Tang Rulin had survived many calamities.
Demonic incursions. Failed breakthroughs. The soul-crushing silence of Shizun's disappointment. None of them compared to the silver-haired, amber-eyed plot device currently standing on his porch.
Wei Hanmo stood where he had been left, hands folded neatly within his sleeves. The afternoon light kissed his hair, haloing him like the cover illustration of The Pure Lotus Disciple's Forbidden Yearning. This was bad. This was final-volume, special-edition-with-extra-illustrations bad.
"Yuanlin," Shen Cangxuan said, his voice cool enough to freeze a lesser man's core. The faint, blooming pride he'd shown during the reception was gone, replaced by his customary "Emotionally Constipated Virtuous Master" aloofness. "Show your shidi the peak."
Rulin bowed reflexively. "Yes, Shizun."
The moment Shen Cangxuan's white-and-gold robes vanished, Rulin's "Dutiful Head Disciple" mask slipped. He inhaled a breath that tasted like cheap ink and narrative inevitability. Calm down. Breathe. Just because he's a once-in-a-century beauty with tragic orphan vibes doesn't mean he's here to be the love interest. Maybe he's just… decorative. A very tense, observant decoration.
He turned. Wei Hanmo bowed again—a perfect, ninety-degree angle that screamed Chapter 1: The Humble New Disciple. "This disciple thanks Shixiong for the guidance."
Rulin's eyelid twitched. He noted, with deep personal offense, the kid's height. Fifteen! He's fifteen and already built like a young tree! What does he eat, protagonist growth supplements? Rulin subtly straightened, relying on the spiritual equivalent of hidden platforms in his shoes.
"Follow me," Rulin said, injecting his tone with the frost he'd painstakingly copied from Shizun over six years. "Do not stray. Wuji Feng is uncomplicated, but it is not forgiving."
Wei Hanmo smiled. It was a good smile. A "deceptively sweet, secretly cunning" smile that probably had its own fanart already. "I understand."
You understand nothing, Rulin thought grimly. You understand you've walked onto a stage set for a romance, and you're ready for your close-up.
They descended in silence. Gu Qingyi, the useless traitor, had already vanished, leaving Rulin alone with the walking trope.
The path was, admittedly, beautiful in a stark, austere way. Wuji Feng didn't bother with flashy arrays or gaudy pavilions. It was all clean lines and quiet power—the kind of place where a dramatic confession would really pop against the minimalist backdrop. Rulin shuddered.
"Shixiong," Hanmo said, his voice a careful, measured thing. "This peak feels… restrained."
Rulin nearly tripped. Restrained?! That was a code word! In Frost-Bound Sovereign, the love interest had called the master's heart 'restrained' before embarking on a 50-chapter campaign to 'unravel' him!
"Power resides in restraint," Rulin snapped, parroting Shizun's most boring lecture. "It's not about feeling. It's about principle."
"I see," Hanmo said, but his burning amber eyes were sweeping the cliffs and training grounds like a general surveying a territory he intended to conquer. Probably mentally noting all the best spots for clandestine meetings and angsty, rain-soaked confessions.
They passed beneath Rulin's residence.
And there it was.
The Peerless Sword-Saint's Secret Sin. Volume Three.
It lay face-down by the foundation, its gilt edges winking in the sun like a traitorous little signal flare.
Rulin's blood ran cold. No. No, no, no. I threw you out! You were supposed to stay hidden! Perhaps he could…
He tried to speed up, to bodily block the view, but he was a half-step too slow. The Protagonist's Plot Radar was too strong.
"Shixiong?"
Wei Hanmo had already crouched down. He picked up the book with both hands, as if it were some ancient, sacred text. The reverence was physically painful to witness.
"Don't—!" The word tore out of Rulin's throat, raw with guilt.
Wei Hanmo turned it over.
The cover bloomed before them in all its garish glory: the master, robes artfully slipping from one shoulder, looking stoic yet vulnerable; the disciple, gripping his wrist with a possessiveness that defied several sect rules. Rulin felt his soul try to flee his body.
