Chapter 8: Even My Shizun Doesn’t Like Me

Lin Shijin’s eyes widened at the sound. Someone answered with a quiet “Yes,” a pair of black boots swept past him, and Feng Rugao’s low, icy voice rang in his ears.

“Lift your head. Come and kneel.”

He was already kneeling. Lord Changming held an exalted position; even ordinary sect disciples had to perform the disciple’s salute upon seeing him. As disciples of Changgao Peak, they were required to kneel when entering the main hall.

Feng Rugao had taken in seventeen disciples in total. Several had died at the hands of demons, a few were out tempering themselves, and some were in closed-door cultivation. At present, only he and Sheng Rufei were still on Changgao Peak.

The vast hall was deathly quiet, a cold draught seeming to seep in through the window frames. The chill reached his heart as well.

Lin Shijin’s knuckles turned pale. His heart thudded wildly, a tiny black dot in his mind swelling and spreading, threatening to swallow him whole.

He swayed unsteadily, his head filled with a single thought: he was finished. His face drained of colour as he raised his head towards the man seated above.

The man’s features were hard and cold; his gaze fell upon him without the slightest hint of mercy.

It felt as though even the wind outside the hall had fallen still. Lin Shijin stood, and for the first time stepped into the side hall, kneeling before Feng Rugao.

His knees nearly gave way. At such close range, the man’s oppressive aura surged forth like a winter blast, chilling him to the marrow as though he were kneeling in a snowfield.

Feng Rugao lowered his gaze. His pale fingers tightened around a heavy, long discipline-ruler. “Hold out your hand.”

Lin Shijin’s lips tightened. He glanced at the ruler; it hadn’t even struck him yet, and he already felt the pain.

He had always feared pain. He was terrified of it. A single jab of a needle could have him wailing for ages. As a child he would cry for days after a beating. When he grew older and thought those days were over, he believed his suffering had ended. Who could have guessed that transmigrating into a book and merely failing to finish copying the sect rules would earn him a beating again?

Nerves faltering, he extended his hand. He sneaked a look at Feng Rugao, harbouring the faintest, most fragile hope that his master might spare him.

“Shizun… I know I was wrong,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

The hall was silent; Feng Rugao heard him clearly.

His fingertips hovered in mid-air. Feng Rugao lowered his eyes. “If you know you were wrong, why did you not change?”

With a sharp crack, the ruler sliced through the air. A tiny figure in Lin Shijin’s mind screamed in despair: don’t hit me! His heart hammered in his chest. Just watching it hurt.

Instinctively, he withdrew his fingers in a flash. The ruler struck only air.

A pin-drop silence fell. The atmosphere froze solid. Lin Shijin felt Feng Rugao’s gaze on him. Lowering his head, he gave a small twitch of his fingers and began admitting fault again.

“Shizun, this disciple knows his mistake.”

He apologised, but the man remained silent. Silence thickened around them. Lin Shijin could hear his own heartbeat. He was not stupid; he knew exactly what Feng Rugao wanted.

So he carefully extended his hand again.

Smack!

This time the ruler landed squarely on his palm. Fire seared across his skin. Lin Shijin bit down hard on his lower lip to stop himself crying out.

It hurt. It hurt so terribly.

His palm flushed bright red. He didn’t know how Feng Rugao usually disciplined his disciples, but right now he was certain his shizun had not held back in the slightest.

One strike was enough for his fingers to recoil again. Feng Rugao’s cold voice came once more: “Give me your hand.”

The ruler fell again. Lin Shijin stretched out his hand. Sweat beaded down his back; his face had turned ashen. The heavy ruler struck his palm, its edge catching his fingertips. A welt rose instantly.

He wanted to scream for his mother. His knees throbbed from kneeling. Another strike landed, deepening the bruises; the red marks turned rapidly blue and purple.

While lashing his palm, the man watched him writhe in pain and questioned him, “If you know you were wrong, why did you not change?”

— If you know you were wrong, why did you not change?

Only that sentence echoed in his ears. His inner robe was soaked; he felt like a sheet of drenched paper.

“Shizun… this disciple knows his mistake… I’ll change…”

“Shizun, I was wrong…”

His mind could hold only the frantic desire to admit fault, to make it stop. But despite his promises, Feng Rugao showed no leniency. He struck a full thirty times.

By the middle, Lin Shijin’s left hand had gone numb; Feng Rugao switched to the other. His shizun controlled the force, inflicting agony without hitting the same spot twice.

So not only his palm, but the sides of his fingers, even the web between thumb and forefinger, were swollen and red. By the thirtieth stroke, his fingers trembled uncontrollably.

The hall remained silent. Lin Shijin’s entire focus rested on his hands. His palm brushed the floor by accident; pain burst through him and his vision blurred.

His nose prickled. He kept his head lowered, not daring to look at Feng Rugao. His palm was mottled blue and purple. How on earth was he supposed to finish copying the remaining sect rules?

Pleading was useless. He hadn’t been able to finish even before this, let alone now with his hands in this condition.

