The next morning, Lin Qinghe appeared in the practice field dressed in a robe that looked more like a blanket, hair uncombed and one sandal missing, holding a teacup in one hand and a folding fan in the other. "Today," he announced lazily, "we will cultivate… but in the style of the wind."
No one understood what that meant. Not the elders, not the junior disciples, not even the wind itself. Xie Liang, as always, tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting, as if asking silently, Master, what is expected of me? Lin Qinghe waved vaguely. "Do whatever feels… windy." That was all he said.
Half an hour later, the courtyard resembled a tornado. Xie Liang executed a series of movements so precise and sharp that the air seemed to shimmer, yet he also somehow managed to kick three practice dummies over, roll sideways to avoid a stray cat, and leap gracefully onto a low roof—all while glancing back at Lin Qinghe for the faintest nod of approval. Lin Qinghe, reclining against a tree, teacup balanced precariously on his chest, raised a single finger in acknowledgement. "Adequate," he murmured, and sipped. The cat, entirely unbothered, walked away.
Other disciples were panicking. "How does he do that?" one whispered, wide-eyed. "He's bending reality with a single look!" Another added, "No, it's the master—Master Lin Qinghe must be teaching him secret arts through telepathy!"
"What are you staring at?" he murmured at the observing crowd. "He's following instructions. Perfectly. Calm down, everyone. Or not. I don't care. Truly." The disciples whispered furiously, convinced they were witnessing a cursed prodigy being guided by a lazy immortal.
By midday, the "wind" exercise escalated into full-blown absurdity. Lin Qinghe instructed, "If a bird flies too close, greet it formally. If a rock falls, apologize politely. If a junior trips, assist them… or kick them gently to teach them humility." Xie Liang followed every instruction with meticulous care. He bowed to the bird three times, apologized to the rock with a small nod, and carefully nudged a junior disciple with a perfectly calculated push so that he fell gracefully onto a straw mat. Every action was precise, deliberate, and utterly devoted, yet so absurd that even Lin Qinghe had to stifle a laugh behind his fan.
A sharp, exasperated voice cut through the chaos. "Master! This is… completely absurd!" A young man with impeccably styled robes, sleeves embroidered with gold thread, and a perfectly coiffed hairpin stormed into the courtyard, hands flailing. Ye Shaoming, the son of a wealthy allied family, had the kind of presence that screamed, 'I am important, and I demand the world respect that fact.' His jade eyes flicked toward Xie Liang, who had just performed a flawless spinning leap over a stray brush pile, and then back to Lin Qinghe. "You can't just tell a boy to greet birds and apologize to rocks! This is a cultivation sect, not a… a theater of nonsense!"
Lin Qinghe, lounging lazily against the tree with his teacup balanced on his chest, tilted his head and yawned. "Ah, Shaoming, so spirited this morning. I was beginning to worry you'd lost your flair for dramatics. Calm down, calm down. It's… educational."
Ye Shaoming stomped his foot, glaring. "Educational? We are disciples! We were supposed to learn sword forms, combat techniques, energy control! Not… not interpretive wind movement while… what even is that?" He gestured at Xie Liang, who had paused mid-spin to bow politely to a passing sparrow, then glanced toward Lin Qinghe for the faintest sign of approval.
Lin Qinghe chuckled softly. "Interpretive wind, my dear Shaoming. It teaches flexibility, adaptability… and, as you can see, devotion. Very important."
"Devotion?!" Ye Shaoming barked. "He's just… blindly following every absurd word you mutter! It's reckless!"
Xie Liang's eyes flicked to Lin Qinghe, calm, precise, and still glowing with quiet eagerness. Lin Qinghe gave a faint nod. "Yes," he said lazily, "exactly what I meant. Devotion. Very good."
Ye Shaoming threw up his hands. "This is unacceptable! Master, get a grip! You can't just—just…" He glanced helplessly at the courtyard where a junior disciple had been gently "nudged" onto a straw mat by Xie Liang and was now lying flat, staring at the sky with wide eyes. "You're corrupting the sect!"
Lin Qinghe yawned again, adjusting the teacup on his chest. "Corruption? Shaoming, don't exaggerate. I merely allow creativity. Besides," he added with a faint smile, "Xie Liang is extraordinarily talented. He turns my nonsense into… something vaguely impressive. Isn't that worth celebrating?"
Ye Shaoming blinked, speechless for half a heartbeat. Then his hands shot out, pointing at Xie Liang. "Extraordinary?! Look at him! He's bowing to birds, apologizing to rocks, and somehow made a trainee faint! He's not learning, he's—he's…" His face turned red, the sort of red reserved for young masters on the brink of moral outrage.
"—an excellent student?" Lin Qinghe supplied lazily, smiling faintly.
Ye Shaoming froze. "I… I—no! Absolutely not!" He spun dramatically, as if storming off could somehow restore the universe's proper order, but then stopped abruptly. "Master Lin, I insist—you must… control this madness!"
Lin Qinghe lifted a languid hand and waved vaguely. "Control? Why would I? Madness is educational. Also entertaining."
Xie Liang, hearing the scolding yet feeling no reprimand from Lin Qinghe, tilted his head slightly and executed a flawless spinning kick, landing neatly on the roof railing. His eyes immediately flicked toward Lin Qinghe, silently asking if he had done well. Lin Qinghe, pretending to sip from his teacup but secretly suppressing a laugh, gave the faintest nod.
Ye Shaoming groaned again, sinking into a bench as though the weight of absurdity itself had pinned him down. "I… I can't… This… This Shizun… gives… terrible advice," he muttered weakly, glaring at Lin Qinghe.