Sword Sect Literacy Course

Su Qing didn’t consider herself exceptional, but her action-oriented mindset was a standout trait. So, when she learned the Beast Sect was holding a literacy class for spirit beasts that evening, she grabbed a flatbread from the second cafeteria after work, munching as she headed over.

Before leaving, she chugged all the leftover tea at the shop until her stomach bulged, then waddled out, leaning against the wall.

Even if the spiritual qi was negligible, it was still spiritual qi.

And it was free—she wasn’t picky.

The literacy class was for spirit beasts, and Su Qing was piggybacking on their opportunity.

Second-year spirit beasts faced a year-end exam: a 300-word essay, not in beast language, drawings, or invented symbols. Proper punctuation was required, with deductions for excessive repetition, incoherent sentences, or unrealistic content.

The teacher, Qing Ge, was a frail, stick-thin man, pale and coughing every few steps. Despite knowing not to judge cultivators by appearance, Su Qing worried he’d collapse mid-lesson.

Known as Teacher Qing Ge, he was ignored by the spirit beasts, who cheekily called him “Qing Ge” or yowled in beast tongue.

Yet he never got mad. Su Qing thought his patience was almost excessive. When she asked to join, he not only agreed but provided free textbooks and writing supplies.

When she offered to help, he shyly said her eagerness to learn was reward enough.

If she could, in good spirits, answer his questions to keep the class from flatlining, that’d be perfect. Managing discipline was too much to ask.

His gratitude made Su Qing question who was the teacher. What kind of chaos did these beasts cause to humble him so?

That night, she found out.

First, the student mix was chaotic—flying, running, swimming creatures, some natural enemies, disrupting class harmony.

Seating was tricky: fish and cats couldn’t be near, nor rabbits and foxes, lest some drooled and gnawed on neighbors, forcing Qing Ge to yank students from others’ jaws.

Utterly improper.

Second, the beasts’ behavior and intelligence were abysmal, most barely speaking human language.

No wonder Qin Shi Huang standardized measurements but forgot beast tongues. The classroom was a cacophony of chirps, roars, squeaks, and moos—impossible to communicate.

The ill-tempered ones wrestled, rolled, or leapt onto desks, howling at the moon mid-lesson.

The howling lingered, endless.

Third, and worst, they disrespected the teacher and ignored classroom rules.

The small class had twenty beasts plus Su Qing. As class time neared, only seven or eight sat inside. Some clung to their masters’ legs at the door, whining to avoid entering or begging for company.

Understandable—spirit beasts lived far longer than humans. Second-year beasts were like human toddlers.

Kids hating school or wanting parents along was normal.

But this literacy class didn’t allow it.

Beast Sect disciples—masters—coaxed, scolded, or shoved their bearish charges into the room.

“Grown beasts and you can’t walk alone? Shameful!”

“Waaah—I don’t wanna study! It’s hard!”

“If you can’t write your name and make me fail, I’ll show you real hardship.”

Su Qing stayed out of it until she bumped into a familiar female cultivator.

She didn’t recognize her at first but knew the dog—a husky-Alaskan mix with Nightmare bloodline, fond of eating dung and licking tears.

“Ohhh!” The cultivator, dragging the dog’s hind leg, pointed at Su Qing excitedly. “Are you this year’s Beast Sect junior sister?”

“Su,” she introduced herself. “I’m majoring in body refinement, just auditing.”

“Beast Sect, second year, Chen Xinghao.” She tugged the dog. “This is Yuanbao.”

Yuanbao howled, “This lord is Aotian!”

“Shut it, dumb dog.”

Su Qing was curious. “It speaks human?”

“It can,” Chen Xinghao said, pinning Yuanbao to a chair. To Su Qing’s shock, she expertly bound it with immortal-binding rope, leaving only its head free, body cocooned like a silkworm.

Yuanbao yowled and struggled until Chen Xinghao bopped its head, quieting it.

It slumped, eyes dimming as Chen placed a workbook before it. A spiritual bone brightened its gaze slightly.

“You eat after class. Study hard, got it? Among our family’s beasts, you’re the dumbest and least cultured, yet you got picked for the exam!”

“Arf arf woof!!”

