Chapter 9: The Old Friend Still Remains

As the purple sword slid back into its scabbard, all its sharpness vanished in an instant, leaving no trace—much like its owner's current demeanor.

Though Gu Pinglin admired the sword, he had no intention of taking his rival's beloved weapon. He tossed it back.

Duan Qingming caught it with a glance but didn't place it under his leg again. Instead, he casually set it by the bedside. He got up, washed his face, then draped his outer robe over the wooden rack. Wearing only loose inner garments, he lay back on the bed, one arm pillowing his head, the other idly toying with the Gu Ying Sword, watching Gu Pinglin with amused interest.

Tomorrow, they could officially begin practicing the Lingxin Sect's techniques. The thought filled Gu Pinglin with quiet satisfaction.

The sound of the sword being drawn and sheathed repeatedly grated on the nerves.

Gu Pinglin acted as though he hadn't heard. He stood, extinguished the lamp, then returned to bed.

The noise stopped.

Pale moonlight filtered through the window lattice, casting faint light into the room. Gu Pinglin, dressed in dark robes, blended seamlessly into the shadows.

The man across from him was the opposite—his white garments stood out starkly, making even the slightest movement noticeable.

His sleeping posture seemed casual, yet it held no openings.

He appeared to be asleep, yet also poised to leap up at any moment—likely a habit ingrained from surviving in a powerful family after losing his mother at a young age.

In the darkness, Gu Pinglin averted his gaze.

"Gu Pinglin." Duan Qingming suddenly spoke.

"Hm?" Gu Pinglin's lashes lifted slightly.

"Do we have a grudge?"

A grudge? Gu Pinglin shook his head. If they were counting past grievances from their previous life, both had wronged each other—it was impossible to tally. "No."

"Then why seek me out?"

The question didn't surprise Gu Pinglin. No matter how brilliant Duan Qingming was, he couldn't possibly guess the truth. Until this obsession with their rivalry was resolved, Gu Pinglin would struggle to focus wholeheartedly on the Dao.

Instead of answering, Gu Pinglin countered, "Are you afraid?"

"Provoking me repeatedly—you should know the consequences." His voice, deep and measured, carried a threat beyond his years.

"Oh?" Gu Pinglin arched a brow. "What consequences?"

"Tsk, you never scare easily." Duan Qingming chuckled. "But besides being rivals, we could also be… affectionate senior and junior brothers."

Affectionate? Gu Pinglin scoffed inwardly.

Even if he could let go of his obsession, this cold-blooded monster sincerely playing the role of a devoted senior brother? That would be the real joke. In Duan Qingming's eyes, fellow disciples were expendable—playthings to discard once broken. Believing him was suicidal.

"Impossible," Gu Pinglin said.

"Oh? What a shame." The demon sighed with feigned regret.

Silence settled for the rest of the night.

At dawn, the spiritual rooster crowed.

Gu Pinglin, ever disciplined, rose with the first light. Today, all junior disciples were required to attend the Dao lecture. After tidying up swiftly, he left for breakfast.

Cultivators who had formed their inner core no longer needed ordinary food, subsisting on spiritual herbs, grains, and beast meat. The Lingxin Sect provided each junior disciple with fifteen Daneng Pills every half-month—one pill sufficed for a day's nourishment.

When Gu Pinglin returned with his pills, Duan Qingming was still asleep.

His handsome face was serene, lips faintly curved as if smiling, the picture of harmlessness. Not even a flutter disturbed his thick lashes.

His posture hadn't shifted; the folded quilt remained untouched beside him.

Genuine sleep—or a facade?

Gu Pinglin paused briefly before leaving him be and heading to the lecture alone.

To embark on the Dao, one must first comprehend it. The cultivation world typically achieved this through lectures, debates, and personal enlightenment—shedding mortal perspectives to grasp the Dao's essence and laws. A steadfast Dao heart greatly benefited cultivation.

Yue Songting lacked the time to lecture juniors himself. Chen Qian's temperament was ill-suited, and Chang Jinxin was inherently lazy. Thus, the task fell to Ren Ping, the fifth-ranked personal disciple.

The lecture was held at Luo Zhu Ting (Falling Pearl Pavilion), an open area where a slender waterfall cascaded down a seventy-foot cliff. Only fifteen feet wide, its flow was uniquely thin and intermittent—like countless pearls tumbling down, forming an exquisite crystalline curtain that swayed enchantingly in the breeze.

Amidst verdant pines and shrubs flanking the falls, a small pavilion perched atop an overhanging rock platform. There, cross-legged, sat Ren Ping, expounding the Dao to the disciples below.

