The Immortal Lord’s Useless Disciple
Zheng Nanlou had lost again.
At the Hidden Snow Sect’s grand tournament, held once every three years, there were twenty-four matches among the inner disciples, and he had already lost twenty-three of them.
A rain of swords filled the sky, wrapped in a gale like honed blades, and came down over everything at once; countless cold glints wove into an enormous net in front of him and swallowed his slight figure in an instant.
The so-called “treasured sword” he had spent so long picking out at the Myriad Sword Pavilion held for only two blows before it could no longer bear that heaven-blotting pressure, and shattered inch by inch between his fingers.
With his last protective artifact gone, he had no other recourse, and could only force up his spiritual energy to block; but at his level of cultivation he was certain to lose against the full strength of the man across from him……
And yet, in the middle of his panic, he found that every one of those conjured sword shadows, upon reaching him, skimmed by barely grazing his body.
As though guided on purpose. They cut skin and flesh only, and never anywhere vital.
In the space of a blink, the snow-white robe he wore had been opened with several bright red marks.
The blood seeping from the wounds spread slowly through the cloth, until he looked almost as though he were wearing some gaudy garment patterned in red and white.
How could Zheng Nanlou not know he was being toyed with on purpose? But with what little cultivation he had, he was powerless to resist, and could only dodge more and more wretchedly, never escaping those mocking wounds.
The sword shadows that had passed over him struck the platform and the bare earth around it, throwing up great swathes of heavy dust that blocked his sight.
He knew at once that this was bad and backed away with a hand over his nose and mouth, but in the end he was not faster than the foot that came driving out of the dust straight at his chest.
The kick sent him flying, out past the barrier that sealed in the spiritual energy, and he crashed down hard among the crowd watching below the platform.
The whole Trial Realm fell silent.
He had been knocked off the platform in so clumsy a fashion, and still not one person made a sound; not for the sake of Zheng Nanlou himself, but out of regard for the master everyone in the world knew of: Wangyu.
Throughout the Six Realms and the Eight Wastes, apart from the Lingxiao Divine Realm that everyone longed for, the name “Wangyu” had always been looked up to like the white sun hanging high in a clear blue sky.
Slaying demons, pacifying the Demon Domain, sweeping away evil spirits: his deeds were painted in ever richer colors with each retelling, sinking deeper and deeper into people’s hearts.
And within the immortal sects, as the only cultivator in three hundred years to stand a single step from tribulation and ascension, his standing was beyond compare.
So under all those watching eyes, no one dared shame him here. However disgraceful Zheng Nanlou made himself, not one person would let out so much as a snicker.
What they thought privately was another matter.
Lying on his back on the ground, Zheng Nanlou quietly let out a breath in that strange hush.
Having fallen off the platform like this, he could forfeit the last match outright, and would no longer have to endure all those meaningless stares landing on him.
How could he not know what the blank-faced people around him thought of him in private? It always came down to the same word. Worthless. Nothing original about it.
In truth, had he been in their place, he would probably have resented it too.
The illustrious Immortal Lord Wangyu, acknowledged foremost of the immortal path, had spent a hundred years sifting through all the gifted disciples of the Hidden Snow Sect without picking out a single one to his liking, and everyone had simply assumed his standards were high.
Then who would have guessed that at the very end, with ascension close at hand, he would take in a good-for-nothing like this one, wretched in constitution and utterly without insight, as his one and only personal disciple? How could that not make people click their tongues, or even breed resentment?
And yet that resentment should not have landed on him.
He rose in silence. The robe on his back had picked up a coat of dust as well, and had long since lost any resemblance to what it had been. When he raised his eyes, he met the man on the platform looking down at him with his chin high, a pair of clear, cool phoenix eyes now full of derision.
This one, naturally, was among those who harbored resentment.
Zheng Nanlou had seen enough of it to be used to it, and knew that tangling with this person here would do him no good at all.
At least for now, he could not afford to take issue.
He was handsome, his features fine and clean, his bearing set apart from the dust of the world; with his brows lowered and his eyes veiled he looked all the more steady and upright, carrying more than a little of the character of his master, Immortal Lord Wangyu. Only there was always a trace of timidity between his brows, as though he had spent too many years being looked down upon, so that his every movement was cautious, afraid of putting a foot wrong.
He raised his hands to the man in a bow, disheveled in appearance yet perfectly correct in courtesy, as though he were conceding defeat in complete sincerity:
“Thank you for the instruction, senior brother.”
With that he turned and left. The man on the platform seemed about to come after him, but the elder presiding as judge caught hold of him and had him seal the record of the match.
By the time he turned his head again, Zheng Nanlou’s figure had already vanished into the crowd and could not be found.
Less than ten li south of the Trial Realm stood a sheer peak that ran straight up into the clouds. Layers of cloud banked between its cliffs and precipices, and the summit, which should have lain under deep snow, was instead lush and green.
The Hidden Snow Sect held thirteen wondrous mountains in all, and Yujing Peak was the highest and most treacherous of them, so of course it had been given to the first man of the sect, Immortal Lord Wangyu, as his abode; and as his disciple, Zheng Nanlou naturally lived on that mountain too.
It was only that he had just lost his sword and could no longer ride it up to the summit, and he had none of the arts for treading empty air, so he had to climb on foot along a winding goat track from the foot of the mountain. Fortunately, back when he had first entered the sect and could not manage a single spell, he had made the climb many times already; a stretch of road like this was nothing to him.
