"Rule number 333: Be strong enough to keep ten women under your control."
The voice cut through the classroom like the edge of a blade—measured, resonant, and cold.
The room smelled faintly of incense and old, well-cured stone, a chill in the air that promised ancient knowledge and even older pain. Lanterns flickered along the walls, their soft, uneven glow casting restless shadows over rows of young cultivators seated cross-legged on polished floor mats. The silence was not peaceful; it was suffocating—taut and waiting to snap.
At the front, a figure stood in stark relief against the dim light. Ye Hàn Zài, nineteen, pinnacle of the Han Clan's senior class and the living embodiment of absolute discipline, surveyed his students with surgical precision. His black-blue robes were immaculate, their heavy silk whispering of wealth and rank. Hands clasped behind his back, he radiated a stillness so refined it crushed the air out of the room.
"Men will be men," he continued, tone smooth yet edged with command. "Remember it. I'll explain this chapter tomorrow. Otherwise, strength without precision is nothing but brute force. Obedience without understanding is nothing but chaos. Any questions?"
A few students swallowed hard, eyes fixed on their desks. None dared to speak.
The words—Control. Obedience. Power.—echoed in Hùa Yǐng's mind, stirring a strange mix of awe and unease. He had always obeyed quietly, but something about this lesson pressed against a nerve he didn't yet understand.
Still, like any young mind bored by theory, his attention drifted. He found himself studying the man instead—the perfect architecture of Hàn Zài's presence, the flawless drape of his sleeves, the quiet authority in his movements, the way his long, silk-black hair framed a face too composed for his age. He looked less like a student, more like a sculpture of what the Clan believed a man should be.
Hàn Zài, sensing the prolonged silence, murmured under his breath, not making eye contact with anyone. "Of course, you all have nothing to ask. Not because the lesson is clear, but because you do not know what to ask." His voice was too low and fast to be clearly heard, but the juniors caught the indistinct rumble, causing some to blink in confusion.
"It's just the way Shizun is," one junior whispered to his confused friend. "Just focus on his lessons."
Hùa Yǐng, sitting in the back row, blinked, his rosy, innocent eyes flickering over the senior. He murmured in an awestruck tone, "A perfect drawing figure." His hand, driven by an unstoppable habit, was already moving, doodling a figure in his notebook without needing to look down. He loved drawing and sketched anything that captured his interest or cured his boredom.
Outside the classroom, two senior clan members, Míng Sū and Wèi Lún, stood monitoring. They smirked, a shared pride on their faces, nodding thoughtfully, their arms crossed.
"Excellent," murmured Míng Sū, his eyes softening as they followed Hàn Zài's precise movements. "Look at that stillness. The way he owns the space. He's already a master of the presence of power."
"Why not? He's… born perfect, almost like our Dàozǔ used to be," Wèi Lún replied, voice low, tilting his head. "The only flaw? Dual-talking. He can't stop muttering to himself—did you catch him just now? Something about the wind being insufficient. But the composure… flawless. No one else can see the flaw."
"It's how he channels his energy," Míng Sū rationalized, a faint smile playing on his lips. "He has to expel the excess to maintain the core stillness. A necessary evil for genius."
"Focus. Do not talk in class," Hàn Zài's voice cut through the low murmur of the whispering students, calm but sharp enough to slice glass. His eyes, cold and blue, casually flickered over Hùa Yǐng, whose distraction was now conspicuous. He cleared his throat a little too loudly, a deliberate sound that made Hùa Yǐng wince and snap to attention, his sketching hand freezing above the paper. The drawing was already half-done, only the detailing remaining.
Hàn Zài's own uncontrollable habit kicked in again, a low, irritable mutter. "Why is the most chattering class always under my control?" He struck his closed handfan lightly on his table, his eyes sharpening.
Hùa Yǐng watched, fascinated by the senior's annoyed-yet-composed look, the indistinct murmurs making him seem even more untouchable, as though nothing could ever truly satisfy him. The young boy, struck by idolization, tried to mimic it. He moved his lips, mimicking the senior's petulant look, and put the tip of his brush under his chin. He silently mouthed the words he'd heard: "Why is the most chattering class under my control?"
A faint chuckle made him freeze. Hùa Yǐng blinked, turning to see his two twin friends, Chéng Yǐn and Yǐn Chàng, struggling to stifle their laughter. They were pointing at their own chins, making silent gestures to indicate his blunder. Hùa Yǐng's eyes widened. He looked down at the brush and realized he had just smeared wet ink across his chin. His breath hitched in mortification, and he quickly covered the spot, frantically trying to wipe it away.
