A Relationship?

Zhuan Ming sat in the classroom, his posture relaxed but his mind sharp as he listened to the instructor drone on about the sect's history. The lesson was familiar—grand stories of the sect's founding, its legendary leaders, and its countless achievements. The instructor spoke with passion, painting the sect as a pillar of righteousness and strength, a haven where cultivators could grow and thrive. The other disciples listened intently, their eyes wide with admiration, absorbing every word as if it were sacred truth. But Zhuan Ming knew better. He had seen the cracks beneath the polished surface, the lies woven into these tales.

The sect's history, as taught in these lessons, was a carefully crafted narrative designed to inspire loyalty. It portrayed the founding elders as paragons of virtue, their decisions guided by wisdom and justice. It conveniently ignored the bloodshed and betrayals that had likely paved their way to power. It praised the sect's role in protecting the weak and maintaining order but left out the times it had crushed dissent and exploited those it claimed to serve.

A faint smirk tugged at Zhuan Ming's lips. These lessons weren't just about history—they were about control. They shaped young minds, molding them into obedient disciples who would never question the sect's authority. The teachings stressed unity, urging disciples to put the sect's needs above their own. They spoke of the "greater good," a vague idea that could justify almost anything. They claimed the sect was a family, a safe haven in a chaotic world, and that loyalty to it was the highest virtue.

But Zhuan Ming saw through the illusion. These lessons weren't just meant to inspire pride—they were meant to create dependence. By convincing disciples that the sect was their only protector, the elders ensured their unwavering loyalty. By glorifying the sect's accomplishments, they fostered gratitude and indebtedness. And by painting the outside world as dangerous and unpredictable, they made the sect seem like the only place where one could truly belong.

The teachings also reinforced the sect's strict hierarchy. They portrayed the elders as wise and just, their authority earned through years of sacrifice. They emphasized the importance of respecting one's superiors, trusting their judgment even when it seemed unfair. By presenting the sect's leaders as infallible, they made sure no one dared to challenge the system.

Zhuan Ming's smirk deepened as he glanced around the room. The other disciples were captivated, their faces filled with admiration. They saw the sect as a beacon of hope and opportunity. But Zhuan Ming saw it for what it was: a tool built to erase individuality, to turn its members into obedient soldiers who would fight and die for its cause.

Yet, despite his cynicism, he couldn't deny that the sect's methods were effective. These teachings weren't just about control—they were about survival. In a brutal and unforgiving world, a strong sect was often the only thing standing between order and chaos. The stories of heroism and sacrifice, no matter how exaggerated, gave disciples something to believe in—a purpose. They taught them to put the sect above all else, to see its survival as their own.

But Zhuan Ming had no illusions. He knew these teachings were a double-edged sword. They could inspire greatness, but they could also stifle it. They could create loyal followers, but they could also create blind obedience. And in a world where power ruled, blind loyalty was a weakness.

As the lesson dragged on, Zhuan Ming's thoughts wandered. He thought of the countless disciples who had sat in this very room before him, who had listened to the same lessons and accepted them without question. He thought of those who had died for the sect, sacrificing their lives in the name of the "greater good." And he thought of those who had thrived—who had climbed the ranks by playing along, following the rules, and staying in line.

But most of all, he thought of himself. He wasn't like the others. He wouldn't let the sect's teachings shape him. He would take what he needed, use its resources to grow stronger, but he would never be its pawn. He had his own path to follow, his own goals to achieve. And if that meant bending the rules—or breaking them—so be it.

The lesson ended, and the disciples began to file out of the classroom. Zhuan Ming stood up, heading toward the lunchroom, his mind already planning his next move. The sect's lessons might shape the minds of the masses, but they wouldn't shape his. He wasn't a sheep, content to follow blindly. He was a wolf—cunning, ruthless, always watching, always waiting for the right moment to strike. The sect could build its walls of loyalty and tradition, but if those walls stood in his way, he would tear them down brick by brick.

Zhuan Ming walked into the lunchroom, his sharp eyes scanning for a quiet spot. He chose a meal rich in nutrients—his body was approaching its current cultivation limit, and strengthening it was his priority. That was one reason he was helping Li Qingyue. Her unique physique made her the perfect material for body-strengthening techniques. If he reached Rank 3, he could merge with her, though the process was complex and required careful preparation. For now, he needed to stabilize her condition and keep her alive.

He took his tray and sat down at an empty table, hoping to avoid distractions. But his solitude was short-lived. Moments later, Li Qingyue sat across from him, her tray in hand. She looked at him with quiet curiosity, her frost-like eyes flickering with unspoken questions.

Zhuan Ming glanced up at her, his expression calm but his tone mildly annoyed. "You know, if you wanted to talk, we could've done it later when no one's around," he said.

Li Qingyue blinked, caught off guard by his bluntness. "I… I just thought we could talk now," she replied softly.

Zhuan Ming sighed and leaned back. "Fine. But since you're here, we might as well make it official. From today on, I'll be your boyfriend."

He said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Li Qingyue choked on her soup, nearly sending it out through her nose. Zhuan Ming burst into laughter, the sound deep and unrestrained.

"Ha ha ha! Is being with me that bad?" he teased, still chuckling. "Relax, nothing will change. But this way, I won't be a target for others. If we're just friends, I'm competition. But if I've already 'won,' there's nothing for them to fight over."

Li Qingyue's face turned bright red as she wiped her mouth. "You… you can't just say something like that out of nowhere!"

Zhuan Ming shrugged. "Why not? It's practical. Besides, you don't seem to mind."

Before Li Qingyue could respond, a bubbly voice interrupted them. "Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

They both looked up to see Mei Ling, Li Qingyue's closest friend, grinning as she plopped down beside her. She eyed them with curiosity.

"Mind if I join?" Mei Ling asked, already sliding into a seat before anyone could answer.

Li Qingyue groaned internally. There was no escaping now.

"So," Mei Ling said, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Since when are you two a thing?"

Li Qingyue hesitated. "It's… new."

Mei Ling smirked. "New, huh? No wonder you've been avoiding me! You've been busy with lover boy here." She turned to Zhuan Ming, giving him a once-over. "Hmm, not bad. But you better treat her right, or you'll have me to deal with."

Zhuan Ming raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Don't worry," he said dryly. "I'll take good care of her."

As the conversation continued, Mei Ling playfully grilled Zhuan Ming while Li Qingyue tried to keep up. Despite her initial embarrassment, she found herself enjoying the banter. It almost made things feel… normal.

As the meal ended, Li Qingyue looked up at Zhuan Ming. "So, today at your place again?"

Zhuan Ming nodded. "Yeah, we've got things to discuss."

Mei Ling's grin widened. "Oh? Things to discuss, huh? Sounds… interesting."

Li Qingyue's face flushed again. "It's not like that!"

"Sure, sure," Mei Ling said, winking.

"Zhuan Ming walked away, his expression cold and unreadable.