Chapter 96: The Young Instructor of the Academy
At the break of dawn, Wang Chu Yi had already risen from his bed.
The years spent in the desolate temple upon the mountain had disciplined his body into an unwavering rhythm. His waking and sleeping hours were as precise as the flow of a blade through air—unyielding, unshaken. Unlike the pampered youths of the city, he did not laze in bed, nor did he crave comfort.
Drawing open the curtains, he beheld the sky, still enshrouded in darkness. The silence of the academy grounds was foreign to him. Had he still been in the ruined temple, the calls of roosters and the barking of village hounds would already be piercing the morning mist. In the countryside, dawn was a chain reaction—one rooster crowed, and soon, the entire village resounded with their calls. Sleep was a battle already lost before the sun rose.
After washing up, he made his way to the academy’s communal kitchen. Swiping his academy card, he collected his morning fare—a simple meal of steamed buns, eggs, and rice porridge.
By the time Wang Chu Yi had nearly finished eating, others from the meditation class began trickling into the dining hall.
Five days had passed since he arrived at Falling Cloud Academy. Though he did not consider himself a sharp-witted man, he had gradually come to understand that Chen Yan had sent him to a place far from ordinary.
The fellow disciples here were all much older than he, their backgrounds steeped in prestige and wealth. Some were prominent business owners, others high-ranking officials, and some were retired dignitaries. Yet, each of them followed the same daily practice—morning and evening meditation, sparse meals, austere chambers.
Wang Chu Yi could not understand. What did these wealthy men seek in such asceticism?
But there was merit in simplicity. The foolish were spared the burden of unnecessary thought. What he could not fathom, he simply cast aside.
The more experienced practitioners were naturally intrigued by the presence of such a young man among them. They were worldly, their eyes sharp like those of seasoned merchants. With a mere glance, they discerned that Wang Chu Yi was no scion of wealth. His attire was plain, his habits simple to the point of frugality—yet there was no trace of affectation. His words and bearing revealed his unfamiliarity with the grander schemes of life.
Speculation about his origins arose among them, but these whispers were put to rest after a single lecture from Chu Ke Qing. Whether intentional or not, she let slip that Wang Chu Yi was a disciple under her tutelage. At that, curiosity waned. The academy’s students, wise in the ways of the world, knew better than to pry further.
Wang Chu Yi was placed in the beginner’s meditation class. The teachings were straightforward—seated meditation, breath control, cultivation of one’s essence. He devoted himself wholly, never missing a single session of morning or evening practice. Even after returning to his quarters at night, he would sit upon his bed, meditating deep into the midnight hours.
He performed his assigned chores without complaint—sweeping, washing, cooking, all carried out with quiet diligence.
Some of the wealthier practitioners grumbled about the hardships of this lifestyle. To Wang Chu Yi, it was a life of comfort. Compared to the poverty of the ruined temple, this was paradise.
Here, he did not shiver through the winter nights. The walls were solid, the air warm. He no longer needed to clutch a heated bottle for warmth beneath threadbare blankets. Nor did he have to rise in the dead of night, trembling against the cold, to relieve himself in an outhouse, or tend to the old monk’s furnace.
Here, even in a single robe, he was never cold.
Many in the beginner’s class struggled to endure two hours of seated meditation. To Wang Chu Yi, who had spent years as a monk, such discipline was mere child’s play.
More than that, he found himself deeply suited to the practice. The foolish, after all, carried little burden of thought. He entered a meditative state with ease, reaching tranquility swiftly, untouched by the distractions that troubled others. To him, the morning and evening sessions passed in an instant—too fleeting, in fact, for his liking.
The afternoon lectures, however, were another matter.
Unlike the morning and evening sessions, where discipline ruled, the afternoon lectures delved into philosophy—discussions on the ancient wisdom of the East, theories on self-cultivation and the harmony of body and mind. It was, in essence, a scholarly pursuit.
And Wang Chu Yi had never been much of a scholar.
His education had been shallow. In the village school of his childhood, knowledge was scarce, and his mind had never been particularly quick.