Hàn Zài stopped his pacing instantly, a movement that brought the room's air pressure down. Everyone tensed: Shizun's attention had been caught, and it would not end well. His arms snapped back behind him, his eyes fixed again on Hùa Yǐng, the "slippery fish" who was neither wholly obedient nor truly mischievous—just lost in himself. Hàn Zài spared a brief, lethal glare for the friends, who instantly bent their heads over their books.
Hùa Yǐng quickly lowered his gaze to his own book, though the open, damning drawing page was still visible. He pretended to read, his heart hammering in a desperate prayer: Please, please look away, Shizun! I can't handle this icy gaze; I'm just a new student!
Hàn Zài, a master of intimidation, had already read the young boy's panic. He continued his lesson, his voice dangerously soft. "Control is not a gift. It is learned. Power is meaningless if it cannot be wielded with certainty. You will not command a single life—nor ten—if you cannot command yourself first."
He then murmured, his voice barely audible, "Just one wrong move, little one, and I will ask a question so hard that you'll piss yourself."
A collective shiver ran through the room, not from the cold, but from the raw weight of the veiled threat.
"He's angry…"
"Who knows who that unlucky, yet unwisely chosen student is?"
"I hope it's not me."
Among the students, Hùa Yǐng shifted, his knees pressed together, his small hands clenched. He knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that the threat was meant for him. He watched Hàn Zài, memorizing the sharp lines of his face, the silent calculation flickering in his dark-blue eyes. That gaze made Hùa Yǐng feel utterly exposed, as if the senior could read every chaotic thought and hesitant fear.
His palpable nervousness was an irresistible lure. Hàn Zài moved, his back ramrod straight, each echoing step of his boots a tide in the sudden silence. He stopped, appearing like a ghost beside Hùa Yǐng's desk, his cold blue eyes fixed on the boy.
Hùa Yǐng's panic was complete; he realized his book had fallen closed, and he'd lost his place. Ah, not now! he internally hissed, fumbling to find the page.
"Stand up," Hàn Zài commanded.
Hùa Yǐng froze, his small fists clenching. He had been caught. Hàn Zài murmured, eyes flickering elsewhere, "Lucky enough to get multiple warnings, yet unlucky for not knowing how to utilize them." His eyes snapped back to the boy's pale, frozen face.
Hua Ying's mind could only scream silently : Why am I always the one who welcomes all the sin?! Hùa Yǐng's mind screamed. They talked and laughed too, while I only moved my hand to draw!
Every pair of curious, terrified eyes was on him.
"Oh, that fool…" Chéng Yǐn whispered, face-palming lightly.
"When will he learn not to attract danger?" Yǐn Chàng groaned, fanning himself with an emergency handfan, which his twin immediately snatched away, shushing him.
Hùa Yǐng swallowed hard and stood, his lips pressed into a thin line, his hands trembling as he quickly, desperately closed his notebook.
Hàn Zài's sharp eyes flickered to the book. He had a premonition—a feeling of something being guarded. His cold curiosity burned to unearth the boy's "huge secret."
"You will not sit down for the rest of the class if you cannot answer my question," Hàn Zài stated, his gaze so sharp it seemed to trace the rapid pulse in Hùa Yǐng's neck. The senior enjoyed the younger's fear; it puffed up his pride as a young man of power. He murmured the full punishment, adding steel to the threat: "Or perhaps you'll stand the whole day, so that you cannot even kneel. Next is Shizun Wù Yàn's class. I will inform him to keep you standing."
The air thickened. Hùa Yǐng's eyes widened, the realization hitting him: This man is going to break my legs without ever touching them. His mind raced, desperate to recall a rule, a number.
"As a man, what will you do if you want to cry? And why? Which rule number is it?"
The class gasped. This was one of the hardest, unexplained questions from the next chapter. Not one, but three components! Hùa Yǐng's mouth opened and closed like a fish.
He stammered, "S-Shizun… this chapter… or question, wasn't explained, right? C-Could you ask from the current topic?"
A faint, chilling smirk touched Hàn Zài's lips. He had caught him. "I haven't explained it, but I know the true Senior explained it already. It means you haven't opened your book even once this week, doesn't it? Now, you cannot sit down all day without answering." He chuckled thoughtfully through his nose, looking away for a brief, menacing moment.
"Men will cry if they want to… and it's Rule Number 564, because nobody should hold back their sadness…" Hùa Yǐng answered, the words tumbling out hesitantly.
Chéng Yǐn slapped his hand over his mouth. Yǐn Chàng face-palmed. "Oh, he said the total opposite of everything…"
Hùa Yǐng saw the students' shocked faces and glanced up at Hàn Zài—utterly unreadable, calm as a blade. He said nothing, and that silence alone promised lessons far harsher than words.