Chapter Four: A Father's Sarcastic Remarks

Yunting, in a rare act of mercy, sent a message to the Daoist of the Void, saying that a new disciple had accidentally wandered into the lightning prison’s barrier and been shocked senseless. He instructed the Daoist of the Void to quickly send someone to remove the body.

As Ling Qiqi was carried away on a stretcher by other disciples, she fixed her gaze on Yunting, her eyes brimming with anger and resentment. In her heart, she swore she would take revenge on Kong Mingzi and win her senior brother back.

Back at the foot of the mountain, her senior brother had been gentle and considerate, always thinking of her. Now, when she was humiliated, her senior brother simply watched coldly from the side. Clearly, he had been led astray by that villain Kong Mingzi. Such a malicious scoundrel must not be spared.

Ling Qiqi clenched her teeth and stared into the sky, a sharp, blood-red glint flashing in her eyes and vanishing in an instant.

In truth, Mingshuang was the one who truly gained without effort. As long as his little martial uncle was around, he had nothing to worry about. When injured, he had demon beast inner cores to consume; deep wounds that should have laid bare the bone healed seventy or eighty percent in just two days. Even the heroine he constantly feared would grow attached could be easily driven off.

So what exactly was the nature of this little martial uncle? Mingshuang couldn’t help but suspect that, in Cheng Yu’s novel, there really was such a hidden boss as the little martial uncle—a side character who never had the chance to stir up trouble before being dispatched by the heroine upon her ascension.

Mingshuang couldn't help but praise his own intelligence, feeling this must be the case, which only strengthened his resolve to cling to his little martial uncle and never let go.

A few days later, the wound on Mingshuang’s abdomen had scabbed over, so he started practicing spells with his little martial uncle.

Though he was a prodigy blessed with extraordinary talent, in the past hundred years, the major sects had produced fewer than ten disciples with variant spiritual roots. Consequently, there was little experience left by those who came before. In sum, little prodigies had to forge their own path in cultivation—there were no reference books.

Lightning spells were swift and overwhelming, leaving little room for defense. All Yunting needed to study was how to hit harder, how to make it hurt more, how to make it hurt so much that no one could withstand it. Ice spells, however, were balanced in both offense and defense, making them suitable for drawn-out battles—this meant there was much to be learned. Even the little martial uncle could only instruct him in attack techniques; for defensive methods, Mingshuang had to figure them out on his own.

After a period of special training, Mingshuang had recovered nearly all of Ling Xiaozi’s abilities, and his cultivation had even advanced somewhat—a pleasant surprise.

Time flew by, and the new disciples’ tournament was about to begin. As the faces of excellence in Qingyu Sect, Mingshuang and Yunting were summoned by the sect leader to host the opening ceremony—a paid position, at that.

As soon as the peerless, reclusive youths stood upon the high platform, they drew a crowd of sisters and junior disciples. The new disciples, seeing so many spectators, felt both nervous and inspired.

The little martial uncle was responsible for looking beautiful as a flower, while Mingshuang played the obedient announcer. After dutifully reciting a lengthy speech reminiscent of a headmaster’s address at a school opening ceremony, the competition officially commenced.

First, the newcomers underwent spiritual root testing, which was recorded. Then they drew lots to determine the order of appearance; the two with matching numbers would face each other.

Qingyu Sect recruited new disciples at the foot of the mountain based largely on intuition, not deliberately using magical tools to probe for spiritual roots. If a child left a good impression, they would be brought up the mountain for a month’s stay, then all would have their roots tested and compete.

Though that was the official story, in truth, the children selected by cultivators were rarely lacking in talent. This year, thirty new disciples were recruited; of the twenty-something tested so far, most had dual spiritual roots, and a few had three roots—these would become the backbone of the sect in time.

Six children remained untested, Ling Qiqi among them. She stood at the back of the group, arms folded, exuding an air of calm composure. From the high platform, Mingshuang glimpsed Ling Qiqi and couldn't help but sigh that the heroine was indeed destined for greatness; she stood out starkly from the nervous ordinary children around her.

Ling Qiqi met his gaze, then broke into a brilliant smile and even formed a heart with her hands.

...

Mingshuang pretended not to see, turning his head—only to find his little martial uncle glaring at him with such displeasure that he looked ready to eat him alive.

“Haha, martial uncle, have some tea!” Mingshuang forced a smile, pouring tea into his obviously disgruntled little martial uncle’s cup.

In front of the crowd, the little martial uncle maintained his cool, aloof demeanor and said flatly, “Pay attention to the match and stop staring at the ugly one.”

“Yes, yes, of course, martial uncle. That girl is nowhere near as lovely as you,” Mingshuang replied obsequiously, feeling inexplicably guilty but relieved that his martial uncle hadn’t struck him with a hundred thousand volts. He quickly flattered, praising his martial uncle’s beauty and kindness.

The sect leader, Daoist of the Void, who had been quietly listening to their exchange, couldn’t help but say, “You two brothers seem very close.”

The little martial uncle’s expression barely changed in public, but hearing the sect leader’s words, the corners of his mouth twitched before he forcibly suppressed it. Mingshuang actually found his little martial uncle’s affected manner rather endearing…

Suddenly, an exclamation erupted from the crowd. Mingshuang started and looked down to see Ling Qiqi standing on the stage.