“Talking back?” Another bop. “Am I wrong?”

“Whine…”

Chen Xinghao, a multi-beast cultivator, had twelve spirit beasts. Her smartest, a snake, was near-human in intellect, capable of poetry, let alone a 300-word essay. She wasn’t sure she was more cultured than it.

Yet this dog, with a seven-year-old’s intellect, got exam duty.

Yuanbao could learn, but Chen Xinghao had low hopes. Seeing Su Qing beside it, she said, “If it bothers you or disrupts class, smack it hard. No mercy.”

Su Qing nodded. Yuanbao whimpered pitifully.

Chen Xinghao scoffed, “It’s faking.”

Once Yuanbao settled, the beasts calmed, ending the kindergarten-drop-off drama.

Sixteen beasts filled the room. Su Qing scanned: mostly furry mammals, then birds, amphibians, and one fish—a Seven Immortal Star Koi, sparkling in a tank. Clever and beautiful, but how could it write without hands?

As spirit beasts, many transcended animal forms, some showing signs of human transformation, able to walk upright.

Their intelligence hovered around elementary school level.

Su Qing was confidently the smartest in the room.

Qing Ge started class, asking beasts and human to open books for literacy lessons.

His teaching was as dry as his frame, frankly boring. Su Qing, there to learn, didn’t mind, absorbing each character efficiently.

Not truly illiterate, she picked it up fast.

The beasts didn’t share her enthusiasm.

Yuanbao, from the start, gnawed a spiritual bone, drooling over its soaked workbook.

Others zoned out or slept, none studying seriously.

Su Qing worried for their masters’ exam prospects.

But only briefly—she dove back into learning. As the first class, it used a *Thousand Character Classic*-style text. Qing Ge’s method—read, write, explain—was like her college professors droning through slides. A moment’s lapse could miss key points.

After five pages, Su Qing answered four questions. Yuanbao finished its bone in three bites, and the classroom vibe shifted.

Lifting her head, Su Qing saw paper balls flying like a snowball fight. Yuanbao, somehow freeing two legs from its cocoon, clutched a paper ball, eager to join.

How did it escape?

“Study,” she said, flicking its head.

She could control one dog, but not the others’ antics. Paper-tearing filled the air.

Qing Ge pleaded, “Stop tearing, classmates, respect your books!” A paper ball—unknown source—smacked his forehead.

Frail as he was, he swayed, dizzy.

The beasts laughed. “Haha, Qing Ge’s useless!”

“Useless Qing Ge wants to teach us!”

“No way, bleh!”

Chaos reigned. Su Qing got hit by several balls—enchanted with speed, ice, or heat buffs, making her wince.

As a war loomed, even the koi leapt, tail-flicking paper balls.

Su Qing grabbed her books, ducked to the podium, and met Qing Ge’s vacant gaze.

“Is it always like this?” she whispered.

Pale, he said, “It was better with Orange King. It slept but didn’t disrupt.”

“Oh.” Su Qing asked, “Did Orange King graduate?”

“No,” Qing Ge said, dead inside. “It gave up, never comes now.”

“…” Seeing his distress, Su Qing suggested, “Your teaching’s clear—I’m learning. But these beasts are like kids. They can’t focus. Maybe try a different method?”

“Different method?” Qing Ge rubbed his head, bitter. “I studied with mortal scholars—they hit naughty kids’ palms. Too harsh, I can’t.”

“Mortal kids and spirit beasts aren’t the same,” Su Qing said. “Class is derailed anyway. Try something new.”

During a mid-class break, as the beasts tired, Su Qing asked loudly, “Yuanbao, why Aotian over Yuanbao?”

“Arf! Because this lord’s too cool for anything but Aotian!”

“Can you write Aotian?”

Of course not.

Yuanbao mumbled, “I know it in my head. Why write?”

“Fair,” Su Qing nodded. “Tell that to the exam grader.”

She glanced at Qing Ge. “Teacher, write Aotian on the board.”

Qing Ge’s calligraphy was stunning—elegant, sharp as bamboo. Yuanbao blinked. “Aotian! That’s it?”

Excited by its name, it added, “So cool!”

So many strokes!

