Xue Mu turned to Yue Xiaochan and questioned, “Didn’t you say everything outside of raw martial strength was a mere sideshow?
How is this music so exceptionally advanced?” Yue Xiaochan replied lazily, “Because sound is an extension of the martial path itself, and our sect happens to excel at it.
The melody you are listening to right now actually integrates the foundational entry-level layer of our charm magic.
That’s why it feels like it’s striking straight at your soul.
If she were to cut off her internal energy, her performance would be completely average at best.” “Uh…” Xue Mu finally put the pieces together.
In short, anything that served a tactical purpose for the martial path—such as their alluring visual wardrobe or performance arts tailored to channel charm magic—received immense investment and evolved to a very high standard.
Conversely, elements that offered zero utility to combat or cultivation, like those amateurish wall paintings and sloppy poetry lines, were treated as mere casual hobbies, resulting in incredibly stagnant growth.
This wasn’t just a quirk of the Star-Moon Sect; it was the baseline structural reality of this entire world.
Yue Xiaochan tapped her own nose.
“If you are genuinely that fascinated by music, your truly high-tier maestro is standing right in front of you.
I’m elite enough to rank on a global leaderboard, yet here you are, eagerly swooning over a low-level lounge singer’s tracking.
You really do have grass growing in your brain.” Well, it’s not like you’ve ever auditioned for me…
Why don’t you play me a solo sometime?
Xue Mu couldn’t be bothered to trade childish barbs with her.
He decided to lay his cards on the table.
“Putting the instrumentation aside, the vocal lyrics she’s singing are absolutely unbearable.
What on earth is: ‘My lord hasn’t visited in so long, my poor heart is panicking with grief’?!
Could it possibly get any more brain-dead?
No matter how flawless the composition is, lyrics like that completely ruin the romantic atmosphere!
Do your customers actually buy into this garbage?” “How much of a vocabulary do you honestly think our patrons possess?
Even if the girls were to sing lines that were masterfully poetic and layered with deep metaphors, what’s the point if the crowd can’t even comprehend the words?” Yue Xiaochan shot him a puzzled look.
“The entire world operates on this exact logic.
Take writing a martial arts manual, for example—the goal is to pass down your legacy, so you write it to be as accessible and easy to understand as humanly possible.
Unless your deliberate objective is to scam someone, masking the instructions in cryptic, foggy riddles will only cause your successors to train incorrectly, effectively killing your own legacy and cutting off your Dao, right?” So, are you telling me that Huang Shang was an absolute idiot?
Xue Mu thought back to modern fiction.
You could blame Mei Chaofeng’s tragic lack of education for misinterpreting Daoist jargon, but writing the ultimate cultivation manual’s summary section in literal Sanskrit is just insane…
Xue Mu realized he had just been completely brainwashed by a single sentence from a thirteen-year-old girl.
He was genuinely starting to question if the legendary authors back home were just a bit dense.
Shaking himself out of the loop, he twitched his mouth.
“That’s…
quite an angle.
But looking at how prosperous the Imperial Capital is, the populace can’t possibly be that illiterate, can they?
Surely they can comprehend a standard ballad?” “It has nothing to do with the Imperial Capital.
Generally, only people born into great sects or massive aristocratic clans bother with high-level literacy and literature—after all, they have vast historical legacies to maintain.” Yue Xiaochan thought it over.
“Ordinary folk usually know basic reading and writing, though.
Bookstores sell entry-level cultivation manuals, so people have to be able to read them.
Besides, on the off chance they hit a stroke of dumb luck and stumble upon some ancient hidden legacy, wouldn’t they choke to death with rage if they couldn’t even read the instructions?
So yeah, it’s roughly like that.
Nobody cares about overly ornate or flowery prose.
I remember some year, someone presented a highly complex, rhyming parallel-prose congratulatory address to the Emperor.
In the end, the Emperor personally wrote an imperial review across it: ‘Complete and utter garbage.’ The entire incident became the laughingstock of the land, so don’t go copying that style.” “Then do you guys have any books other than martial arts manuals?” “Do records of martial world trivia count?
Or imperial history chronicles?” “Fine.
Barely.” Xue Mu suddenly realized that the literacy rate in this world might actually be terrifyingly high.
After all, literally everyone had a burning personal demand for cultivation manuals.
Their text comprehension levels were probably quite impressive, meaning they were a far cry from the uneducated illiterates he had initially assumed them to be.
However, they treated written words strictly as a tool and a vehicle for practicing martial arts, prioritizing sheer practical utility.
They had completely failed to develop text into true literature.
To them, beautiful prose and poetic elegance carried absolutely zero value.
In a global social atmosphere like this, literature was likely the most neglected discipline in existence.
Poetry and lyricism were stuck at the level of primitive folk songs, and popular fiction prose hadn’t even begun to develop.
Xue Mu found this world more intriguing by the second…
Their intense textual utilitarianism actually made a lot of sense.
