Chapter 3: The Art of Doing Absolutely Everything Wrong (On Purpose)
There's a special kind of peace that comes from watching someone fail spectacularly at basic physical activity.
A divine, soul-soothing peace.
Wu Ming sat atop a wobbling fence post, legs crossed, sipping a cup of tea he brewed using a combination of fireless Qi pressure and what looked suspiciously like stolen dew.
Below him, Mu Yao—his first and only disciple—was valiantly attempting to carry two buckets of water uphill. Uphill. With no handles. Using only chopsticks.
"No! Keep your spine straight. If you slouch, the water will sense your weakness."
Mu Yao blinked at him, sweat pouring down his forehead. "...The water will what?"
Wu Ming smiled. "It will laugh at you."
One of the buckets slipped. Water splashed all over his face.
"See?" Wu Ming said, swirling his tea. "Told you."
---
One Disciple, Many Headaches
The training regimen Wu Ming had devised could generously be described as "nontraditional." Less generously, it could be described as "a series of criminally questionable dares disguised as life lessons."
On day one, Mu Yao had been tasked with racing a wild chicken uphill while reciting multiplication tables backward.
On day two, he was told to sit in a pond and convince a frog to acknowledge his spiritual authority.
He still had bruises from that frog.
But on day three—which was today—Wu Ming had taken it up a notch.
"You must complete the Four Pillars of Foundation," he announced at dawn, hands behind his back, voice solemn.
Mu Yao blinked from under a pile of damp hay. "Is that… a cultivation technique?"
"No," Wu Ming said. "It's a metaphor."
"For what?"
"Figure that out, and you'll have completed pillar one."
Mu Yao groaned and stood up slowly. "Master, are all cultivators trained like this?"
Wu Ming tilted his head. "No. Most are taught like sensible people. That's why they all die dramatically by age 500."
---
Meanwhile, Somewhere Far Above…
In the Heavenly Registry, where destinies are usually written with divine brush strokes and the occasional dramatic thunderclap, a low-level fate intern stared at a scroll and screamed.
The scroll in question was titled:
"Mu Yao, Son of No One, Student of a Madman"
It had just glitched.
One moment, it said: "Fated to die unknown in a mudslide."
The next: "Spiritual potential: Awakened. Thread of possibility: God-tier."
The intern fainted. Somewhere nearby, a pigeon exploded.
---
Back on Earth, Sort Of
Wu Ming was busy drawing in the dirt with a stick, sketching a "Cultivation Diagram" that looked suspiciously like a cow wearing sunglasses.
Mu Yao stood nearby, drenched in his own failure.
"Master," he said, wiping dirt off his face. "When do we start learning actual techniques? Like... proper Qi circulation? Sword forms?"
Wu Ming raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to become strong?"
"Yes!"
"Do you want to become strong like everyone else?"
"No!"
"Then stop asking for what they have and start trusting what you don't understand."
Mu Yao paused. "...Is that a yes or a no?"
Wu Ming grinned. "Exactly."
---
Wu Ming's Version of Enlightenment
Later that evening, as stars blinked lazily into the sky, Wu Ming sat with his back against a tree, humming a song that hadn't existed until he thought of it.
Mu Yao was passed out beside the fire, snoring like someone being gently strangled by enlightenment.
The boy had learned one thing today: balance.
After six water buckets, three startled goats, and one unfortunate incident involving a flying pan, Mu Yao had found the perfect way to keep his body still and his mind calmer than usual.
It had taken precisely thirteen falls, four breakdowns, and a squirrel attack.
Wu Ming leaned over and whispered, "Tomorrow, we start breath control."
Mu Yao snored in response.
---
Strange Visitors
Just before midnight, Wu Ming felt it.
A presence—sharp and silent, slithering through the spiritual fabric like an unpaid tax.
He sighed. "I was wondering when they'd show up."
A figure stepped out from the trees. Then another. And another.
Three cultivators. Robes too clean. Eyes too proud. Swords too decorative.
Azure Feather Sect lackeys.
The tallest one sneered. "You there. We've received reports of... strange activity. Unregistered cultivation. Unauthorized Qi manipulation."
Wu Ming blinked. "Unauthorized? I wasn't aware cultivation required a license now."
"It does," the man snapped. "If it affects the local balance."
Mu Yao stirred behind the fire. Wu Ming raised a hand to keep him quiet.
The second cultivator squinted at Wu Ming. "You're the one who broke the talent crystal last week."
Wu Ming gave a warm smile. "Yes. And you're the one who tripped over a chicken."
The man paled.
The leader stepped forward. "Enough games. Identify your sect."
"I don't have one."
"Then by order of the Azure Feather Sect, we're taking your disciple—"
"No," Wu Ming said, still smiling.
"You would resist a sect order?"
"I would resist boredom. That's much worse."
The cultivators moved.
Wu Ming yawned.
Then—
Wind snapped. Fire inverted. The very soil trembled.
In a blink, the three were on their knees. Not from force—but from understanding.
Something in them screamed: this man cannot be measured.
Wu Ming stood and dusted off his robes. "Go back. Tell your elder he's using the wrong kind of incense. That's why his third disciple keeps failing tribulation."
They stumbled away without another word.
Mu Yao blinked. "Master... what just happened?"
Wu Ming poured him tea. "Nothing serious. Just reminding the heavens where their roots are."
---
Training, Continued (And Slightly More Useful)
The next morning, Wu Ming gave Mu Yao a spoon.
"Dig."
Mu Yao stared at the ground. "A hole?"
"No. A metaphor."
"…A metaphor for what?"
"That's up to you."
Three hours later, Mu Yao had dug a shallow pit.
Wu Ming stood over it, nodding. "What do you feel?"
"Blisters."
"Good. Now you're cultivating pain resistance."
Mu Yao flopped over with a groan. "This can't possibly be a real method."
Wu Ming tapped his own forehead. "Everything is a real method, if you believe hard enough and survive."
---
The Cliffhanger Approacheth…
That night, Mu Yao lay asleep again.
Wu Ming, however, stared up at the stars. His smile had faded.
Something far above pulsed—a shift in cosmic rhythm.
Someone... or something... was watching.
> "So," he whispered, "you noticed already."
He stood slowly and looked toward the north, where a forbidden peak shimmered with unnatural light.
It was still early. Much too early.
He hadn't even taught Mu Yao how to punch properly yet.
---
🌀 End Note — From Wu Ming
Congratulations.
You survived Chapter 3 without choking on confusion or stabbing a sect recruiter. That makes you rare.
So here's what happens now:
🐣 Click that Collection button
💠 Offer a Power Stone to the divine comedy of my teachings
🐔 Tell your chicken not to cross the road without supervision
– Wu Ming,
The Handsome Disaster You Didn't Know You Needed