The lectures lost him more often than not.
The names of great sages—Wang Yang Ming, Zuo Zi, Zhu Zi—were spoken as their teachings were expounded. “Unity of knowledge and action,” “Act with propriety, move with righteousness,” “Preserve heavenly principle, eradicate human desire.”
Wang Chu Yi understood none of it.
More often than not, he found himself pinching his thigh, a desperate measure to stay awake through the droning words of scholars.
Fortunately, Falling Cloud Academy was not like a school of rigid discipline. The instructors lectured as they pleased, and students were free to listen—or not—so long as they maintained decorum. There were no questions, no assignments, and certainly no examinations.
Thus, five days passed in quiet routine.
Money was no concern. The old monk had left him with two thousand coins upon departing the temple. Before he left the mountain, the two demonesses of his household had also slipped him another two thousand—though he had no idea where they had gotten such money.
Upon arriving at Falling Cloud Academy, Wang Chu Yi found that he had yet to spend a single copper coin—after all, there was nowhere within the academy to spend money unless one ventured beyond its walls.
In the past few days, he had grown somewhat familiar with the other disciples in the Zen Cultivation Class. Though they all hailed from wealthy and influential families—far grander than his own—they remained courteous upon learning that he was a disciple under Elder Zi. They would exchange a few pleasantries with him, but Wang Chu Yi’s clumsy tongue often led to stilted conversations. After two or three lines, he would lapse into silence, and interest in further conversation would quickly fade.
That afternoon, after finishing his midday meal, he returned to his quarters to read. Before the hour of two arrived, he made his way to the grand lecture hall at the front of the academy, settling into a seat at the very last row in preparation for the day’s lesson.
He had come early. The vast hall was nearly empty, and so he pored over the notes he had taken from the previous day’s lesson—his diligence was unwavering. Even though much of the lecture eluded his understanding, he resolved to record as much as possible, filling his pages with scribbles in a desperate bid to capture every word spoken by the instructor. Each night, he would revisit his notes, reading and rereading them, hoping for clarity to dawn.
Yet, despite his efforts, he could not ignore his own limitations. It was not simply that he failed to grasp the deeper meanings—there were words the instructor spoke that he did not even recognize.
For instance, when yesterday’s lecture had touched upon the doctrine of Preserving Heavenly Principle, Eliminating Excess Desire, the instructor had quoted from the I Ching—
“If one does not plow nor clear the fields, how can they reap fortune?”
The phrase included two words—“z?i yú”—that left Wang Chu Yi completely baffled. At the time, he had stared wide-eyed at the instructor, comprehension evading him entirely. Helpless, he had scratched his head and simply written down zi?she in pinyin in his notes.
Now, as he sat flipping through his notes, he found whole sections riddled with such placeholders—fragments of words, syllables captured in phonetics, indecipherable gibberish. To look at his own writing was no different from staring at an ancient tome written in an alien tongue.
The weight of his frustration grew unbearable. Letting out a heavy sigh, he slumped against the wooden backrest, his mind adrift with doubt. With such a feeble grasp of knowledge, how could he ever hope to cultivate properly? When would he attain the Dao Body that those two demon spirits back home had spoken of? When could he finally return to them?
Just as another sigh was about to escape his lips, a familiar voice rang out behind him.
“Chu Yi, what’s wrong?”
Turning his head, he was instantly filled with delight. “Little Brother Yan!”
Unbeknownst to him, Chen Yan had already arrived, standing behind him with his usual composed air. Clad in a simple, light-colored robe identical to those worn by other disciples of the Zen Cultivation Class, he sported white cloth socks on his feet—the standard attire for students here. The academy adhered to old traditions, requiring all who entered the lecture hall to remove their footwear. The wooden floors gleamed under the morning light, having been scrubbed spotless by disciples assigned to daily maintenance duties.
Seeing Chen Yan’s arrival, Wang Chu Yi felt his earlier gloom dissipate in an instant.