However, the people of this world hadn’t realized that weaponizing the written word could trigger unique effects that were not a single bit inferior to charm magic.
Furthermore, text possessed a terrifying capacity for viral dissemination and cognitive conditioning—something other mediums could rarely replicate.
What Xue Mu cared about wasn’t artsy literature; from his professional manager perspective, the word for what he had in mind was PR and Media Propaganda.
These hundred sects were locked in a massive ideological war for survival, yet they hadn’t discovered the power of text-based media campaigns.
This was especially true for the Star-Moon Sect, who literally sat on a goldmine of mesmerizing music and dance, yet completely failed to leverage this competitive advantage for operational marketing, brand expansion, or celebrity endorsements.
Instead, they treated their artistic assets as a mere secondary discipline born from martial cultivation.
No, wait.
They did have a celebrity superstar: Xue Qingqiu.
If someone aspired to join their mountain gate or felt driven to understand the core doctrines of the Star-Moon Sect, Xue Qingqiu’s personal celebrity appeal easily accounted for over ninety-nine percent of that draw.
Was that why they were so blindly obsessed with endlessly scaling the martial peaks?
Like he said before: different paths, same destination.
The only issue was that the people of this world were so incredibly stubborn, blindly believing that raw physical power was the absolute bedrock of existence.
While that wasn’t technically wrong, it was entirely too rigid.
Xue Mu genuinely felt that with the foundational assets the Star-Moon Sect already possessed, if they handed the operational reigns over to him, he had far too many corporate plays in his arsenal.
Given a few years, he could effortlessly bring about a monumental, world-altering transformation.
Dragging the entire world into a rhythm I excel at, and then using a lifetime of industry experience to beat them at their own game…
Now, isn’t that exactly what a transmigrator is supposed to do?
Xue Mu looked back down over the balcony.
The main hall below was sparsely populated.
A few patrons were seen fondling the hostesses while actively tracing martial stances with their hands.
In fact, a few of the girls would occasionally stick out a delicate palm, casually clashing and trading a couple of rapid blocks with the clients to the rhythm of the ambient string music.
The sheer absurdity of the visual made Xue Mu laugh out loud.
What a hilarious world.
This is getting more entertaining by the second.
Just then, Menglan walked back into the private box carrying a heavy wooden tray.
It held a few small plates of appetizers and a jug of wine.
Yue Xiaochan shot her a teasing, suggestive side-eye.
“Ooh, look who’s personally delivering the dishes.
Don’t tell me you’ve actually fallen for our Master Xue?” Menglan smiled, biting her lip slightly.
“The Young Sect Master is present, so naturally, I couldn’t allow those clumsy, heavy-handed servants to ruin your fine mood.” Xue Mu sampled a dish.
The flavor profile was outstanding.
It seemed basic sensory comforts like culinary arts evolved at a lightning-fast pace in any civilization…
The wine was even better.
It was silken and mellow on the tongue, a rich, aged aroma instantly warming his chest.
Though the alcohol percentage wasn’t particularly high, a deeply antique, rustic character quietly diffused through his senses.
Despite being sitting inside a refined private box, the sensory tracking left Xue Mu feeling as though he were suddenly sitting by a remote mountain creek watching crystal-clear spring water flow.
The physical effect was downright mystical.
Ultimately, this world was woven with high-fantasy elements; certain parameters simply couldn’t be evaluated through standard modern logic.
Across the table, Yue Xiaochan seemed to be in a foul mood.
She idly picked at a few pieces of food with her chopsticks before setting them down entirely, letting out a soft sigh.
“Master went over to The Six Gates.
I wonder how the situation is unfolding.” Menglan offered a reassuring smile.
“With the Sect Master personally spearheading the operation, there is naturally nothing in this world that cannot be accomplished.” Yue Xiaochan shot her a flat look.
“We all know Xiahou Di is an absolute lunatic.
Saying empty, sweet words like that is completely meaningless, Martial Sister.” Menglan looked slightly embarrassed, lowering her head in a silent retreat.
Yue Xiaochan pressed on, “When we were kids, I distinctly remember you weren’t the type of person who would lower herself to fawning and currying favor.
Otherwise, with your baseline talent back then, you probably would have been accepted into the inner sect ages ago…
You seem completely different this time around.” Menglan remained quiet, staring at the floor.
At this point, even Xue Mu, who had been completely immersed in devouring the fantasy delicacies, lifted his head to steal a glance at her.
Compared to her desperate, aggressive honey-trap attempt from earlier, the Menglan sitting here right now looked like an entirely different human being.
Her heavy, guarded silence genuinely astonished him.
The seductive, sultry enchantress who had practically thrown herself at him in the bamboo courtyard now felt like nothing more than a fleeting, half-remembered fever dream.
The people in this cult truly are masters of a thousand faces, Xue Mu mused silently.
Did they name it the Star-Moon Sect simply because they are as shifting and volatile as the night sky?