Master and Apprentice

Lin Langyao felt a shiver run down his spine under that intense gaze.

After a moment’s thought, he cautiously whispered, “Master?”

The man remained silent, his lips pressed together.

His dark eyes, unblinking, fixed upon Lin Langyao, an eerie stillness enveloping him.

Instinctively, Lin Langyao reached out, waving his hand before his master, only for Wen Chaoxuan to seize his wrist in a vice-like grip.

A palm, unnervingly hot, clamped down on him.

The grip of a sword cultivator was extraordinary, exerting such immense force that it felt as though his arm might snap.

Lin Langyao winced in pain and instinctively struggled.

Unexpectedly, however, his resistance seemed to strike a nerve in Wen Chaoxuan.

Wen Chaoxuan’s expression abruptly darkened.

With a fierce movement, he spun Lin Langyao around, pinning him down, his hand clamping around Lin Langyao’s throat, pressing him against the divan, rendering him utterly immobile.

Only then did Lin Langyao finally realize the gravity of the situation: Wen Chaoxuan was not conscious at all!

“Master!” he cried out, his face pale with alarm, desperately trying to rouse Wen Chaoxuan.

What kind of joke was this?

With his current strength, he was but an ant trying to shake a tree before Wen Chaoxuan, utterly incapable of resistance.

If Wen Chaoxuan, under the influence of an illusion, accidentally strangled him to death, to whom could he possibly appeal?

That would be far too unjust!

Lin Langyao struggled desperately to save himself, his hands clawing wildly at Wen Chaoxuan’s muscular arms.

His legs, too, strained to push away the man’s oppressive weight.

Yet, Wen Chaoxuan remained impassive.

These feeble attempts were like a small animal’s scratching to him, having no effect whatsoever.

He used his knee to forcefully part Lin Langyao’s legs, effortlessly pushing himself between them…

****

The master and disciple lay entwined, their bodies pressed together on the disheveled bed, having finally succumbed to sleep.

The next morning, Wen Chaoxuan was the first to awaken.

His head felt heavy and muddled.

He sat up, pressing a hand to his forehead, realizing his surroundings were unfamiliar.

His last memory was of escaping the underground hall of the fox demon with Lin Langyao.

He had no idea why he had suddenly appeared in such an exquisitely decorated room, permeated with the delicate fragrance of a woman’s bedchamber.

He turned his head and was instantly struck by a jolt of alarm.

Beside him lay his disciple, sprawled face down in sleep, his bare shoulders and back exposed, a silken quilt barely covering, yet failing to conceal, the numerous marks adorning his body.

A torrent of absurd and unbearable images flashed through his mind, causing his hand, which had instinctively reached to pull back the quilt for a closer look, to recoil as if burned.

Wen Chaoxuan’s face was grim as he immediately scrambled out of bed.

He hastily picked up the clothes strewn on the floor and dressed himself.

Then, retrieving his Cheng Tian Sword (TL Note: Name of a sword) from where it had been carelessly tossed in a corner, he stood in the center of the room, looking around with a hint of bewilderment.

The most powerful sword cultivator in all the land now felt waves of dizziness washing over him.

Pressing his temples, his head throbbed with a splitting pain.