Ren Ping had joined the sect late, his aptitude mediocre. Now in his fifties, with graying hair and drooping brows, his plain gray robe and unremarkable demeanor made him easily overlooked.

The real standout was the youth beside him.

Clad in fitted blue sleeves rather than standard robes, his azure headband securing jet-black hair, the young man cradled a water-blue sword. His jade-like face, arched brows, and tightly pressed vermilion lips exuded supreme arrogance, his starry eyes brimming with conceit—the very image of heaven's favored.

At the sight of him, Gu Pinglin's heart stirred.

Bu Shuhan.

Yue Songting's sixth personal disciple and currently the youngest among them. Despite his late entry, his exceptional talent had propelled him to Lianqi Realm's first rotation in just seven years—making him the sect's most promising disciple.

Yet his pride and combative nature, impervious to reprimands, had dashed Yue Songting's hopes of grooming him as successor.

In their past life, Bu Shuhan had initially challenged Gu Pinglin's authority. After Gu Pinglin orchestrated their reconciliation, their bond surpassed all others. Bu Shuhan often seemed less like a senior brother and more like a mischievous junior, with Gu Pinglin perpetually cleaning up his messes—inseparable as true brothers.

If only I hadn't sent him to Youyou Sea…

His death, likely tied to Duan Qingming, had driven Gu Pinglin to recklessness—making a move on that woman and provoking Duan Qingming's wrath.

Gu Pinglin wasn't one to cling to past grudges, but Bu Shuhan's demise made it impossible to harbor goodwill toward Duan Qingming.

This time, what happened at Youyou Sea will never occur.

Gu Pinglin scanned the surroundings.

Ren Ping's bimonthly lectures were rare opportunities. Hundreds of disciples dotted the area—perched on boulders by the pool, beneath ancient pines—immersed in his teachings. The misty air and waterfall's roar isolated them from worldly clamor. Ren Ping's slow, measured voice blended seamlessly with the cascading water—faint yet crystal-clear to attentive ears. Contemplating the Dao amidst the falls' thunder honed mental discipline, a unique Lingxin Sect practice.

Duan Qingming was nowhere in sight. Had he not come?

Gu Pinglin's gaze darkened.

Duan Qingming had begun cultivating long ago. With two years' head start and his monstrous talent, he likely had at least six layers of Nayuan in the Ningqi Realm—possibly even Xiao Zhoutian. Arrogant as he was, he'd see no need to attend.

In their past life, Ren Ping's cultivation had paled beside Gu Pinglin's. But to avoid tipping Duan Qingming off, Gu Pinglin had to maintain appearances. He found a seat and listened, watching Bu Shuhan while reliving the moment with quiet poignancy.

After two hours, the lecture concluded. Each junior received a copy of the Lingxin Sect's foundational manual—their key to self-guided practice ahead of the six-month assessment, where failures would be relegated to menial duties.

Gu Pinglin studied the manual and smiled.

This was his true objective today. With the manual in hand, he could finally justify resuming cultivation.

The Lingxin Sect's techniques… What's two years' gap to me?

Back in their room, Duan Qingming remained lounging on the bed, leafing lazily through a book, his disheveled hair accentuating his striking features.

"You're back," he remarked, glancing up with his usual mildness—as if last night's exchange had never happened.

Gu Pinglin acknowledged with a hum.

"The manual?" Duan Qingming set the book aside. "Give it here."

Knowing him, Gu Pinglin didn't protest. Technically, Duan Qingming was entitled to it—but he shouldn't be at Lingxin Sect. The sect's moderate techniques would only hinder his Butian Jue (Heaven-Mending Art).

For once, Gu Pinglin hesitated.

"The Lingxin Sect's methods don't suit me," Duan Qingming extended a hand. "Hand it over. The more you resist, the more I'm tempted to stay and keep you company. What to do?"

Gu Pinglin tossed him the manual and moved to sit on the bed—then froze, frowning at him.

Duan Qingming flipped through the pages. "Ah, don't look at me like that. As if I've done something wicked."

Gu Pinglin snorted and yanked the quilt aside.

A box lay on the bed.

"Such suspicion wounds me," Duan Qingming sighed, watching him with amusement. "Relax—just some spirit grain cakes for you."

"Thanks." Gu Pinglin promptly tossed the box back.

"Afraid I'll poison you?"

Transparent taunt. Gu Pinglin ignored the childish provocation, sitting cross-legged on the bed in silence.