Chapter 8: The Unseen Ripples
The change in Wei Tiezhu was as subtle and profound as the shift in a river's current after a distant landslide. He didn't become louder or more arrogant. If anything, he grew quieter, his movements more deliberate, his presence more solid. In the clamorous, chaotic depths of the spirit stone mine, he was an island of calm, unshakeable stability. The Unmoving Mountain technique, once a desperate, clumsy imitation, was now becoming an integral part of his being. The promotional elixir—the "Revitalizing Formula" spirit cola—hadn't just broken a bottleneck; it had rewired his spiritual pathways, making them more receptive to the deep, patient earth Qi that had always been his birthright but had remained locked away.
Brother Gang, the mine foreman, no longer sneered. He watched Tiezhu with a grudging, calculating respect. The deep-vein extraction team was where the sect sent its most promising—or most expendable—outer sect body cultivators. The spiritual pressure was crushing, the air thick with toxic mineral fumes, and the risk of cave-ins was constant. But the ore there was purer, laced with veins of nascent elemental energy that could be absorbed during the extraction process, a perilous but potent cultivation aid.
Tiezhu thrived. Where others strained and buckled, he stood firm. He learned to read the groans of the mountain, to feel the subtle shifts in pressure that heralded a collapse. He became the anchor of his team, the unspoken pillar they rallied around. His reputation began to shift from "the stubborn country boy" to "the unshakeable rock." He even earned a new, respectful nickname from the other miners: "Young Master Boulder."
He knew, with a certainty that went deeper than bone, that he owed it all to his cousin. The lazy, infuriating, incomprehensible genius who was, at this very moment, probably asleep in a herb garden.
—
Wei Xiao'ou's reputation, meanwhile, was curdling in a different direction. The "Lucky Slacker" moniker was beginning to wear thin, replaced by whispers of "the Lazy Demon" or "Senior Brother Accident." His success in the herb garden was too consistent, too perfect, to be attributed to mere fortune. Senior Brother Gao's initial bafflement had soured into a deep, paranoid resentment. He was sure the country bumpkin was mocking him, using some hidden trick to make a fool of him.
One afternoon, Gao decided to set a trap. He secretly contaminated a patch of prized Golden-Sun Buds with a subtle, slow-acting spiritual blight, a fungus that would take days to manifest. He then assigned Xiao'ou the task of "revitalizing" that specific section, knowing that when the blight inevitably appeared, he could pin the blame—and the massive cost—on the lazy disciple.
The next morning, Gao rushed to the garden, a triumphant sneer on his lips, ready to expose the fraud.
He found Xiao'ou asleep, as usual, in his favorite sunny spot. But the patch of Golden-Sun Buds… they were not blighted. They were radiant, their petals shimmering with a health and vibrancy he had never seen before. The soil around them was dark and rich, humming with vitality. The blight was gone, utterly eradicated.
Impossible.
Furious, Gao stormed over and kicked Xiao'ou's foot. "Wake up! What did you do?"
Xiao'ou sat up, blinking slowly. "Do? I was napping, Senior Brother. The sunlight here is excellent for spiritual photosynthesis. You should try it."
"Don't play dumb with me!" Gao shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at the thriving buds. "There was a blight! A spiritual rot! How did you cure it?"
Xiao'ou looked at the plants, then back at Gao, his expression one of mild curiosity. "A blight? How strange. Perhaps the soil was just tired. I sometimes talk to the earthworms, you know. They're excellent listeners. They must have passed the message along."
Gao felt a vein throbbing in his temple. Earthworms. He was being mocked by earthworms. He was about to unleash a torrent of threats when a cool, clear voice cut through the air.
"Senior Brother Gao. A report on the garden's yield is due at the Alchemy Pavilion."
Senior Sister Shen Bing stood at the garden's entrance, her ice-blue robes immaculate, her expression as unreadable as a frozen lake. Her gaze swept over the flourishing garden, then landed on the seated Xiao'ou and the apoplectic Gao.
Gao immediately straightened up, his face smoothing into a mask of obsequious respect. "Senior Sister Shen! My apologies. I was just… disciplining a lazy disciple."
Shen Bing's eyes lingered on Xiao'ou for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. "The garden appears to be in exceptional health. Far exceeding its quarterly projections. The Alchemy Hall has taken note. They are… pleased."
The words were a death sentence for Gao's hopes of getting Xiao'ou in trouble. If the Alchemy Hall was pleased, then this lazy demon was untouchable.
"Y-yes, Senior Sister," Gao stammered, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
Shen Bing gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then turned and left as silently as she had arrived.
Xiao'ou watched her go, a thoughtful look in his eyes. Then he lay back down, closed his eyes, and within moments, was softly snoring.
