Chapter Forty-Two: The Calamity of the Green Mountain

Lin Ze's lips curved slightly as he rose slowly.

Zhao Jinian's eyes lit up with joy. The timing was just right; now all he needed was to show a bit of filial piety. He hurriedly picked up the wine gourd and said, “Though I have little savings, I remember your fondness for this. I had planned to find a day to bring it to you, but never expected you would come first, Master. Today, your disciple will accompany you for a good drink.”

“This immortal wine is a rare delicacy—even ordinary cultivators seldom see it once in half a year. Only because you came to visit, Master, do I have this fortune…”

“No need for wine. I merely wish to retract what I said earlier,” Lin Ze interrupted his endless flattery, his voice gentle. Under Zhao Jinian’s confused gaze, he said blandly, “Tomorrow, you need not come.”

Upon hearing this, Zhao Jinian was utterly stunned.

Looking at the Daoist’s smiling face, he felt everything slipping out of his control.

What did he mean—need not come tomorrow?

A surge of nameless anger rose in his heart. He struggled to resist the urge to crush the wine gourd in his hand, forced out a strained smile, and asked, “Master, what do you mean?”

He had brought wine and spoken kindly.

They were both Foundation Establishment cultivators—no need to push him too far!

“…”

Lin Ze sighed, turned to look at him, and explained again, “I am not your master.”

He could offer Su Bailu a few pointers.

Because that little girl was truly Old Lin’s disciple, and she was useful to him. Their cooperation was mutually beneficial, and if anything happened to her in the future, Lin Ze wouldn’t mind lending a hand.

But Zhao Jinian could definitely not be counted as a disciple.

He was nothing more than a hungry dog with eyes only for bones.

“I’m not your disciple?”

Zhao Jinian was so angry he laughed, took several deep breaths, and wanted Lin Ze to understand his status.

Forget being an elder of Green Mountain—everyone knew how hollow that title was. Besides that, he was an outstanding Foundation Establishment cultivator in his early thirties, sought after across the Hundred Peaks.

The old man had barely reached Foundation Establishment at sixty; his poor aptitude was obvious.

Give it a few decades, and even if he did want Lin Ze as a disciple, it would depend on Zhao Jinian’s mood.

Words formed on his lips.

He thought for a moment, then swallowed them.

Arguing would do no good, and only incur Lin Ze’s displeasure. It was better to appeal to his sense of guilt.

“Master, your words are unclear to me,” Zhao Jinian said, his expression now tinged with genuine grief and indignation—far more convincing than his previous mask.

“I know you are now favored by a certain elder, but does that allow you to forget a dozen years of master-disciple bond? Now that you are prosperous, will you abandon me?”

‘Once a master, forever a father.’

“Are you now going to forsake your son?”

His voice was sharp and filled with bitterness, as if suffering a great injustice. Lin Ze felt nauseated by this twisted reproach.

How could anyone be foolish enough to use the same trick twice?

So he turned around again, “That’s not what I meant. Don’t misunderstand.”

Relieved, Zhao Jinian was about to latch onto this hope when the Daoist’s light voice drifted over:

“It has nothing to do with any of that. Simply put—you are unworthy.”

Lin Ze looked at him calmly, his tone light and emotionless, stating only a fact.

It had nothing to do with status or background, nor with powerful cultivators behind him.

No hidden meaning—he simply found Zhao Jinian beneath contempt. Nothing more.

“I… I am unworthy?”

The Daoist’s words struck at the deepest, most hidden sense of inferiority within Zhao Jinian, twisting his face with disbelief. Rage he had tried to suppress now surged to his head, and he retorted with sharp sarcasm:

“So your disciples must be a bunch of misfits? If that’s the standard, then indeed I am unworthy.”

“After all, you can only scrape together a few barely useful ones from that pile of fools. Among all the disciples of the peaks, who would ever pay attention to Green Mountain?”

He pointed at Wang Yao and Xiao Bao, sneering, “Are you seriously planning to prop up your whole sect with these worthless Qi Condensation brats?”

Just then, a young man running from the back of the mountain slowed his steps.

The cheerful smile on his face faded, replaced by a cold, intense gaze.

Standing at a distance, he casually tossed aside the axe used for chopping wood and stared silently toward the center of the wooden cabin, his voice indifferent:

“Zhao Jinian, do you have a death wish?”

“…”

Zhao Jinian looked back, his eyes twitching. “Yang Mu… Brother Yang, what are you doing here?”

The personal disciple of Master Zhao Jing—how could he be at Green Mountain?!

Yang Mu smiled and pointed at the axe on the ground. “I was chopping wood on the back hill. Preparing a coffin for your mother.”

He had spent seven years at Huayang Peak; aside from Zhao Jing, he never let anyone take advantage of him. Now, arriving at Green Mountain, was he to be bullied by this spineless lackey?

“…”

Zhao Jinian, biting back his anger, could only force a bitter smile. “Brother Yang is joking. My mother is in good health—she’ll live to eighty easily.”

For a Qi Condensation disciple to berate a Foundation Establishment cultivator was unheard of.

Spread such news, and jaws would drop all over.

Like Xiao Bao, who now looked at Brother Yang with adoration. Lin Ze expressionlessly turned his head back.

“No matter. Better to be prepared,” Yang Mu grinned, showing his neat white teeth.

“You never know—might get run over by a carriage tomorrow.”

“You!” Zhao Jinian’s chest heaved, spiritual energy surging uncontrollably in his palm—he was furious beyond measure.

In the Eastern Yue Sect, no other two cultivators would ever see a Qi Condensation disciple dominating a Foundation Establishment cultivator.

But this was Zhao Jinian.

A clever man who had switched masters three times in a decade.

To him, the figure in the distance was not Yang Mu, but Master Zhao Jing and that powerful Demon-Slaying Golden Core cultivator.

An existence he could never afford to offend.

“I didn’t come here to squabble with you,” Zhao Jinian snapped, waving his sleeve angrily. Seeing the situation deteriorate, he turned decisively and walked down the mountain.

“Since Master does not acknowledge me, I shall take my leave!”

“If you’re so confident in these two youngsters, don’t embarrass yourself at the upcoming outer sect competition.”

Lin Ze’s expression remained unmoved, though a trace of pity flickered in his eyes.

What was the point of cultivating to such a state?

With a backbone so weak, no amount of cultivation could make him stand tall.

Yang Mu snorted coldly and strode forward, first bowing respectfully to Lin Ze. “Master, I’ve finished splitting all the firewood.”

After Lin Ze nodded, he turned and glared at Wang Yao. “Letting someone point at your nose and curse you—can’t you show some backbone, supposed senior brother?”

Wang Yao could only smile wryly.

Seeing Xiao Bao’s eyes fill with envy once more, Lin Ze took a deep breath and smacked him hard on the head.

Of all things, he had to learn how to insult people.

If every cultivator from Green Mountain went out and spouted vulgarities, others would think their master was a common hooligan.

What skill was there in cursing?

Just use your fists instead.