Chapter Forty: I Am Zhao Jinian

Stepping forward, the smile faded from his face, and his eyes reddened. Zhao Jinian’s shoulders trembled slightly, a flood of memories rising in his gaze. He halted at the end of the stone steps, unable to move forward, as if reluctant to witness his master’s face growing old, hair streaked with white, yet his longing nearly overflowed and urged him onward.

The spiritual awareness of someone in the Foundation Establishment stage could envelop the entire mountaintop. Within a few breaths, his arrival would be noticed. Zhao Jinian’s ears twitched, keenly catching the faint sound of footsteps, and sorrow deepened in his eyes.

The footsteps drew closer. He clenched his hands, timing his words precisely, and spoke with a trembling voice, “Master… I…”

His words were abruptly cut off. At the top, a figure appeared, looking at him with an odd expression.

Zhao Jinian’s face instantly returned to normal; he rubbed his eyes casually and coughed twice to ease the awkwardness.

“Senior Brother, are you here for answers as well?” After a moment’s silence, Wang Yao asked with a gentle smile.

“What do you mean… I am, too?” Zhao Jinian felt inexplicably anxious. Were there other disciples daring to come to Little Azure Mountain besides himself?

Impossible. Even among the outstanding disciples at the mountain gate, he only dared sneak here when the master was out, calculating for a long time before finally choosing the inner sect sword immortal over warnings from the other peaks.

If he could forge a connection with Qin Hongxiu, he would no longer care about the opinions of the outer sect. After all, he had no need for Little Azure Mountain; joining the inner sect would be freedom incarnate.

What could the other disciples possibly want? Were they also here for Elder Qin? His brows furrowed, and he began cursing inwardly: This is clearly my opportunity—how dare they try to take it!

He had followed the old man for years, with that bond between them. What did the others have? Shameless lot!

Wang Yao saw his expression shift repeatedly, and was puzzled, but there were several disciples visiting Little Azure Mountain today. After a moment’s thought, he explained, “Counting you, Senior Brother, today makes six.”

“What?!”

Zhao Jinian took a deep breath, no longer caring about appearances, and hurried up the steps. Supposed to be a timely help, now it was just gilding the lily. Absolutely unacceptable!

“Senior Brother, you—”

Caught off guard, Wang Yao tried to stop him, grabbing only air, and could only smile wryly and chase after him. Of all the disciples coming for answers today, none were as rude as this one.

When they reached the summit, they saw a bamboo chair set between several wooden huts. A Taoist in a blue robe reclined lazily upon it, appearing about thirty, his handsome face tinged with a hint of indolence.

If not for the familiar features, Zhao Jinian would have thought him a fellow disciple of similar age; he had changed even more since a few days ago.

Though breaking through would lengthen one’s lifespan and make a cultivator look younger, the weariness born of rich experience could not easily be concealed.

Yet the robed Taoist before them gave the impression of a blade sheathed, calm and placid on the surface, but with a keen sharpness in his eyes—a look not possessed by those grown old and weary.

It was rare for both world-weariness and vigor to coexist in a person. The former came from seeing through the mundane, the latter from youthful fearlessness.

But these two opposing qualities blended perfectly in the Taoist, revealing a unique aura.

“Is this the old man Lin?” Zhao Jinian recalled the moment the other crossed the Eight Questions Sword Formation; the contrast hadn’t been so stark then.

Who grows younger with age—not just in appearance, but in spirit and vitality? Utter nonsense.

“Master, another has arrived,” Wang Yao said as he approached.

“Mm.” Lin Ze nodded lightly, unsurprised.

Three days had passed; the disciples had observed enough. So far, none of the peaks had made a real move against Little Azure Mountain. Disciples like Wang Yao were finally unable to hold back.

A senior who could be questioned at will was a tremendous temptation compared to the chaotic lectures in the classroom.

Of course, those arriving now were mostly less gifted disciples; only they understood the pain of being ignored.

Thus, Lin Ze’s gains were modest. These people offered a slight degree of trust, about thirty percent, making it difficult to draw good opportunities as rewards. The skill cards extracted from them were of low quality—occasionally, a complete low-grade card was a rare find.

Most were incomplete.

But this was normal. Stewards could hardly teach an entire technique in a day; at most, they outlined the basics. Disciples only needed to follow these to reach minor achievement and could then be accepted into the mountain for further study.

It was an excellent way to judge aptitude and comprehension, efficient and easy, though it might miss those with great talent but lesser understanding—such cases were rare, and overall, it worked well.

Every three years, tens of thousands of outer sect disciples would flood in, with over ninety percent quietly leaving in the end, one batch after another. If stewards had to select each individually, no one would have time to cultivate.

“You’re impulsive, not suited for this gentle technique. You feel it yourself; why ask me?” Lin Ze shook his head.

The disciple before him looked bitter but said nothing more, bowed gratefully, and left in silence.

Lin Ze could not advise everyone. Although he could use the simulator to endlessly swap skill cards for experimentation, seeking the most suitable technique, such consumption was impractical.

Guiding them to avoid a few detours was enough.

“You’re quite suited to this fist technique, your vitality abundant, though lacking some spiritual flexibility. Too forceful, you might injure yourself. Pay attention to its variations; you have hope for minor achievement.”

“Thank you, Elder of Azure Mountain.” The second disciple bowed repeatedly in delight.

“You’re welcome.” Lin Ze smiled faintly. The simulator showed that after the disciple was accepted by the mountain, he would earn a calming flower as tuition.

No one noticed that Zhao Jinian’s face had darkened completely in the distance.

He had stood here for half a stick of incense, yet Lin Ze hadn’t glanced at him once.

What did this mean? Was the master angry because he hadn’t attended the birthday celebration, deliberately ignoring him?

A little anger stirred within, though he kept it off his face.

Zhao Jinian knew his purpose well; compared to building ties with Qin Hongxiu, these matters were trivial.

A true man bends and stretches as needed.

No matter how Lin Ze acted, he would surely still care for him—after all, he was the master’s most beloved disciple.

Thinking this, Zhao Jinian carried his wine gourd, intentionally showing a hint of grievance on his face, and slowly walked toward the bamboo chair, interrupting the disciple about to ask a question, and stared at the Taoist, calling out, “Mas—”

Lin Ze raised his eyes in mild dissatisfaction, frowning, “Seeking answers?”

Zhao Jinian paused, stunned by that gaze.

A strange, absurd feeling arose within him. Did the master not recognize him?

No… surely it was a joke… perhaps he was still angry.

Thinking so, he hurriedly nodded, “Yes.”

“Go to the back of the line,” Lin Ze said calmly, withdrawing his gaze.

“I… I have to line up, too?” Zhao Jinian stared in disbelief, pointing at his own nose.