Not until the sun sank in the west did he finally reach the top, and even then he had no time to do anything about the rags he was wearing. He went straight to the main hall, stood before the door and knocked twice.
In only a moment, a warm, low, unhurried voice came from within:
“Come in.”
Zheng Nanlou pushed the door open and went inside. Between the doorway and the dais hung four or five lengths of plain white gauze, light as mist; when the breeze passed through it sent them lifting and drifting like soft, wandering banks of cloud, so that to step in was to step into the clouds themselves.
And at the far end of those “clouds,” behind layer upon layer of thin mist, sat a man.
He wore plain satin robes the same color as that misty gauze. His long hair, dark as smoke, was gathered at his crown by a white jade coronet, and a few loose strands fell beside his eyes, setting off a pair of ash-grey eyes as soft as a warm breeze brushing the cheek on a mild spring day, with something faintly bewitching in them.
The closer Zheng Nanlou came, the more helplessly the heart in his chest went “thump, thump, thump,” until even the tips of his ears grew hot.
He lowered his hands and bowed, and had to swallow several times before he could steady his voice:
“This disciple…… greets his master.”
There was probably no one who had seen Wangyu’s face and not sighed at the unfairness of heaven, which had granted this man the very highest talent and then given him such fine looks besides.
Raised over long years on the Hidden Snow Sect’s clear spiritual energy, cool as snow on a high mountain, he had taken on none of that chill that keeps people at a distance. His features were delicate, his skin fair, and those faintly grey eyes always held a light, shallow smile.
The white robes he habitually wore shimmered like a bright moon reflected in a rippling deep pool beneath a night sky; where the light spilled over, a clear radiance brushed the face, gentle and mild.
When he saw Zheng Nanlou his smile did not change, and his gaze fell on those torn, ruined clothes without lingering there at all. He merely tapped a finger, and a cushioned stool appeared beside the tea table in front of him.
Zheng Nanlou lowered his head and sat down. The thing rioting in his chest beat still more merrily, as though it might come leaping straight up out of his throat, which made him even less willing to look at Wangyu, who sat only a tea table away; he stared fixedly at the green jade teacup in front of him instead.
Wangyu poured him a cup of tea.
The pale green tea ran down the long, smooth spout into the cup, and the heat rising from it carried a bracing fragrance that reached soundlessly into his nose.
But he had taken in only one breath of it before he suddenly, soundlessly held the next.
This small movement of his did not seem to have caught Wangyu’s attention. Yet with his cultivation, how could he not have noticed?
He simply did not care.
“How did the sect tournament go today?”
Zheng Nanlou had known all along that he would ask, and still answered with a touch of dread:
“This disciple’s skills are wanting. I lost again.”
Wangyu’s glance passed lightly over the bloody streaks all over him, the faint smile in his eyes unchanged by so much as a fraction:
“If you would rather not, you need not go next time.”
The right hand Zheng Nanlou had hidden in his sleeve clenched all at once, nails driving into his palm; the small, sharp pain even calmed his heartbeat a little. His face, though, kept its meek and downcast look, and a faint flush had risen on the pale nape of his neck.
“This disciple’s cultivation is low. Going to the Trial Realm to spar with the other disciples…… is good for me.”
Wangyu said nothing. Zheng Nanlou thought his words had displeased him, and while he sat there uneasy, a slender, pale hand suddenly appeared before him, a white porcelain jar barely an inch across resting on the palm.
Zheng Nanlou hurried to take it. When their fingertips touched he could not quite hold back a slight tremor, though he covered it over at once.
“This is a wound salve I mixed myself. Apply it to the injuries when you get back, and they will heal within half a day.”
Zheng Nanlou closed his hand around the jar, the cool glaze smoothing away a little of the heat in his palm, then stood and bowed to the man before him in thanks:
“Thank you, Master. This disciple…… will make good use of it.”
After that, as on the days before, Zheng Nanlou recounted every detail of the day’s match on the platform to Wangyu, and Wangyu offered a few timely pointers here and there, which counted as rare instruction.
It was only that the gulf between their talents was too wide, and their grasp of arts and techniques lay on entirely different levels, so those subtle pointers usually reached Zheng Nanlou’s ears as so much fog. Still, he was unwilling to ask, and only committed them silently to memory, thinking he would work them out someday.
They talked until the stars and the moon were both out, when word came from the main peak calling Wangyu to a council. Zheng Nanlou took the chance to bow and see him off; his master gave him a nod, then turned in an instant into a clear wind and went off toward the main peak.
In the blink of an eye, in this main hall, before this tea table, only Zheng Nanlou was left. At last he could relax; his tightly clenched right hand came open as if waking, and he breathed out the stale air that had been shut up in his chest all this while.
And yet the scent of the tea, most of it long since faded, still came creeping up like a ghost, and the moment he let his guard down it drove straight into his nose, far too fast to avoid.
In the end Zheng Nanlou could not hold it back. With one “urgh,” he threw up.
A few content warnings:
1. 1v1, both leads pure; from beginning to end the top and the bottom have only each other, in body and in heart.
2. Not a power-leveling story, so the settings around cultivation ranks have been simplified. Everything serves the plot, and should not be examined too closely.
3. Contains melodramatic elements such as amnesia and a (false) stand-in.
4. Both the top and the bottom suffer; the romance takes a winding road.