Chapter 10

The maid, Xiao Yu'er, asked timidly, "Master, is this a new rule?"

Where did this nonsense come from? Just because Young Master Yan had too much time on his hands, he invented a whole pile of rules from thin air—things like clothes and shoes needing to match in color, the exact time to comb his hair, how many times the study desk should be cleaned per day, and that he must drink some fancy tonic tea first thing every morning before saying a single word.

He came up with all of that himself. And the worst part? He'd probably forget them if he ever changed his mind. Even an emperor wouldn't have this many hang-ups.

Young Master Yan's expression hadn't fully recovered when, with barely a twitch of his upper lip, he announced yet another new rule: "From now on, when I'm practicing swordsmanship, I won't be calling for anyone—and no one is allowed to stand around and gawk."

Unfortunately, Cheng Qian overheard this and was taken aback. He hadn't expected that this frivolous senior brother actually knew what "Xianyan" (immortal grace) meant.

Master Mu Chun, who had been leading Cheng Qian, gave a loud, dry cough beside him and called out, "Disciple."

As Yan Zhengming turned around, his gaze landed directly on Cheng Qian. The child didn't meet his eyes, pretending to be shy and naive, head bowed, quietly following behind the master like a proper little recluse.

...But that "shyness" was full of sarcasm, mocking the strange culture of this sect where appearances reigned supreme.

Mu Chun pointed at Cheng Qian and said, "Your second junior brother can't manage on his own—spare some time to guide your third junior brother."

More like Li Yun was about to be driven insane trying to babysit Han Yuan, who was currently one roof-tilt away from demolishing the whole residence.

Yan Zhengming's own sword forms were still full of gaps; he had neither the understanding nor the patience to teach anyone else. At Master's words, he frowned openly and couldn't hold back his irritation, which flared toward his master without filter.

Not that he was alone—Cheng Qian was even more resentful.

He simply couldn't understand: why wouldn't the master personally teach him? What could this big brother possibly offer as instruction?

Teach him how to make his nose look taller in a mirror?

Still, Yan Zhengming didn't dare refute his master in front of the younger disciples. He swallowed down his retort, forced patience into his tone, and instead said, "Master, I think there's something wrong with my Backfiring Maneuver."

Mu Chun raised his eyebrows pleasantly. "Oh? What's wrong with it?"

Everything was wrong. His whole body felt off. Practicing this stance felt like rowing a boat upstream—it was exhausting and ineffective.

But though the discomfort was clear in his heart, he had no words to describe the strange and elusive feeling. Countless thoughts jumbled under his tongue, yet he couldn't organize a single one. In the end, possessed by some spirit of chaos, he blurted out, "It doesn't look very... graceful."

Cheng Qian, watching from the sidelines, silently confirmed once again: this senior brother was nothing but a golden, ornamental straw dummy.

Master Mu Chun smiled and brushed it off with the usual vague wisdom. "Haste makes waste. Just wait a little longer before moving on to the next form."

This was classic Mu Chun. No matter what you asked him, he'd never give a straight answer. Everything had to be cryptic and roundabout, like wrapping soup in a handkerchief and asking you to drink it.

Yan Zhengming had long grown used to this, but still couldn't stop himself from whining, "How much longer?"

Master Mu Chun replied with warmth and sincerity: "Wait until you grow a few inches taller."

Yan Zhengming: "..."

Even a person as lazy as him had moments each month when he wanted to strangle his master and run away to join the demonic path.

After that, Mu Chun ceremoniously tossed Cheng Qian at this "treasured disciple" and wandered off to drink tea in his pavilion.

The Fuyao Sect still followed the ancient motto: A master leads the way; cultivation is up to the disciple.

Their master, meanwhile, never actually demonstrated any practical ability. He was a professional at creating frameworks and forms, leaving the actual content entirely up to the kids.

