Chapter Thirty-Seven: Making a Choice

Huayang Peak.

On a narrow path still some distance from the summit, the young man suddenly tripped and fell. Grimacing in pain, he scrambled to his feet, unease flickering in his eyes.

Yang Mu looked down the slope with concern.

He saw, in the forest he had just passed through, an eerie blue light shining—he didn’t know when it had appeared.

Cultivators were fighting.

If he wasn’t mistaken, one of them was wielding the Heart-Scorching Flame—a skill well known as the specialty of Master Zhao Jing.

But what worried Yang Mu even more was the other cultivator fighting his master.

This was Huayang Peak; how could a member of the sect be brawling with a steward? It could only be an outsider.

“Elder Lin...”

Yang Mu gave a bitter laugh; he didn’t believe in coincidence.

Who else but that Elder Qingshan, who had arranged to meet him at the cliff’s edge at the ugly hour, would be sneaking about at night? He could think of no other possibility.

“Is there any point in going further up?”

A thousand thoughts ran through his mind, and Yang Mu hesitated. Even the other had been intercepted; what good would it do him to climb to the cliff’s top? The wisest thing would be to hurry back to his room, pull the covers over his head, and pretend nothing had happened.

Sever all connection to the matter—never get involved.

That was the way of a smart man.

He stood silent for a long time. Then, an unruly light flashed across his youthful face, a touch of nonchalance beyond his years.

Staring at the forest, his lips curled faintly. Sometimes, being too clever was not a blessing—occasionally, a bit of foolishness brought peace to the heart.

He might not be anything special, but he had never been one to break a promise.

He spun around and dashed toward the cliff.

Moments later, he arrived at the edge, panting for breath, forcing his heart to steady. He raised both arms and launched into a series of bold, sweeping Tiger Claw Fist strikes.

Whether useful or not, at least his conscience would be clear.

Silver moonlight poured over the peak, the bamboo swayed gently, until a shrill cry echoed from below.

“Where are the patrol disciples? Are you all dead?”

That all-too-familiar voice filled Yang Mu with a surge of delight; even his fist technique stalled for an instant.

How long had it been? Zhao Jing was already defeated.

The illustrious Master Zhao of Huayang Peak, renowned throughout the outer sect, couldn’t even hold out a quarter hour against his opponent.

So which of them—he or Elder Lin—was truly at the peak of Foundation Establishment?

Excited, Yang Mu glanced eagerly toward the end of the mountain path, preparing to call out his presence. But before he could, a piercingly cold wind rose from the cliff below.

He had no chance to react; the gale seized him and dragged him off the precipice.

Caught off guard, he plummeted from a great height—three hundred feet of sheer abyss below. In that instant, only one desperate cry filled his heart: My life is over!

The wind howled past his ears.

Just as he braced himself to be dashed to pieces, he felt a gentle surge of spiritual energy catch him, carrying him into a stone cavern.

As the energy dissipated, he crashed heavily to the ground, stars bursting before his eyes, nearly fainting from the impact.

He forced his eyes open.

Before him stood a tall, cold figure, as if painted in ink, her world reduced to black and white.

The woman’s lips were red, her teeth white, her beautiful face impassive. She gazed at him quietly, like a celestial maiden, her eyes lowered in serene detachment from the mortal world.

Instinctively, Yang Mu tried to scoot back, only to be wracked with pain—he realized he was as if encased in a thin layer of frost, unable even to bend a finger.

Shu Yunyan considered him for a long while, then parted her vermillion lips: “Call me Master.”

Yang Mu was stunned. He opened his mouth, ready to curse.

It was absurd—she had clearly conjured that gust of wind, trying to frighten him on purpose, hadn’t she?

But just as he was about to speak, Elder Lin’s warning echoed in his mind.

Perhaps this was a turning point...

A chill crawled over Yang Mu’s skin.

The woman had seen through Zhao Jing’s duplicity and shown him a way out—Elder Lin had long known the cliff concealed some secret.

A new master—everything would be resolved.

He swallowed his curses and fell silent.

Shu Yunyan frowned faintly.

Was the boy mute?

How many people could remain so calm in such circumstances?

The Twin Moon Grotto chose disciples differently from other sects—not by talent, but by fate alone.

She had just broken through a bottleneck, and her overflowing energy had inadvertently swept the boy down with her—by some reckoning, perhaps this was destiny.

So be it. The bond of master and disciple was sealed.

She flicked her wide sleeve; a glimmer of spiritual light entered the boy’s brow.

“Your aptitude is unremarkable, and your core is afflicted by a hidden ailment. Focus on studying this innate technique and strive to rebuild your spiritual body soon.”

A cool, refreshing energy flooded Yang Mu’s limbs and bones, yet his face showed no joy. He stared at her, expressionless.

For she had not once asked his name.

She demanded he call her Master.

Then, she imparted her technique.

From start to finish, she treated him not as a living person, but a mere vessel.

A poor man will not accept alms cast at him with disdain.

Yang Mu drew a deep breath, mocking himself inwardly. If there were no other way, she had indeed saved his life—her aloofness was understandable.

At least, compared to Zhao Jing, she was a thousand times better.

Before he could finish the thought, he saw Shu Yunyan extend a pale finger and gesture in the air. A searing pain erupted in his lower abdomen; he screamed, his face contorted in agony.

When the pain subsided, his eyes went blank.

He watched as the spiritual core he had spent seven years building vanished without a trace.

He was once again an ordinary mortal.

Having done all this, Shu Yunyan waved her hand, sending him to the jade-cold bed, and turned to leave the cave.

She had just achieved a breakthrough and needed to procure a few items—she might as well buy some healing pills for the boy as well.

As she stepped out, it seemed she would fall into the abyss below.

But the stone wall beside her began to tremble, and a massive serpent’s head, scales the color of blue jade, emerged. The creature, dozens of feet long, flicked its tongue, lowered its head, and carried her away down the cliff.

Left alone in the stone cave, Yang Mu lay quietly on the bed, the cold seeping into his bones.

Time passed. The frost on his body melted into rivulets of water. He rolled his neck, then sat up, a sneer on his lips.

So this was Elder Lin’s gift of fortune.

A “good” master—beautiful as a painting and generous with her skills.

Even with his limited experience, Yang Mu could sense the extraordinary nature of the new breathing technique now imprinted in his mind.

“If I said I didn’t want it, wouldn’t that be a bit shameless?”

He clenched his fist slowly.

The cultivation method he had dreamed of for seven long years now lay within his grasp—the very thing that had kept him tossing and turning night after night.

Which weighed heavier, cultivation or dignity?

Yang Mu recalled the barbed words he’d once used to mock Wang Yao, then rose and made for the cave’s entrance. Beyond lay the abyss, only a step away. He glanced at the thick vines climbing the precipitous cliff.

A mortal with no spiritual core could never scale such a height.

But thanks to Master Zhao’s “kindness,” he had at least mastered some worldly martial arts.

“Farewell, then!”

Spitting on the ground, the youth seized a vine and began to climb without a second thought.

If he could have extracted that light from his brow, he would have flung it to the ground just for satisfaction.

Before, he’d had no choice.

Now, he believed he had found a better one.