Xue Laohu made his way into Sect Leader Mao's study, the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea wafting through the air. The study was a reflection of Sect Leader Mao's meticulous nature—rows of scrolls lined the shelves, the wooden desk was polished to a gleam, and an inkstone lay neatly beside an unfinished letter. Sect Leader Mao sat at the head of the room, holding a steaming cup of tea. He blew on it gently, his whiskers trembling from the effort. As his lips met the ceramic, his face contorted in pain.
"Agh!" he yelped, the scalding tea spilling from his hands and splashing onto the pristine wooden floor. The dark liquid seeped into his finely pressed robes, leaving an unsightly stain. He leapt up, his whiskers quivering with indignation. "Who in the nine realms is making this tea so piping hot?" he barked, his lips still throbbing from the burn.
Xue Laohu, standing near the doorway, couldn't suppress a smirk. "Ahem," he coughed lightly, stepping forward and seating himself at the low table. "Has Sect Leader Mao ever considered iced tea?"
"Iced tea?" Sect Leader Mao repeated, his eyebrows shooting up as he dabbed at his ruined robes with a silk handkerchief. His whiskers twitched, the suggestion clearly baffling him.
"Yes," Xue Laohu began, leaning forward as if imparting some great secret. "Where I'm from, it's quite popular. You can even add milk to it—call it iced milk tea. It's all the rave."
Sect Leader Mao stroked his beard, his expression a mix of intrigue and skepticism. "Iced...milk tea? Hm. I'll have to try it. But enough about that." He waved his hand dismissively, the earlier curiosity evaporating as he reached for a rolled-up map on his desk. He flattened it onto the table, his tone shifting to one of urgency. "This," he said, pointing to a craggy peak drawn on the parchment, "is Mount Dingfeng. At its summit lies the Dingfeng Sect. Recently, they've been crossing the river and recruiting disciples from our territory."
Xue Laohu arched an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. "I see..." he said, his voice laced with indifference.
Sect Leader Mao jabbed a finger at the map, his whiskers trembling with barely contained anger. "Dingbu and Dingfeng have long upheld a treaty," he continued, his voice growing more heated. "The river is our boundary. They take nothing from our side, and we take nothing from theirs. But according to my disciples, their Sect Leader and Grandmaster have been seen luring people from our villages to their side of the mountain. This cannot stand."
Xue Laohu exhaled slowly, his tone still casual. "So… what would Sect Leader Mao like me to do about it?"
Sect Leader Mao's voice dropped, low and resolute. "I want us to go to war."
The air seemed to thicken. Xue Laohu stared at him, momentarily stunned. "What?" he stammered, blinking in disbelief. War? Over some disciples? Is this man out of his mind? he thought, barely keeping his composure.
Clearing his throat, Xue Laohu leaned forward, trying to sound diplomatic. "Sect Leader Mao, if I may… don't you think declaring war is a bit extreme? Have you tried, I don't know, talking to the person in charge?"
"Hmph." Sect Leader Mao snorted, his expression hardening. "Talk? With him? Useless. He's doing this on purpose. I know it."
Xue Laohu tilted his head. "Him? Who are you talking about?"
Sect Leader Mao hesitated, then let out a long sigh. "I suppose I've never told you," he said, his voice heavy with reluctance. He turned toward the window, clasping his hands behind his back. His eyes fixed on the horizon as he stroked his beard. "Zhao," he said at last. "The Sect Leader of Mount Dingfeng. He's my older brother."
Xue Laohu's jaw nearly dropped. They're brothers?
Sect Leader Mao continued, his tone bitter. "He's always tried to one-up me. As boys, as leaders—it never ends. Talking to him is a waste of breath. He's done this to humiliate me."
"Surely," Xue Laohu interjected, "brothers shouldn't fight. A bloodbath, especially over something as trivial as recruiting disciples, would only bring shame to both sects."
Sect Leader Mao's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding audibly. "Then what would you have me do?" he snapped, his voice rising. "Let him walk all over me? Let him make me a laughingstock in my own land?"
As a younger sibling, Yi Ming deeply understood Sect Leader Mao's sentiments. Living in the shadow of an older sibling who excelled in every conceivable way was a feeling he knew all too well. His older sister was nothing short of extraordinary—a prodigy in every sense of the word. Academically, she was at the top of her class, her name often announced during school ceremonies for her achievements. Her calligraphy was so beautiful that their parents framed her works and proudly displayed them in the living room. She played not one, but several instruments, mastering the piano and violin with ease, her performances captivating anyone who heard her. To top it off, she spoke three languages fluently and excelled in every sport she tried, whether it was swimming, gymnastics, or even track. She was, quite simply, a perfect child—a dream in their parents' eyes.