Senior Brother Gao stood over him, trembling with impotent rage. He was being out-cultivated, out-maneuvered, and utterly humiliated by a sleeping log. The unseen hand guiding this farce was laughing at him, and the laughter was silent, pervasive, and utterly maddening.
—
The ripples of Xiao'ou's presence were not confined to the herb garden. In the crowded, noisy refectory, Murong Chubby had become his most ardent disciple and business partner. Their collaboration, "Xiao'ou & Chubby's Astonishing Elixirs and Edibles," was an underground sensation. Operating from their dormitory bunk, they offered a range of products that defied sect convention.
There was the "Nap-Time Pillow Mist," a spray that ensured deep, dreamless sleep even in the most cacophonous dormitory. The "Essence Condensation Cola," the formula that had helped Tiezhu, now in a diluted, more affordable version for the masses. And their latest, most controversial creation: the "Sword-Intent Deflection Digestive Biscuit."
The biscuits were Chubby's idea. He suffered terribly from the ambient sword intent in the air, which gave him constant spiritual indigestion. Xiao'ou, in a moment of what he called "culinary alchemical genius," had devised a recipe that used the crushed shells of the Spirit-Sucking Aphids (which he had in abundance) and a specific, counter-resonant frequency of earth Qi to create a biscuit that, when eaten, formed a temporary, gentle barrier against the aggressive sword energy.
They were a godsend for disciples with non-sword affinities, and they sold like hotcakes. This, however, drew the attention of the Sword Enforcement Division.
One evening, as Chubby was conducting a transaction behind the refectory, two inner sect disciples from the Enforcement Division cornered him. They were lean, sharp-eyed, and radiated the unyielding aura of their trade.
"Murong Chubby. You are charged with the unlicensed distribution of unapproved consumables that interfere with the sacred sword intent of the Heavenly Sword Peak," the lead enforcer intoned, his voice like grinding stones. "The punishment is confiscation of all illicit goods and one month of latrine duty."
Chubby's face paled. "B-but, Senior Brothers! They're just biscuits! They help people!"
"Silence! The pervasive sword intent is a vital training tool. To shield oneself from it is to reject the core tenet of our sect. Hand over your inventory."
At that moment, a lazy voice drifted from the shadows. "Is there a problem?"
Wei Xiao'ou ambled into view, munching on one of the offending biscuits.
"Ah, Wei Xiao'ou. Just the person we were looking for," the enforcer sneered. "You are implicated as the creator of this… spiritual contraband."
Xiao'ou finished his biscuit and brushed the crumbs from his fingers. "Contraband? Senior Brother, this is a matter of profound philosophical misunderstanding."
The enforcers stared at him.
"You see," Xiao'ou continued, his tone that of a patient lecturer, "the sword intent is indeed a sacred training tool. But like any tool, its effectiveness depends on the user. A novice swordsman who only ever faces a blunted training sword will never learn to sense a true killing intent. By allowing disciples to occasionally 'turn down the volume' on the ambient intent, these biscuits actually enhance their training. They learn to consciously seek out the sword intent when they are ready, rather than being passively battered by it. It fosters a more mindful, intentional cultivation. It's not a shield; it's a volume knob."
The two enforcers were momentarily speechless. They had been trained to break bones and enforce rules, not to engage in philosophical debates about cultivation pedagogy with a sleepy-eyed outer disciple.
"That… that is not the doctrine of the Heavenly Sword Peak!" the lead enforcer finally spluttered.
"Perhaps the doctrine needs an update," Xiao'ou said with a shrug. "After all, the greatest sword is the one that can be sheathed. The sharpest intent is the one that can be controlled. To be constantly, mindlessly sharp is to be… well, rather dull, don't you think?"
He gave them a bland smile. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a meeting with the Alchemy Hall. They've expressed interest in mass-producing our 'Sword-Intent Modulation Wafers' for distribution to all new outer sect disciples. Something about reducing drop-out rates and improving foundational stability. You might want to check with Elder Guo before confiscating what is about to become official sect curriculum."
It was a bluff of breathtaking audacity. But Xiao'ou delivered it with such effortless, sleepy conviction that the enforcers hesitated. The mention of the Alchemy Hall and Elder Guo gave them pause. What if this ridiculous boy was telling the truth?
Muttering dark threats, the enforcers retreated, deciding to verify the story before taking action.
Chubby stared at Xiao'ou, his jaw hanging open. "You… you just talked the Sword Enforcement Division into a philosophical corner."
"A corner is just a poorly defined space," Xiao'ou replied, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Now, let's go see if we can actually get that meeting with the Alchemy Hall. Lying is so much more effective when you immediately set about making it true."