Yan Zhengming glanced blankly at his third junior brother, whose little face was full of solemn seriousness. He really didn't know what to say to this tiny, tightly wound creature. In a huff, he flopped onto a stone seat.

A young Daoist servant came forward and carefully accepted his wooden sword with both hands, polishing it with delicate strokes of white silk.

Frankly, that Daoist boy had never washed his own face with such devotion.

Then suddenly, Young Master Yan, already lounging in full dramatic posture, sprang up like a corpse being jolted to life.

His brows furrowed. He shot a cold glare at Xiao Yu'er, saying nothing, but his silence alone was enough to make her face go pale.

The poor girl was on the verge of tears under the pressure of that one disapproving look.

In the end, Xueqing—who had been waiting nearby with Cheng Qian—couldn't stand it anymore and softly said, "The stone's cold."

That's when Xiao Yu'er remembered—she'd actually let her young master sit directly on the stone bench. He'd gotten cold! A sin worthy of death!

She immediately rushed forward in tears and placed three thick cushions beneath him with the speed of a lightning strike.

Only then did Yan Zhengming deign to sit again, still glaring unhappily. He tilted his chin lazily at Cheng Qian. "You practice. I'll watch. If you don't understand something, just ask me."

Cheng Qian completely ignored him, treating this senior brother as nothing more than a noisy patch of smog, obstructing his line of sight and hearing.

He had grown up crawling in trees to eavesdrop. Back then, there were no books or mentors—only his ears and the ability to remember what he heard. He'd survived by learning techniques that way.

Master's teaching was subtle and gentle. As Cheng Qian recalled it, the memory of Mu Chun's movements lined up in his mind.

Bit by bit, he cautiously mimicked the master's seemingly feeble movements, constantly comparing them to the image in his head so he could correct himself before that "dog" behind him could bark a single pointer.

This level of mimicry would put actual monkeys to shame.

Yan Zhengming had only been half-paying attention at first. But as time passed, he gradually became transfixed—this kid wasn't just copying Mu Chun's poses. He was actually breaking down and practicing each form individually, as if dissecting the sword style on his own.

He repeated the deconstructed movements several times, slow and thoughtful. Then, suddenly, his gaze sharpened.

In that instant, Yan Zhengming paused, hand halfway to his tea bowl.

The energy hidden in Cheng Qian's sword—it felt incredibly familiar. This brat was mimicking Li Yun!

Of course, Cheng Qian was still young, his strength undeveloped, and his form far from Li Yun's sharp, desperate vitality. But the moment that spirit seeped into his technique, the wooden sword in his hand transformed. It was like a flat sheet of paper slowly puffing into shape—it began to take on dimension.

Still rough and indistinct, sure. He wasn't even sure if the basic form was entirely correct. But something was happening.

Yan Zhengming felt it too. In that moment, for the first time, he glimpsed the Sword Intent behind the Fuyao wooden sword.

Sword Intent isn't some peach dangling from a tree, or a fish waiting in the water. Without decades of hardship and the unity of man and sword, you'll never grasp it.

Of course, Cheng Qian wasn't anywhere close to that. If he could just hold the sword without breaking his own foot, it was already an accomplishment.

But the form "Soaring Ten Thousand Miles" resonated perfectly with a beginner's mindset—the awe, the wonder, the wild fantasy of stepping into the world of immortals.

Yan Zhengming remembered what it felt like to first read those mantras in the mountains: fresh, curious, bursting with dreams.

Maybe it wasn't true Sword Intent. But that wooden sword, swinging with such youthful honesty, perfectly matched the boy's state of heart.

The sword style guided the swordsman. That was the secret.

And in that moment, Yan Zhengming understood why his own practice had stalled.

The sword forms hadn't failed him—he had failed to understand them.

How could he grasp "searching from top to bottom" if he didn't even know what it meant to search? How could "backfire" make sense when he'd never even experienced that kind of struggle?

The wooden sword could no longer guide him.