Chen Yan gave him a light pat on the shoulder before settling into the seat beside him. He glanced at the tattered notebook lying open before them, filled with Wang Chu Yi’s haphazard handwriting and scattered pinyin transcriptions. He scanned a few lines and quickly deduced the problem—after all, he had majored in philosophy. The classical texts of the Hundred Schools of Thought were not unfamiliar to him.
One look at the messy notes, and Chen Yan had already surmised the source of Wang Chu Yi’s frustration.
“The instructor wasn’t necessarily incompetent,” he said, his voice even and calm. “But he assumed too much about the students’ level of literacy. He took a straightforward idea and buried it under layers of scripture, quoting the I Ching when he could have simply explained things plainly. It’s no wonder you had trouble understanding.”
He turned a few pages, then tapped a particular line. “Was this the part from yesterday?”
His finger rested upon the phrase Preserving Heavenly Principle, Eliminating Excess Desire.
Wang Chu Yi nodded fervently, his face clouded with worry. “Brother, I just don’t understand. How can human desire be at odds with heavenly principle? If people feel hunger, they must eat. If they feel tired, they must sleep. If a man wishes to marry and start a family, is that not natural? Why would such things be considered wrong?”
Chen Yan shook his head with a small chuckle. “Your instructor was too eager to flaunt his scholarship. He could have explained this in much simpler terms.
“Eliminating Excess Desire doesn’t mean one must erase all human needs—it refers to restraint against unchecked greed.
“For example, eating is a necessity. That is part of Heavenly Principle. But if a man demands only the rarest delicacies and feasts beyond his means, that is an Excess Desire, something that should be tempered.
“And as for marriage…” Chen Yan hesitated, suddenly halting mid-sentence.
He had recalled another of the doctrine’s interpretations—one which suggested that while taking a wife was a natural desire, seeking multiple wives and concubines was indulgence, a greed to be quelled.
Yet, looking at Wang Chu Yi’s eager face, he could not bring himself to voice that part. The young man had two demon spirits waiting for him back on the mountain—by the standards of the doctrine, that would certainly be considered excessive desire.
Instead, he simply nodded, allowing Wang Chu Yi to digest the explanation.
Wang Chu Yi slapped his thigh in realization. “So that’s all it meant! Then the instructor could have just told us to avoid greed, live simply, and maintain our moral integrity. That would have sufficed! Instead, he spent the whole afternoon babbling about the I Ching, droning on for two hours with nothing I could understand.”
Chen Yan smiled faintly but said nothing. Some lessons, after all, were best left to experience rather than mere words.
Strictly speaking, one couldn’t claim the teacher was misleading anyone. If one wished to seek the Dao of scholarship, it was only natural to expound on the texts thoroughly. From an academic standpoint, the philosophy of Preserve Heavenly Principle, Eliminate Excess Desire indeed found its earliest roots in the I Ching. Starting from the beginning was not without justification.
However, this was, after all, a Zen Cultivation Class, not a scholarly academy for rigorous study. To teach in such a manner here—it felt like the instructor was deliberately stretching out the lesson.
More importantly—
Of course, the teachings had to appear profound!
If they weren’t presented as something unfathomable, how could the instructor extend the class hours? If the truth could be explained in just a few sentences, then how was the instructor supposed to earn their teaching fees?
The lecturers invited to Falling Cloud Academy were not cheap. Many scholars from prestigious institutions collaborated with the academy, seizing the opportunity to supplement their income.
And naturally, Chen Yan couldn’t criticize them for stretching the class hours—because he, too, needed to…
At that moment, the chime of a bell echoed through the courtyard. A teaching assistant of the academy had rung it, signaling the start of the lesson.
As the bell faded, students swiftly filled the lecture hall—about twenty in total.
Chen Yan patted Chu Yi on the shoulder, then rose to his feet. Under Chu Yi’s confused gaze, he strode to the front of the room and sat cross-legged behind the lectern.
In this hall, among the twenty-some students, Chu Yi was the youngest.
Excluding him, the next youngest was already well into their thirties.
So when Chen Yan, with his youthful countenance, took the instructor’s seat, many students froze in disbelief.