Yi Ming, however, was the polar opposite.
He had a terrible memory and struggled to keep up in school. His academic performance was so lackluster that his report cards were often met with disappointed sighs from his parents. His handwriting was atrocious—his mother had once called it "chicken scratch" in exasperation, and his calligraphy assignments were practically illegible. When it came to music, he was a disaster. He had tried several instruments in his school's music class, but his teacher, after countless failed attempts, relegated him to playing the cowbell. Even then, he managed to play offbeat, ruining the rhythm of the entire ensemble.
Languages were no better. While his sister could switch effortlessly between three, Yi Ming struggled to maintain fluency in their mother tongue, let alone pick up another language. At best, he considered himself conversationally decent in two languages, but his confidence in even that was shaky.
Sports were a constant source of humiliation. His coordination was so poor that he was often benched or outright turned away from teams. He never learned to swim and couldn't stretch enough to survive a single gymnastics class. His short legs disqualified him from the track team, and his attempts at football ended with him tripping over his own feet. Basketball was a lost cause due to his height, and tennis proved to be an unmitigated disaster—he couldn't hit the ball no matter how hard he tried.
But then there was baseball.
Baseball wasn't exactly a popular sport in their town, which turned out to be a blessing. Unlike the other sports dominated by prodigies and star athletes, baseball was filled with kids who were, frankly, just as mediocre as Yi Ming. No one expected perfection; in fact, no one even expected competence. It was a sport where mistakes were common, and that leveled the playing field.
For the first time, Yi Ming didn't feel out of place. His parents, initially disheartened by their son's struggles, were overjoyed when he finally found something he enjoyed. They watched him step onto the field with a mix of hope and relief, even if his performance was far from stellar. Yi Ming wasn't a star player—he wasn't even good, truth be told—but on that baseball field, surrounded by kids who were just as bad, he found a sense of belonging. For once, being average wasn't a bad thing. It was enough.
Then it hit him like a flash of inspiration. Why not suggest a baseball match? Since neither Sect Leader Mao nor his brother likely knew how to play, everyone would be on the same level of experience. A friendly—albeit competitive—game of baseball was infinitely better than spilling blood over territory disputes.
"Sect Leader Mao," Xue Laohu said suddenly, his eyes lighting up with excitement as he leaned forward. "If I may, I have a suggestion."
Sect Leader Mao turned to face him, his brows furrowing. "What is it, Grandmaster Xue? Speak your mind."
Xue Laohu straightened up, his grin wide and infectious. "Why not challenge your brother to a game? A match where the winner gets to reassign the contested territory."
Sect Leader Mao's whiskers twitched as he tilted his head in thought, gently stroking his beard. "A game?" he repeated, his voice tinged with both curiosity and skepticism. "Da Ge excels in every game—Xiangqi, Weiqi, Tuohu, you name it. He's always been unbeatable. How could I possibly—" He trailed off, his shoulders sagging under the weight of doubt.
"But," Xue Laohu interjected with a gleam in his eye, "has he ever played baseball?"
Sect Leader Mao blinked, his confusion apparent. "Base…ball?" he said slowly, testing the foreign word on his tongue. "I've never even heard of such a game."
"Exactly!" Xue Laohu exclaimed, his grin growing wider. "It's a sport from the West. Neither you nor your brother would have any prior experience, which means the playing field will be entirely even. No advantage, no tricks. Just pure competition. I can teach you both the rules of the game, and how you prepare will be entirely up to you."
Sect Leader Mao's expression shifted as he considered the idea, the doubt in his eyes replaced by a glimmer of intrigue. "A game neither of us has ever played…" he murmured. Slowly, his lips curled into a smile. "Da Ge is fiercely competitive. He would never back down from a challenge, especially not one where he thinks he can humiliate me."
"Precisely!" Xue Laohu said, clapping his hands together. "And this way, there's no bloodshed, no needless war. Just a test of skill, strategy, and teamwork."
Sect Leader Mao's excitement was building now, his whiskers quivering as he paced the room. "If we're doing this, we cannot afford to lose. I will not give him the satisfaction of defeating me at something new. Grandmaster Xue, you must teach us everything about this game."
"Of course, Sect Leader Mao," Xue Laohu replied with a bow, though he couldn't suppress a mischievous smirk. Xue Laohu chuckled, imagining the chaos that would inevitably ensue when an entire sect of martial artists attempted to swing bats and catch balls. But he held his tongue, opting instead to bow once more. "Then it's settled. I will draw up the rules and arrange for the equipment."
