in someone so far below average?

But then his gaze shifted to the second disciple, Xue Tuzi, and his breath hitched. The bitterness was momentarily forgotten as his eyes drank in the sight before him. Xue Tuzi was captivating, a rare beauty whose presence seemed almost otherworldly. His chestnut hair fell in loose waves, cascading gracefully down to the curve of his hips, catching the light like polished silk. A playful breeze swept through, lifting stray strands to brush against his porcelain face. With a delicate motion, Xue Tuzi tucked the loose strands behind his ear, revealing a sensual mole resting at the corner of his full, rose-tinted lips. The simple gesture felt impossibly elegant, as if it had been crafted to entrance.

Xue Tuzi's appearance was mesmerizing, but it wasn't just his looks that drew attention. He carried himself with a regal grace, his every movement calculated and poised. His round, cold eyes held an enigmatic allure, giving him the appearance of a doll—fragile yet untouchable. But beneath that delicate exterior lay a natural talent that was impossible to ignore. Despite his lack of formal training, Xue Tuzi had taken to martial arts as if he had been born for it. His archery was near flawless, and he wielded a sword with effortless precision. His gifts were undeniable, and the ease with which he mastered new skills made him all the more desirable.

Ci Hua, like many disciples in the sect, had become utterly captivated by Xue Tuzi. The man was a vision of perfection, his ethereal beauty paired with his natural talent in cultivation drawing admirers like moths to a flame. Ci Hua had no shortage of admirers himself—he had entertained many prospects and shared fleeting moments with several dual-cultivation partners. Yet, none of them stirred his heart the way Xue Tuzi did. He yearned to claim Xue Tuzi as his own, envisioning a powerful union: his prodigious skills combined with Xue Tuzi's natural gifts would make them an unstoppable force. But alas, Xue Tuzi was as cold and unyielding as winter frost, his beauty matched only by the impenetrable ice around his heart.

During the infamous Assembly Line of Broken Hearts, where hopeful disciples lined up to confess their feelings to Xue Tuzi, Ci Hua saw his chance. He had spent days planning his confession, meticulously selecting a flower that he thought might sway the ice beauty's heart. But as he approached the courtyard, his Shizun, Elder Zhiwu, intercepted him.

"If you go," Elder Zhiwu said, his voice sharp with disdain as he strode forward, "you will only get rejected." His lips curled into a scoff as his eyes flicked toward the line of disciples, each clutching gifts, flowers, or love letters. "Pathetic," he muttered under his breath. "Watch closely, Ci Hua. This will end in heartbreak for every single one of them."

Ci Hua hesitated, the delicate flower trembling in his hand. He watched as one disciple after another emerged from the courtyard, their faces pale, their expressions hollow. They left with their hearts shattered, clutching the remnants of their failed confessions. His grip on the flower tightened, crumpling the petals. Yet, even as doubt crept into his heart, his jealousy flared when he saw one of his martial brothers smugly approach Xue Tuzi with a bouquet of flowers freshly plucked from their Shizun's private garden. The sight was unbearable. How dare he? Ci Hua thought, his stomach churning with a mix of anger and disgust.

The disciple, clearly nervous but determined, stepped forward. "Xue Shidi," he stammered, his voice trembling as he neared the ice beauty. His legs wobbled as if he were approaching a king on a throne. "May I… may I have a word with you?"

Xue Tuzi, who had been idly brushing a strand of hair away from his face, barely glanced at him. His round, doll-like eyes rolled in clear exasperation. "Hm," he hummed curtly, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. His cold gaze pierced the disciple like a dagger.

Summoning his courage, the disciple thrust the bouquet forward, his face turning red as he blurted out, "I… I am in love with you! Please, marry me!"

For a moment, silence hung in the air. Then, Xue Tuzi's gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing into something ferocious. Without so much as glancing at the bouquet, he replied icily, "No, thanks."

The disciple's face fell, and his voice cracked with frustration as he pressed, "Why?" There was a desperate edge to his tone, his hands trembling as he clutched the bouquet tighter.

Xue Tuzi's eyes darted over him, his cold, unrelenting stare suffocating. "Must I give you a reason?" he asked, his voice soft but cutting, laced with disdain. His aura grew heavier, menacing, like the calm before a storm.

The disciple faltered under his gaze, his mouth opening and closing uselessly. All he could manage was a pitiful "Ehh…"

Xue Tuzi's lips curved into a faint, chilling smile. "I am simply not interested," he said, his voice dripping with finality. The sweetness of his doll-like face was gone, replaced by a feral intensity that made the disciple's knees buckle. His mood was oppressive, suffused with an unspoken threat. If his eyes could kill, the poor man would have been dead on the spot.

Panicked, the disciple scrambled backward, tossing the bouquet to the side as he fled the courtyard, his cries echoing in the distance. Xue Tuzi frowned, his expression tinged with annoyance. His gaze shifted to the long line of disciples waiting outside his Shizun's courtyard, each clutching their own offerings of love and hope. He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Ugh," he groaned, exasperated. "Who are these people? And what do they want?" He flipped his chestnut hair over his shoulder, his delicate fingers brushing the strands into place as he took in the pitiful sight before him. Another disciple cautiously stepped forward, his hands trembling as he held a trinket meant for Xue Tuzi.