“Greetings, everyone.” A warm smile spread across his face. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Chen Yan—Chen, as in the character for ‘earthen,’ and Yan, meaning ‘speech.’”
His voice was calm, his tone steady.
“From today onward, I will be your lecturer for this Zen Cultivation Class. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon, I shall be the one guiding you.”
For a moment, silence filled the room—then, murmurs broke out among the students. Some whispered among themselves, while others openly frowned, confusion and even a hint of dissatisfaction visible in their expressions.
A young man like him was to be their instructor?
How old was he?
Their previous lecturers had at least been scholars personally invited by Elder Zi.
The tuition for Falling Cloud Academy’s Zen Cultivation Class was no small sum. Were they truly expected to accept a mere youth as their teacher?
Yet, seated at the lectern, Chen Yan remained unfazed, his posture upright, his demeanor tranquil.
Yes—this was the part-time job he had found for himself.
Relaxed, effortless, and flexible.
With his formal academic qualifications, finding work elsewhere was difficult. Even if he did, it would be the kind of job that paid meager wages in exchange for exhausting labor. How could he be willing to settle for such a fate?
He had connections—why not use them? If he ignored the advantages at his disposal and chose to toil for mere survival, that would be the height of foolishness.
So he had simply made a call to Chu Ke Qing, expressing his interest in securing an easy position at her academy.
Upon hearing this, Chu Ke Qing had nearly overturned her table in excitement!
A true master wished to teach at her academy?
This was an opportunity to cultivate favor—one beyond measure!
Money? Salary? Name your price! If she so much as frowned at it, she would consider herself defeated!
Chen Yan, however, did not overreach. He only asked for a salary of eight thousand per month—enough to cover Gu Qing Yi’s meals. There would be no extravagant feasts, just simple home-cooked fare. That alone would barely put a dent in his expenses.
As for the remainder? It would be sufficient to sustain his relationship with Lu Si Si. She wasn’t a materialistic woman. A monthly one or two thousand for dating expenses would be adequate.
But Chu Ke Qing? A woman who owned an entire street’s worth of businesses?
Eight thousand? Was he looking down on her?
Without hesitation, she raised his salary to twenty thousand—and even then, she had to persuade him to accept it.
Initially, Chen Yan had no desire to take more. If he accepted too high a sum, it would mean he owed her a favor—and favors had a way of demanding repayment.
Most importantly, this job was one where he had sworn to never use magic.
If he did, the Heavenly Dao would recognize his earnings as money earned through spellcraft—and that would defeat the entire purpose of taking this role.
Since he would be relying solely on mortal means, it would be inappropriate to demand an excessive salary.
The academy had many tasks that required effort—such as assisting in the kitchens.
Yet even if Chu Ke Qing were dragged through the depths of the underworld, she would never dare assign Chen Yan to such menial labor!
Thus, she had simply arranged for him to teach at the academy.
In her view, having a ninety-one-year-old grandmaster grace Falling Cloud Academy with his presence was a once-in-a-lifetime blessing for the students.
Even if he refrained from imparting cultivation techniques, just a few pointers on self-cultivation and discipline would be of immense, lifelong benefit to those who learned from him.
But Chen Yan had made his stance clear—he would only teach the cultural curriculum assigned to instructors at the academy. Anything beyond that? He would not utter a single word.
After all, the introductory Zen Cultivation classes at the academy mainly covered foundational Eastern philosophy—teachings far less complex than the open courses found at universities.
And given that this was his area of expertise—
There was no question that he could handle it.
Though Chu Ke Qing did not fully grasp Chen Yan’s intentions, she suspected that this ninety-one-year-old master was once again indulging in his whims, playing at life as if it were a grand game.
Originally, she had planned to personally accompany Chen Yan to his first class, standing by as a pillar of authority in her capacity as Elder Zi, ensuring that his presence carried the necessary weight. However, Chen Yan had politely declined her offer.
Now, he deliberately allowed a full thirty seconds to pass, sitting with an air of serene indifference as the assembled students—each of whom was older than he—chattered among themselves. His gaze, composed and unhurried, swept across the room, meeting each pair of eyes without the slightest flicker of unease. Only when the murmurs began to subside did he let a faint smile surface.