—
The most significant ripple, however, was one that nobody saw, least of all Wei Xiao'ou himself. It concerned Senior Sister Shen Bing.
Shen Bing was the perfect disciple of the Heavenly Sword Peak. Her "Frozen Heart Scripture" was progressing flawlessly. Her sword arts were impeccable. She was a jewel of the inner sect, destined for a glorious future as an elite enforcer or a peak master. Her heart was a fortress of ice, her mind a crystal-clear mirror reflecting only the path of the sword.
Or so she had thought.
The first crack had appeared during the recruitment, with the red paint incident. The sheer, absurd improbability of it had tickled a part of her brain that had been frozen since childhood.
The second crack was the herb garden. She had been sent by the Alchemy Hall to investigate the surprising surge in quality. She had expected to find a hidden genius, a disciple with a rare wood or earth affinity working in secret. Instead, she found a boy who slept all day and talked about earthworms.
But the garden was thriving. The spiritual harmony of the place was palpable, a symphony of balanced energies that was far beyond Senior Brother Gao's capabilities. It had to be the sleepy boy. But how?
Driven by a composure she couldn't explain, she began to observe him. Not with her spiritual sense, which revealed nothing but a faint, muddy Essence Condensation aura, but with her own eyes. She watched the way he moved through the garden, his footsteps always landing on the precise nexus points of the local ley lines. She saw the way the insects and small spirit beasts seemed unafraid of him, even drawn to him. She saw the way the plants themselves seemed to lean slightly towards him as he passed, as if seeking his benediction.
It was… unnatural. And beautiful.
One night, unable to quiet her mind, she descended from the inner sect peaks to the outer sect herb garden. The moon was full, bathing the Silver-Moon Petals in a luminescent glow. She moved like a ghost, her presence concealed by her superior cultivation.
She found him there, but he wasn't sleeping. He was sitting cross-legged on his grassy mound, his rusty umbrella across his knees. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't meditating in any way she recognized. He was… humming. A low, tuneless, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in the space between heartbeats.
As she watched, something impossible happened.
The moonlight, which was falling evenly across the garden, began to bend. It curved, like a river flowing around a stone, and pooled around Wei Xiao'ou. The Silver-Moon Petals, which normally only absorbed diffuse lunar light, now glowed as if they were themselves miniature moons, drinking directly from the concentrated pool of energy surrounding him. The very air seemed to thicken with a gentle, nourishing power that had nothing to do with the sharp, aggressive sword intent of the peak.
Shen Bing's Frozen Heart Scripture stuttered. Her breath caught in her throat. This wasn't a technique. This wasn't a cultivation art. This was something else entirely. It was as if he were not drawing in energy, but politely asking the universe to deliver it to him, and the universe was complying.
In that moment, the crystal-clear mirror of her mind, which had only ever reflected the sword, showed her a new image: a boy, bathed in stolen moonlight, humming the world into harmony. The image was so profound, so antithetical to everything she had been taught, that it created a hairline fracture in the ice of her heart.
A single, warm drop of water formed in the frozen tundra of her soul.
She retreated as silently as she had come, her mind in turmoil. The lazy, troublesome outer disciple was a paradox she could not solve. And for the first time in her life, Shen Bing, the perfect ice beauty, found herself intensely, dangerously curious about something other than the Dao of the Sword.
—
Wei Xiao'ou, of course, was blissfully unaware of the psychological crisis he was causing in one of the sect's rising stars. He was busy with a different problem: the approaching Outer Sect Tournament.
The tournament was a biannual event designed to cull the weak and identify talent for promotion to the inner sect. Participation was mandatory for all outer disciples of less than three years' standing. The battles were fierce, often brutal, and held in public arenas under the watchful eyes of the elders.
For Tiezhu, it was a terrifying prospect. For Xiao'ou, it was a monumental inconvenience.
"I can't fight in a tournament!" Tiezhu moaned, pacing in the narrow space between their dormitory bunks. "I'm a miner! I push rocks! The only 'technique' I know is how not to get crushed!"
"Then don't get crushed," Xiao'ou said from his bunk, where he was examining a map of the sect's sewer system—a project he had taken an inexplicable interest in. "The Unmoving Mountain is a defensive art. Your goal isn't to win. Your goal is to not lose."
"That's the same thing!"
"Philosophically, yes. Tactically, no." Xiao'ou rolled up the map. "Winning requires action. Not losing simply requires… persistence. Be the boulder. Let the river of your opponent's attacks flow around you. Eventually, they'll get tired."
"And what about you?" Tiezhu demanded. "You can't just sleep through a duel!"
"Why not?" Xiao'ou asked, genuinely puzzled. "It seems like the most efficient way to handle it."