Xue Laohu finally made it to his bed, exhaustion weighing on him like a heavy cloak. He let out a long sigh as he flung himself onto the soft mattress, his body sinking into the comforting embrace of the bedding. For the first time all day, he felt at peace—until the silence was interrupted by a faint knock on his door.
The knock was soft but insistent, followed by a sweet and familiar voice calling, "Shizun…"
Xue Laohu groaned and sat up reluctantly, running a hand through his messy hair. He trudged over to the door but didn't open it. Instead, he leaned against the frame, his voice sharp but quiet. "Speak," he commanded, refusing to let Meng Meng enter. He had already let the disciple drag him into enough trouble for one day.
On the other side of the door, Li Zhameng knelt obediently, his head bowed and lips slightly pouted in disappointment. He just wanted to see his Shizun. "Shizun, this disciple has come back to report," he said softly, his tone laced with a mixture of respect and longing.
"And?" Xue Laohu crossed his arms, tapping his fingers impatiently against his biceps. He didn't have time for games, not when rest was finally within his grasp.
"A-Tuzi…" Li Zhameng began hesitantly, "…he fancies someone here in Sect Mount Dingbu."
The words struck Xue Laohu like a thunderclap. He slid the door open so abruptly that Li Zhameng flinched. "WHAT?!" he barked, eyes wide with disbelief. "Who? Did he tell you?"
Li Zhameng shook his head, a slight frown on his face. "No, Shizun. He refused to tell me. But he said it was someone I know."
Xue Laohu leaned down, his face dangerously close to Li Zhameng's. His piercing gaze bore into the disciple's flushed cheeks. "Who do you know?" he pressed, his tone leaving no room for evasion.
Li Zhameng gulped, his blush deepening under the intensity of his Shizun's stare. "Well…I speak to everyone," he stammered "My mom always taught me to greet and be polite with everyone," Li Zhameng replied, his voice cheerful but tinged with nervousness. His legs shifted subtly as he wiggled his feet beneath him. Sitting on his knees was pure torture for him. The sharp pressure against his shins and the way his calves cramped made the posture feel like an ordeal, yet he remained steadfast. Respect for his Shizun was worth the discomfort, or so he told himself.
"Hmmm…" Xue Laohu tilted his head slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing as he pondered. Whipping out his fan with a flourish, he began to fan himself, the gentle breeze brushing through his bangs.
Li Zhameng's face lit up with sudden realization. "Oh! He did say it was a man," he added quickly, the memory rushing back to him.
"Of course." Xue Laohu's tone was casual, almost dismissive. "A beautiful man like A-Tuzi wouldn't be interested in women."
The words struck Li Zhameng like a blow. His cheerful demeanor crumbled as his face fell, his lips trembling slightly. He grasped the hem of his sleeves tightly, his knuckles whitening as jealousy and sadness bubbled inside him. "Shizun… thinks A-Tuzi is beautiful?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes were wide and pleading, like a puppy that had just been scolded.
"Ehhh…" Xue Laohu froze, caught off guard by the pitiful sight before him. He shifted awkwardly, suddenly feeling like the walls were closing in. He waved a hand dismissively, as if trying to brush the question away. "It's not like that. Not like that at all," he stammered, his usual composure cracking.
Li Zhameng's eyes stayed fixed on him, the weight of the question hanging in the air.
Xue Laohu sighed, realizing he had to address it directly. He snapped his fan shut with a decisive flick and held it to his chest. "Listen, you have to acknowledge and give credit where it's due. A-Tuzi is beautiful. But that does NOT mean I'm interested in him." His tone turned firm, his words sharp and deliberate. "Understood?"
Li Zhameng nodded slowly, though the sadness in his expression didn't fade. After a moment of silence, he looked up again, his voice trembling as he asked, "Does Shizun… think this disciple is beautiful?"
Xue Laohu's breath hitched. The question caught him entirely off guard, and he could feel his composure slipping further. Li Zhameng's wide, tear-filled eyes gazed up at him with such earnest vulnerability that it almost broke him.
"Ehhh…" he stammered again, his voice faltering. His mind raced for a proper response, unsure how to navigate the minefield he'd unintentionally stepped into. He coughed awkwardly into his fist clearing his throat in an attempt to steady himself. "Ahem…"
Li Zhameng didn't look away, his expectant gaze cutting through Xue Laohu's defenses like a blade.
Finally, Xue Laohu sighed in defeat. He pressed a fist lightly to his mouth, hesitating for a moment longer before mumbling, "I think… I think you're kinda cute."