“Fellow learners,” he began, his voice carrying a gentle warmth, “I understand that each of you holds a certain stature in the world beyond these walls. As for myself, I will not conceal the truth—I am but a young man, a scholar of philosophy by training. In terms of status and prestige, I pale in comparison to all of you.”
His tone was calm, yet the clarity of his speech, coupled with his refined and upright demeanor, naturally lent him an air of sincerity. The audience, though not entirely free of skepticism, gradually quieted, willing at least to hear what this unseasoned instructor had to say.
“But tell me,” he continued, his expression unwavering, “if all that mattered were titles, wealth, and fame—if life were merely a contest of fortunes—then why come to Falling Cloud Academy to cultivate the mind? Why seek the stillness of meditation? If such things truly held supreme value, why not simply compare bank accounts and see whose balance reaches A8, A9, or even A10? Is that not the way of the mundane world?”
His words struck the gathering like a gentle but undeniable breeze. A hush fell over the room, not a single voice rising in response.
Chen Yan gave a slight nod, then rose with effortless grace. Turning to the whiteboard behind him, he wrote four bold characters:
“Emptiness knows no rank.”
With a genial smile, he turned back to face the class. “Can anyone tell me where these words come from?”
Silence stretched for a brief moment before an elder, appearing to be in his sixties, spoke with measured confidence. “These words originate from the teachings of Lie Zi, a sage of Daoism. They suggest that when all distinctions are stripped away, there remains no concept of superiority or inferiority.”
As he spoke, the elder cast a meaningful glance at the young instructor before him.
Chen Yan met his gaze and nodded appreciatively. “A most learned response.”
“I would hardly call it learned,” the elder replied with a modest smile. “Simply a passage I happened to come across in idle reading.”
Chen Yan turned to address the class once more. “Indeed, ‘Emptiness knows no rank’ is a fundamental principle within the teachings of Lie Zi. By worldly standards, you are high, and I am low; you are esteemed, and I am insignificant. But if one remains shackled by such worldly measures, then one has no need to embark on the path of cultivation.”
His voice grew firmer, like a blade honing its edge. “You came here seeking the Dao, the Way. Then let us begin with this truth: Daoism speaks of existence and non-existence, of substance and void. If, by the end of this course, you can shed even a fragment of your attachment to worldly ranks, then you will have made progress.”
He paused, then added with a knowing smile, “As for your doubts about having a mere youth as your instructor—why not treat me as a test upon your path, a whetstone upon which to sharpen your resolve? If you can set aside your bias toward my age and station, then perhaps, in this very act, you will begin tempering your Dao Heart.”
A ripple passed through the gathering, the weight of his words settling in their minds.
The same elder raised a brow, intrigued. “Instructor Chen, if we are to cultivate the Dao Heart, then let me ask—what, precisely, is ‘Dao’?”
Chen Yan responded without hesitation. “That which cannot be seen, heard, or grasped—this is the Dao.”
The elder faltered for a moment before sighing. “If it is unseen, unheard, and untouchable, then how are we to cultivate it?”
“Through comprehension,” Chen Yan answered simply, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Lie Zi once said, ‘All things arise from and return to the grand mechanism of existence.’ Daoism is not mere abstraction—it seeks to understand the natural order, the patterns of the cosmos, the way all things come to be and pass away. Within this, one finds the Dao.”
He let his words settle, then continued, “In truth, there is little difference between this and Western sciences. In the West, the study of the world’s principles is called physics; in our tradition, it is called comprehending the Dao.”
Something shifted in the eyes of the students—curiosity, a spark of interest. Chen Yan noted this and pressed onward with deliberate ease.
“Lie Zi spoke of the origins of existence: first came Tai Yi, the Great Simplicity; then Tai Chu, the Great Beginning; followed by Tai Shi, the Great Essence; and finally Tai Su, the Great Substance. From nothingness emerged breath, from breath arose form, and from form came all things.”