His nonchalance was a mask. The tournament was a spotlight, and he had spent his entire life, both in this incarnation and the one before, avoiding spotlights. A public display was the antithesis of his "Lazy Sovereign" strategy. He needed a plan to lose, and lose in such a spectacularly, hilariously incompetent way that nobody would ever see him as a threat, while still technically fulfilling the participation requirement.
It was a delicate balancing act.
The day of the tournament arrived. The outer sect training grounds were transformed. Banners flew, elders sat on a raised dais, and hundreds of disciples crowded the edges of a dozen stone fighting platforms. The air crackled with competitive tension.
Wei Tiezhu's name was called for one of the first matches. His opponent was a lanky disciple from the Scriptorium, who specialized in swift, precise finger-strikes meant to disable meridians.
The bell rang. The Scriptorium disciple lunged, his fingers a blur, aiming for the pressure points on Tiezhu's arms and chest.
Tiezhu didn't move. He sank into his stance, the Unmoving Mountain. The disciple's strikes landed with a series of sharp thwacks, but it was like punching solid granite. Tiezhu grunted, but his feet didn't shift an inch. The disciple, surprised, redoubled his efforts, his attacks becoming faster, more frantic.
The crowd, which had expected a quick victory, grew quiet. They watched as the Scriptorium disciple flailed against what appeared to be a human-shaped piece of the mountain itself. After a full minute of futile assault, the disciple was panting, his spiritual energy depleted, his fingers swollen and bruised.
Tiezhu, seeing his opponent's exhaustion, took a single, slow step forward. He didn't throw a punch. He simply placed his palm on the disciple's chest and pushed.
It wasn't a forceful push. It was a firm, inexorable pressure, like a glacier advancing. The disciple, off-balance and drained, stumbled backwards and fell out of the ring.
The silence was broken by a single, slow clap from Brother Gang, who was watching from the sidelines. Then, a wave of applause erupted. Wei Tiezhu had won. Not with flashy techniques, but with sheer, unbreakable endurance.
He stood in the ring, breathing heavily, a look of stunned disbelief on his face. He had done it. He had won his first duel.
Then, it was Wei Xiao'ou's turn.
His opponent was a fire-affinity disciple from the Alchemy Hall's subsidiary branch, a boy with a volatile temper and hands that flickered with orange flame.
The bell rang.
The fire disciple roared, unleashing a torrent of flame towards Xiao'ou, who was standing languidly at the center of the ring, his umbrella held loosely in one hand.
Xiao'ou didn't dodge. He didn't block. He yawned.
As the wave of fire reached him, he casually opened his umbrella.
It was a perfectly normal, almost pathetic gesture. But as the tattered, rusty cloth unfurled, the roaring wall of flame… parted. It split into two harmless streams that flowed around the umbrella and dissipated harmlessly against the barrier of the ring.
The fire disciple stared, his jaw slack.
Xiao'ou peered out from behind the umbrella. "Oh. Is it my turn? Sorry, I was admiring the craftsmanship of this umbrella. It's really quite durable."
Enraged, the fire disciple charged, his fists wreathed in fire. "I'll break that piece of junk and you with it!"
He threw a powerful, flaming punch directly at the umbrella.
Xiao'ou, with a movement that seemed both lazy and impossibly precise, tilted the umbrella slightly.
The disciple's fist slammed into the taut, rusty cloth. There was a sound like a gong being struck. A wave of concussive force, the disciple's own amplified by the umbrella's strange properties, reverberated back up his arm. There was a sickening crack.
The fire disciple screamed, clutching his broken wrist.
Xiao'ou looked at him, his expression one of mild reproach. "You should be more careful. This umbrella is an antique. It has sentimental value."
He then turned to the stunned referee. "I believe I win? He seems to have injured himself on my defensive implement."
The crowd was in an uproar. It was the most bizarre, infuriating, and somehow effective victory they had ever seen. He hadn't thrown a single punch. He had just stood there with an umbrella.
From the elders' dais, Elder Guo watched, his face a stony mask. Next to him, Long Aotian sneered. "A fluke. A cheap trick with a spiritual tool. He is an insult to the very concept of a duel."
But Shen Bing, who was also seated on the dais as a representative of the inner sect, said nothing. She had seen it. The way the umbrella hadn't just blocked the fire, but had redirected it. The way it had resonated with the punch, turning the attacker's own force against him. It wasn't a fluke. It was a level of spiritual control so fine, so effortless, that it was terrifying.
Wei Xiao'ou had won his first match. His plan to lose spectacularly had backfired, turning him into an even greater object of fascination and ire.
As he ambled out of the ring, he sighed. This was getting complicated. The ripples he was causing were turning into waves, and he had a sinking feeling that he was going to be called upon to do more than just nap in the very near future.