Chapter Thirty-Two: How Pitiful That Master Has So Few Disciples

The next morning, at the break of dawn, I was still deep in sleep. Suddenly, a series of knocks sounded at the door—first a loud bang, then two more knocks, followed by a relentless barrage. It was so annoying, so noisy; even a good night’s sleep was denied to little Yu.

“So annoying; it’s not even light out yet. What’s all this racket for?”

I yanked the quilt over my head with both hands.

Bang, bang, bang—three more knocks resounded.

“Yuge.”

“Yuge.”

…

The knocking continued unabated.

In my muddled dreams, I seemed to hear someone calling my name—the voice was gentle and smooth, at first calm and emotionless, then gradually tinged with a hint of anger.

While I was still lost in my dream, a loud crash startled me—the door was forced open. In the next instant, someone pulled the quilt off me, and a chill swept over my body.

“Xiaoyao, give me back the quilt.”

I kept my eyes shut and gripped the quilt tightly, trying to pull it back towards myself, but my strength was no match for Xiaoyao’s. She snatched away most of the quilt in a single tug.

“The quilt, the quilt—give it back, just give me back my quilt…”

It was as if Xiaoyao hadn’t heard a word I said; she kept pulling. I could barely keep my eyes open, so I just crawled along with the quilt—wherever the quilt went, I crawled after it, until I ended up at the very edge of the bed.

“Xiaoyao, are you trying to—”

Halfway through my sentence, my body suddenly tipped dangerously close to the edge. I almost fell, and the shock jolted me wide awake. When I opened my eyes and saw the face of the person standing by the bed, dread welled up within me.

“Hehehehe… Zilian.”

Without thinking, I blurted out his name. The moment I saw his expression shift from blank indifference to icy coldness, I snapped fully awake. How could I have made such a foolish mistake—calling his name right to his face?

His features darkened unpredictably. “You just became my disciple yesterday, and already you regret it today?”

His tone was cool and detached, but to my ears, it sounded like he was about to expel me from my apprenticeship. In a panic, I leapt out of bed and reached out to cling to his leg, but he sidestepped me.

“Master…”

I looked at him pitiably, my voice trembling with despair.

Whether or not he heard me, he gave no sign of it. He simply turned and strode toward the door. At the threshold, he paused. “Once you’ve washed and dressed, assemble outside the palace gates.”

With these words, he left.

The early morning sun had yet to rise, and the mountain was shrouded in thick mist. The chill and dampness in the air cut straight to the bone, making me shiver with cold.

All the disciples from the various halls were already assembled in neat rows outside the palace gates. Whitebeard, the Third Grandmaster, stood at the top of the steps, and at his side stood my master and a middle-aged man in azure robes. Judging by his attire, the man in blue must be Master Yuanxu, the teacher of Yun Xiang and Mo Yun.

His expression was utterly blank, as cold and forbidding as one of those blade-wielding deities found in temple halls—nothing at all like the image of a revered immortal cultivator.

Looking to my left, I saw a tightly packed crowd—about a dozen disciples dressed like Yun Xiang and Mo Yun in pale blue gauze robes, each bearing a long sword at the waist and a glass pendant. They cut quite an impressive figure.

Behind these ten disciples gathered several hundred more in blue cloth tunics, men and women, tall and short, a dizzying spectacle.

Then, glancing behind me, I saw nothing but emptiness—not even an ant in sight. Confronted with this stark contrast, I truly felt sorry for Zilian. No wonder Yuanxu was so arrogant—he dared to oppose my master taking me as a disciple simply because he had so many more disciples and protégés than my master did.