His voice was steady, carrying the rhythm of a storyteller. One by one, the doubts that had lingered at the start of the lesson began to fade. The students, despite themselves, found their attention drawn in, their skepticism dissolving like mist under the morning sun.
This young instructor possessed an uncommon composure, not only in speech but in spirit. He stood before them, unwavering, radiating both confidence and depth. Had this been half a year ago—when he was fresh out of university—perhaps even speaking on his own area of study would have left him flustered before such an audience.
But now?
Now, the world had changed for him. And he was no longer the man he once was.
I am a cultivator, one who has stepped upon the Path of Immortality! My cultivation has reached the Origin Stage, and my body brims with mystical arts. With but a flick of my fingers, I can slay spirit beasts and demons alike.
And yet, here I stand, teaching mere mortals? What do I have to fear?
They may seem like figures of wealth and status, and I may appear as a humble commoner. But in truth? I am a cultivator, while they are nothing more than ordinary folk!
With this realization, a sense of superiority settled in Chen Yan’s heart. Confidence steadied his breath, and not an ounce of hesitation remained in his demeanor.
For nearly two hours, Chen Yan spoke fluently, weaving profound knowledge into his teachings. He chose carefully—delving into the teachings of Lie Zi, a revered master of Daoist thought.
“To remain unshaken by fortune or calamity, to forget the self and the world alike,” he explained. These principles were well-suited for the members of this Zen Cultivation Class, meant to temper the heart and hone the mind.
Lie Zi’s writings were filled with fables—tales such as The Foolish Old Man Moving Mountains and Kuafu Chasing the Sun, stories simple yet profound. They served as both parables and entertainment, ensuring that even when the lecture became heavy, the atmosphere remained lively.
By the end of the session, while the students might not have been fully convinced of his wisdom, at the very least, they sat through the entire class without protest.
Chen Yan’s words had been a sharp blade, cutting through any potential resistance:
“If you measure worth in wealth and status alone, why have you come to seek Zen?”
The question shackled them. Even those who had joined this class merely as a refined pastime found themselves unable to refute him. To do so would be to admit their own superficiality.
Would they dare declare themselves crude and unworthy of Zen cultivation?
At the close of the lesson, Chen Yan smiled faintly and dismissed the class, watching as the students filed out in silence. None approached him for further conversation.
It was only natural—his presence was not yet so compelling that they would be instantly drawn to him.
Taking out a small thermos, he unscrewed the lid and took a sip of warm tea, soothing his throat. As he set it down, he noticed someone stepping into the hall.
Draped in a robe of pale moon-white, Chu Ke Qing moved with graceful poise, her attire distinct from the uniform gray robes of the academy’s other scholars. The sash at her waist was slightly wider, accentuating her already elegant figure. Her dark hair was pinned up with a simple wooden hairpin, adorned with a single white pearl—unassuming, yet utterly refined.
Only the glasses perched upon her nose disrupted the scholarly elegance, adding an inexplicable touch of allure.
“You’ve worked hard,” Chen Yan remarked with a small smile, his gaze lifting as she approached.
“Your lecture was captivating,” she replied in a lowered voice, glancing around to ensure no prying ears. “I dared not intrude, but I listened closely from outside.”
Then, after a slight hesitation, she murmured, “Senior, would you care to join me for a cup of tea?”
“No need,” Chen Yan said, glancing at his phone before sighing lightly. “I must return home—Gu Qing Yi is expecting me for dinner.”
Understanding flashed across Chu Ke Qing’s eyes, and she did not press further. Instead, she personally escorted him out of Falling Cloud Academy. Chu Yi, her disciple, hastily rose and followed.
At the gates, Chu Ke Qing had already arranged for a carriage to take Chen Yan home.
The scene did not go unnoticed.
Many students saw Elder Zi—a figure of great standing—accompanying this young instructor with a demeanor that carried not just courtesy, but an almost imperceptible reverence.
Whispers began to spread.
Who was this Chen Yan?
After his departure, several students of considerable status sought out Chu Ke Qing, probing for answers. Yet, she merely smiled and diverted the conversation, revealing nothing.