The ice beauty's patience finally snapped. His fist clenched tightly at his side as he declared, "If any of you dare ask me for my hand in marriage, the answer is no. Always no." His voice rang out with authority, cold and unyielding.

With a sharp "Hmph," Xue Tuzi turned on his heel, his blue robes billowing behind him as he stormed away from the courtyard. The sound of breaking hearts followed him like a mournful chorus, echoing through the sect.

Elder Zhiwu's firm hand rested on Ci Hua's shoulder, the weight of it heavy and deliberate, grounding his disciple in the wake of his possible humiliation. His voice, calm yet cutting, broke the tense silence. "A wild flower like him must be subdued."

Ci Hua looked up at his Shizun, his eyes burning red, not with sadness, but with a simmering rage. His fingers twitched at his side, still clutching the wilted remains of the flower he had once hoped to offer Xue Tuzi. "How, Shizun?" he asked, his voice low, barely steady as his anger bubbled just below the surface. "How do I do that? How do I make him mine?"

Elder Zhiwu's gaze turned toward the courtyard. The remnants of Xue Tuzi's suitors lingered there like shadows, their sobs echoing softly as they leaned against pillars or slumped in defeat. Xue Tuzi himself was long gone, leaving behind nothing but devastation in his wake. Elder Zhiwu's lips curved slightly, a faint sneer flickering across his stern face. He looked back at Ci Hua, his sharp eyes narrowing as if weighing the boy's resolve.

"You must break his thorns," Elder Zhiwu said coldly, his voice devoid of pity. "Only then will you have his attention. Only then will he belong to you."

Ci Hua's grip on the flower tightened, crushing the last of its fragile petals. "Please, Shizun," he said, his voice hoarse yet laced with determination. "Show me how."

Elder Zhiwu's gaze returned to the courtyard, his expression hard and calculating. Xue Laohu, he thought with distaste, had somehow secured not only a naturally gifted disciple but one of such breathtaking beauty that even the most disciplined hearts faltered in his presence. If Ci Hua could subdue Xue Tuzi, bend him to his will, his disciple's cultivation would flourish. There was potential—no, certainty—that Xue Tuzi could be reduced to nothing more than a furnace, existing solely to fuel Ci Hua's rise to the pinnacle of Sect Mount Dingbu.

"Hmmm," Elder Zhiwu mused, clasping his hands behind his back. He turned slowly, his violet robes billowing with the motion. "Very well," he said finally, his tone laced with a quiet menace. Without another word, he began the steady walk back to his courtyard, Ci Hua trailing closely behind, his face set with a new determination.

The arena buzzed with tension as Elder Zhiwu leaned against the railing, his sharp eyes fixed on the stage below. Ci Hua ascended the steps, his posture straight, exuding an air of confidence, while Xue Tuzi moved with his usual elegance, his beauty commanding the attention of the crowd as he glided forward.

Ci Hua radiated energy, his red robes flaring dramatically as he raised a single flower bringing it to his nose. Opposite to him, Xue Tuzi was clad in muted blues, stood with an easy confidence, his hair balanced loosely to his waist.

Elder Zhiwu sneered, his lip curling as he took his seat. The gesture wasn't lost on Xue Laohu, who sat a short distance away. Xue Laohu's eyebrows twitched, irritation sparking across his face like fire catching kindling. "Hey!" he barked, pointing his fan directly at Elder Zhiwu. "If you've got something to say, then say it!"

Elder Zhiwu didn't so much as glance his way, his composure unshaken. His silence was a deliberate affront, only further stoking Xue Laohu's ire.

He thinks his disciple is stronger than mine? Yi Ming thought, a vein visibly pulsing at his temple. Tch. Tough luck. A-Tuzi has main character energy—no one is defeating him.

Xue Laohu rose to his feet, snapping his fan open with a sharp flick of his wrist. Turning toward the crowd, he waved it grandly as if addressing a royal court. "Kick his ass, A-Tuzi!" he shouted, his voice carrying across the arena like a declaration of war.

A gust of wind swept over the stage, brushing loose strands of chestnut hair across Xue Tuzi's face. With an elegant motion, Xue Tuzi gathered the wayward strands and tucked them behind his ear. He glanced up at his Shizun in the stands, his cold, indifferent gaze softening ever so slightly. For a brief moment, his icy demeanor melted, revealing a flicker of fondness.

Elder Yanse, seated nearby, caught the display and turned her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as suspicion crept over her features. Xue Laohu's behavior was nothing like the stern, composed grandmaster she had once known. His antics—the barking, the fan-waving, the blatant favoritism—were entirely uncharacteristic.

This cannot be Grandmaster Xue, she thought, her sharp gaze cutting toward him. Something is wrong. He must be an imposter.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of her seat as she leaned back, her mind racing. As the arena prepared for the match between Ci Hua and Xue Tuzi, Elder Yanse kept her eyes fixed on Xue Laohu, determined to uncover the truth.