Feng Rugao put away the ruler. Lin Shijin was still kneeling, his face chalk-white. He heard the man say, “Feng Qing, take him back.”

“Sixteen will supervise him. The remaining rules must be copied within half a month.”

Feng Qing was Feng Rugao’s sword spirit. He approached after hearing the instructions. Lin Shijin stood up at once; he didn’t want to remain in Changming Hall a moment longer. Resentment simmered quietly in his chest. He bowed stiffly. “This disciple takes his leave.”

His palm throbbed with every movement. Feng Qing escorting him did not mean escorting him home. It meant escorting him to Sheng Rufei, who would supervise his copying.

“Young master, are you angry with Sword Master?” Feng Qing asked from the side. He was a sword spirit, so he would always treat Feng Rugao respectfully.

Lin Shijin didn’t reply. Feng Qing continued, “Sword Master has always been strict. Punishing disciples… is rarely as simple as striking the palm. Young Master’s treatment was already lenient.”

He had seen everything clearly. The early strokes had not been heavy, but the youth looked ready to faint from pain. Feng Rugao had even softened the last few.

A breeze hit Lin Shijin; he shivered, still covered in cold sweat. A small knot of grievance tightened in him. Why had Shizun not even asked why he hadn’t finished copying?

He blinked hard, forcing tears down. He looked at his palm and murmured a subdued “Oh.”

“Young Master, don’t resent Sword Master. With your lax cultivation, staying under his protection keeps you safe. Once you leave the sect, who will protect you?”

It sounded like admonishment. Lin Shijin kept his head down and said nothing.

“Sword Master’s disciples are all talented. You are not his only disciple. Do not disappoint him.”

In the darkened Changming Hall, Feng Rugao stood half-shrouded in shadow.

He closed his eyes. He had heard everything Feng Qing said. Upon hearing his final sentence, his expression shifted slightly.

It hadn’t been his intention to guilt the youth, but he did want to hear his response. If the youth improved because of this, so much the better. Feng Qing’s words were not entirely unjustified.

A long silence followed. He thought there would be no answer. Then, faintly, from outside the hall:

A soft, aggrieved voice. It sounded slightly nasal from holding back tears:

“Since Shizun doesn’t like me either… can I change masters?”

Feng Rugao: “…”

Feng Qing froze. He had intended to admonish the youth on Feng Rugao’s behalf, but clearly it hadn’t worked. The youth seemed utterly oblivious to how rare, how precious, becoming Feng Rugao’s disciple was. It was something countless people yearned for but could never attain.

And yet this child casually proposed, If he doesn’t like me, then let me switch to someone else.

“Young Master… you…” Feng Qing stuttered. He had never encountered such a situation. He could only imagine Feng Rugao’s expression, listening from within the hall.

Lin Shijin was silent for the rest of the walk. He knew he had spoken out of turn. If Feng Qing told on him, he would likely be beaten again.

When they reached his courtyard, he said to Feng Qing, “You can leave me here and go back.”

Feng Qing hesitated, then said tactfully, “It’s still early. Sword Master wishes you to go to Sixteenth Young Master to copy the rules.”

It was not early at all. Lin Shijin didn’t argue. His hand hurt too much; with Feng Qing present, he could at least have someone help carry his things.

Feng Qing who continued to follow him: “……”

Sheng Rufei’s courtyard was not far. Lin Shijin had no fondness for Sheng Rufei, though he was marginally better than Feng Rugao. At least Sheng Rufei had not beaten him with a ruler.

Feng Qing knocked the door on his behalf. The door to the courtyard opened onto Sheng Rufei’s cold, expressionless face.

“Shizun has already sent me a voice transmission,” Sheng Rufei said.

“Then I’ll trouble Young Master Sheng,” Feng Qing replied.

Lin Shijin watched Feng Qing disappear. His hand throbbed; he still hadn’t applied any medicine. He followed Sheng Rufei inside.

He had been here a few times. Sheng Rufei’s room was sparsely furnished and scrupulously clean. A sword, a table, a bed. Nothing else.

He had barely sat down when Sheng Rufei produced two small dark porcelain bottles from who-knew-where and set them on the table.

“Apply the medicine,” he said coldly.

He was always like this. Lin Shijin’s heart was made of glass; he was already upset. Hearing that chilly tone was as if being reprimanded. It made his lips tighten, his eyes redden.

Half wanting to divorce this hateful protagonist-shou, half sulking over the beating, he felt utterly miserable.

He still had so many copies of the sect rules left. There was no way he could finish in half a month. He would be beaten again for sure.

Life was impossible.

Sheng Rufei had witnessed the beating earlier; he knew the child feared pain. Seeing him now with his eyes red and genuinely aggrieved, he realised the youth wasn’t pretending. Yet he had only told him to apply medicine himself.

Judging by that expression, one would think he had committed an unforgivable sin… Even worse than Feng Rugao’s punishment with the ruler.

Sheng Rufei frowned faintly. The youth glanced at him, eyes wet. Sheng Rufei’s face remained as cold as ever, though his tone held a slight stiffness.

“Hold out your hand.”