Her silence only deepened the mystery.
When Chen Yan returned two days later for his next lesson, he could already sense the shift in the class. The students who had once regarded him with skepticism were now notably more respectful.
A week passed, and he had already given three lessons at Falling Cloud Academy. His growing presence was beginning to take root.
With a simple request, he had received an advance on his salary—twenty thousand yuan in hand.
Though Chu Ke Qing could not fathom why a figure of such unfathomable might would request a mere twenty thousand in advance, she dared not question further. Since Chen Yan remained silent, she knew better than to pry.
With the silver in hand, Chen Yan spent another quiet day at home, his indulgences no different from before. Yet, amidst the ordinary, he took the time to carefully divine Gu Qing Yi’s fate. The signs were clear—her looming tribulation of illness had dissipated entirely. No matter how much wealth he spent upon her henceforth, no new affliction would gather in the shadows.
A revelation settled upon his heart—his scheme to amass coin through fate was indeed viable! The Heavenly Dao did not count his earnings from mundane toil as “sect funds,” and for that, Chen Yan breathed easier.
In the span of a week, familiarity settled between him and the disciples of the Zen Cultivation Class. The word had spread—Elder Zi treated this seemingly unremarkable instructor with great reverence. That alone made many take notice.
These were no fools. A man so young, yet treated with such deference by a figure of Elder Zi’s renown—how could he be simple? None could see through his origins, but it cost nothing to cultivate goodwill. Who knew what future benefits such an acquaintance might yield?
Men who rise to prominence are never granted success for free.
Yet, Chen Yan remained true to his ways. During lessons, he spoke only of Eastern philosophy, of methods to cultivate the mind and spirit. Never once did he impart true techniques of cultivation. He walked the academy grounds like any ordinary mortal, never betraying the slightest hint of sorcery or skill.
It was only Lu Si Si, ever curious, who once came to fetch him after his lectures, amused by the novelty of picking up her ‘boyfriend from work.’ With her winter break yet to end, she had time to linger by his side.
Thus, his days passed in a simple rhythm—every other afternoon, he would journey to the academy, lecture for a few hours, then stroll with Lu Si Si through the bustling streets, sharing a meal, perhaps a film. Time flowed gently, until the Lantern Festival had come and gone.
That afternoon, as the last of his students departed the hall, he caught sight of Chu Ke Qing standing by the doorway. Her expression bore a gravity seldom seen.
He did not rush. He merely rose, waiting until the last echoes of footsteps had faded. Then, he strode out into the cool twilight.
Chu Ke Qing dipped her head slightly, a formal gesture of respect. Her voice was soft, yet held an unshakable weight. “Senior, would you have time to visit my Cloud Lodge Courtyard for a discussion?”
Chen Yan studied her carefully. This was no casual invitation—something pressed upon her mind.
Lu Si Si would not be coming today. The university term had begun, and she had returned to her studies. They had made their arrangements—to meet on weekends, when time allowed.
“Very well,” he said at last, inclining his head. “Let us go.”
The two walked in silence until they reached her courtyard. Within the guest chamber, a fine tea was poured and offered. Chen Yan accepted, his gaze calm and unwavering.
“There is no need for pretense between us,” he said, his tone warm but steady. “Speak plainly.”
Even without the wealth she had secured for him, even if she had not so freely accepted Chu Yi as a disciple and imparted the Cloud Sect’s true teachings, even without this generous position she had arranged for him, Chen Yan would have treated her with courtesy. Such debts, he did not take lightly.
Chu Ke Qing took a slow breath, her composure unshaken, though the gravity in her eyes remained. “Senior, I have a request. May I trouble you for aid?”
Chen Yan considered. His affairs were few. The date of his Ghost Marriage had already been set, the auspicious day chosen for the next month.
“I am free,” he replied simply. “Tell me—what is it you need?”
A flicker of steel crossed her gaze. She hesitated but a moment, then spoke, voice firm yet measured.
“I would ask you to accompany me to Harbor City.”
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