She placed one hand on the Heaven and Earth Mirror for spiritual root testing. The mirror shone with a pure blue light, the sound of flowing water emanating from it, while water vapor gathered densely around Ling Qiqi, gradually forming slender streams.

“A single water spiritual root,” the disciple recording the results set his brush aside, stood, and addressed the sect leader, “Congratulations, Sect Leader. To have found a disciple with the water root is a blessing for Qingyu Sect.”

“This girl was brought back by Ling Xiaozi, wasn’t she? I intend to take her as a disciple and make her your junior sister. What do you think?” The Daoist of the Void spoke to Ling Xiaozi, his stern expression softened—he clearly thought highly of Ling Qiqi.

Mingshuang’s eyelid twitched. It seemed he could not escape the fate set by the original novel. The male and female leads were destined to end up together; he could run for a while, but not forever.

“As my master decides, so it shall be. If you think it good, it must be good,” Mingshuang replied respectfully, as Ling Xiaozi would, but inwardly the dragon within him roared, unwilling to be paired with the heroine.

“Very good,” the Daoist of the Void nodded, his gaze returning to Ling Qiqi. “Water is gentle, ice is steadfast—they complement each other.”

The last few children completed their tests. Unexpectedly, besides Ling Qiqi, there was also a disciple with a pure fire root. This boy, Chi Xiaoxiao, was lively and handsome, with two little tiger teeth showing when he smiled—altogether very cute.

Mingshuang frowned. He didn’t recall such a character in the book. The heroine was supposed to be the only one with a single root among the new disciples…

“After drawing lots, go up in order. The duel stops at first blood—no killing,” Yunting announced, seeing Mingshuang lost in thought and not reciting his lines. He took over and declared the match open.

The little martial uncle’s voice snapped Mingshuang back to attention. No matter who this Chi Xiaoxiao was, he’d observe him carefully later.

With thirty people divided into fifteen groups, Ling Qiqi drew number six—a comfortably middle number, giving her plenty of time to prepare.

The first pair of novices went at it energetically on the stage, but with shallow cultivation, they relied mainly on fist and foot. The other new disciples compared numbers quietly below the stage, and Ling Qiqi was also asking who had number six.

Among them, Cheng Yu was feeling complicated. Never mind dying in such a crude manner as choking on poisoned potato chips—after death, to transmigrate into his own book—was his editor playing a joke on him?

Moreover, why was the world in the book so different from what he’d written? Cheng Yu considered himself the creator of this world, but since arriving here himself, he felt his godly authority was being constantly challenged.

In the original plot, the heroine Ling Qiqi should have entered with the male lead Ling Xiaozi. How had Ling Xiaozi become the host, and with the martial uncle—who wasn’t even supposed to appear until two years later? And what about this Chi Xiaoxiao, who simply didn’t exist?

What sort of bizarre creatures were these! Cheng Yu raged inwardly, the unexpected deviations from his novel making him doubt whether he’d written it at all…

Poor foolish child. Worst of all, he was holding the number six slip tightly in his hand. No one knew better than the original author how overwhelming the heroine would be—this was her first battle to shine in the new disciples’ tournament, and barring a miracle, he’d be beaten miserably.

“Why are you sweating so much, big brother?” At some point, Chi Xiaoxiao had come over with a look of concern. “Don’t tell me you drew the lot to fight that water-root sister?”

Though Chi Xiaoxiao appeared to be a pure-hearted, well-meaning child, Cheng Yu detected a hint of schadenfreude in those two gleaming tiger teeth.

Cheng Yu didn’t want to bother with Chi Xiaoxiao. He was focused on how to escape after the match, since he’d been dropped into Qingyu Sect by fate itself, with no choice in the matter.

If he could choose freely, Cheng Yu would have become a farming king somewhere; being a side character next to the protagonists was asking to be cannon fodder.

“Why won’t you speak? What’s your name? Where are you from? Do you have a sweetheart? Want to swap lots with me?” Chi Xiaoxiao chattered on regardless of Cheng Yu’s indifference, undeterred by being ignored.

Cheng Yu found the kid’s overactivity reminiscent of a child with a talking disorder.

Annoying as he was, it didn’t stop them from trading lots. Cheng Yu handed over his crumpled slip, which Chi Xiaoxiao took only after much hesitation and a look of distaste.

“It’s soaked and all wrinkled. Didn’t expect you to sweat so much, big brother. The weather’s not even hot—don’t tell me you’ve got weak kidneys?” Chi Xiaoxiao said with wide-eyed innocence.

That sunny little face wore a knowing look, as though saying, “No need to explain, I understand.”

“You’re the one with weak kidneys! Your whole family has weak kidneys!” Cheng Yu ground his teeth and glared. “How can a kid like you be so unlovable?” With that, he reached out and pinched Chi Xiaoxiao’s cheeks, pulling hard.

Instead of resisting, Chi Xiaoxiao cooperated, wailing exaggeratedly. As Cheng Yu was enjoying himself, the seemingly obedient Chi Xiaoxiao suddenly spat, sending a glob of spit flying—a breathtaking move.

...

Cheng Yu was stunned, his face assaulted by the foamy missile. Seizing the chance, Chi Xiaoxiao slipped away, running up onto the stage in the blink of an eye.