This is it. I'm finished. Cannon fodder death, here I—
Hanmo stared at the cover. He didn't blush. He didn't smile. He frowned. A small, serious furrow appeared between his brows as he scrutinized the art. He looked… confused. And intensely, weirdly analytical.
"Shixiong," he asked, his voice hushed with what sounded like genuine perplexity, "is this… a tactical manual? The stances seem… unorthodox."
Rulin's brain short-circuited.
…What?
This wasn't the reaction of a rival. This was the reaction of someone who had never seen a two-for-one silver promo at a romance bookstall in his life. This beautiful, towering, once-in-a-century talent… was a cultural philistine.
He thinks it's a swordplay guide. He's an idiot! A gorgeous, clueless himbo!
"Yes!" Rulin blurted, snatching the book from Hanmo's hands with carefully measured speed. He shoved it into his sleeve. "A tactical manual! Very niche. The illustrations are highly stylized and, frankly, misleading. I was critiquing its form. You'll understand someday." This was, in the broadest possible sense, technically true.
Hanmo just nodded, a look of earnest understanding on his handsomely infuriating face. "I apologize for disturbing Shixiong's study."
He believes me! The realization was glorious. He thinks I'm a hardcore battle theory nerd! I can work with this!
"Wuji Feng values discretion," Rulin said, smoothing his expression back into aloof superiority. "Not all knowledge is meant for uncultivated eyes. Study hard, Shidi, and all will come naturally."
"This disciple will strive to do so," Hanmo said, bowing again.
As they walked on, Rulin's spirits lifted. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard. If the kid was this dense, the whole "Disciple Yearns For Untouchable Master" plotline might just die on the vine. His step lightened. Had he been too harsh? Judging an innocent by the tropes he embodied… How shallow.
"The rumors from outside," Rulin announced, feeling bold in his new assessment. "They're ridiculous. People see Shizun and I work well together and spin tales. It's gossip for those with no cultivation or too much time. Our duty is to the sect and the people. That's all. Remember that." He shrugged. "A guilty man sanitizes his story. A conspirator coordinates the narrative. Perhaps they create such tales to hide their own filth."
Not bad, Rulin thought, mentally preening. Positively philosophical.
He took a few more steps before pausing. It was quiet. Turning, he found Hanmo rooted in place a few feet back, staring at him.
"Wei Hanmo?"
Hanmo's head snapped up. "Ah, Yuanlin Shixiong. Apologies. Your words… 'A guilty man sanitizes his story. A conspirator coordinates the narrative.' It is profound. I was contemplating its truth."
Ah, he takes his senior's words to heart, Rulin thought, warming further. Not a bad guy, really. "Your room is up ahead—"
"I have no interest in idle tales, Shixiong," Hanmo said quickly, his voice soft. "I prefer to observe the truth for myself."
Rulin paused. Observe the truth for himself?
That was Chapter 5 dialogue. The line the love interest always used before launching their seduction campaign. Was this foreshadowing? A declaration he was going to investigate Shizun personally?
Hell no. You're back on the list, kid.
"Good!" Rulin's voice was tighter than before. "Then observe from a distance. Five paces. Minimum. From Shizun. His spiritual energy is… pure. It can be destabilized by uncontrolled external admiration." It was the best lie he could manage on short notice. As head disciple, his word was law for now.
"As Shixiong instructs," Hanmo murmured, the picture of obedient compliance.
Rulin walked ahead, his mind racing. I must be vigilant. Prevent the romance, but don't irritate the protagonist… He might hate me already. He was staring at Shizun so much, and now I've forbidden it… You know what? Whatever. If I'm going to die, I'll die fighting. No regrets!
Unintentionally increasing his pace, Rulin glanced back. Hanmo matched his stride effortlessly. And yet… Rulin missed the way Hanmo's fingers slowly uncurled at his side, the ghost of a grip on a sword that wasn't there. He missed how Hanmo's pleasant, vacant expression seemed to settle into something quiet and sharp.
Rulin shook his head, a headache brewing. No more experimental tea blends in the morning. Is it the chrysanthemums… or the black tea? Ugh.