“Not quite,” Su Qing smiled. “That’s ‘idiot.’ Can’t tell idiot from Aotian? Illiterate dogs get played by literate humans.”

The beasts paused, watching.

“You—!” Yuanbao wailed, sparking laughter.

“Yuanbao, so lame!”

“Yuanbao’s an idiot!”

“Big dumb idiot!”

Yuanbao howled. Others mocked in chirps, meows, and caws.

Su Qing corrected, “Not Yuanbao’s the idiot—anyone illiterate and skipping class is. Can’t you write your names?”

Qing Ge, on cue, shared a story of a beast tricked by an illiterate senior into a silly name, mocked endlessly, highlighting illiteracy’s dangers.

The beasts feigned indifference but perked up.

Qing Ge quizzed name spellings. Wrong answers drew mockery; correct ones earned Su Qing and Qing Ge’s lavish praise, puffing up the beast until others grew competitive.

“Can you write your master’s name?”

A fox, proud of writing its name, wilted.

Su Qing shrugged. “Your master writes yours, but you can’t write hers…”

“I’ll learn!” the fox squeaked. “I love my master—teach me her name!”

Su Qing nodded to Qing Ge. “Teach us, Teacher.”

—

Qing Ge taught each beast its name’s spelling and meaning, like Yuanbao’s: “A currency, symbolizing wealth.”

Yuanbao thought Aotian cooler. Su Qing countered, “Your master treasures you like money. Know how important money is?”

She shared her 500-spirit-stone plan, spinning tales of her money-grubbing hustle until Yuanbao stared, dazed. “Money buys top weapons, pills, tasty bones. Yuanbao’s a solid, honest name—way cooler than Aotian!”

Yuanbao didn’t get most of it but caught the last bit.

Yuanbao was cooler!

“Right, Teacher Qing Ge?” Su Qing asked.

He hesitated, nodding. “In… a way.”

“Arf! Yuanbao’s cooler!” Yuanbao leapt, restrained by ropes. “I’ll stick with Yuanbao!”

Class ended. Masters waited outside. Beasts proudly showed papers with their and their masters’ names, scrawled but legible.

The koi, handless, spat bubbles spelling words, moving its master to tears, hugging the tank.

The koi bubbled: [Good][Salty]

Chen Xinghao, seeing Yuanbao’s writing, gasped, rubbing its head. “We’re doomed! My dog’s a scholar! I’ll frame this by my bed!”

Yuanbao bragged, howling exaggerated class tales.

Chen Xinghao thanked Su Qing. “You kept it in line.”

Su Qing shook her head. “Teacher Qing Ge taught well.”

“I know Yuanbao’s personality,” Chen Xinghao laughed. “With you, it’ll learn better. Since you’re next to it, help watch it when you can. I’ll pay—ten spirit seeds per word it learns, ten words for a spirit stone. Deal?”

Eyes gleaming at the prospect, Su Qing hesitated. “Ten seeds per word? That’s steep.”

“No,” Chen Xinghao said gravely. “Trust in Yuanbao—it’s worth it.”

That’s not how trust works…

But it was a chance to earn. “I’ll try,” Su Qing said. “If it works, I’ll agree.”

Chen Xinghao nodded eagerly.

After the beasts left, Su Qing cleaned the classroom—paper balls and fur everywhere.

Qing Ge worried, “Was today’s lesson too unstructured?”

He feared a weak foundation would harm deeper learning.

Su Qing thought simply: these childlike beasts couldn’t handle structure. The exam only required 300 non-repetitive words—why fuss?

But Qing Ge was a dedicated teacher.

“It’s about starting simple,” she said. “Spark their interest first, then teach gradually. Beginnings are hard—open the door first.”

Convinced, Qing Ge saw her as his ace student, needing structured learning.

They exchanged Lingpass IDs for lesson questions. Qing Ge, lost in her “Teacher” calls, gained a spark in his frail face.

Su Qing offered, “The beasts love stories. Weave one per character—it’ll hook them.”

“Good idea. I’ll work on it,” Qing Ge said eagerly. “If only Orange King came today, maybe it’d take to literacy…”

Su Qing thought: *This Orange King’s some problem student, haunting the teacher. Gotta see how uncultured it is to stress him so.*

</xaiArtifact>