3 Joined this den of dogs

Without hesitation, the female cultivator swiftly drew the sword she wore at her waist and tossed it toward Cui Huai.

“I’m lending it to you; catch it!”

Though she did not exert much force, the sword arced through the air toward Cui Huai, its blade shimmering with a piercing cold light.

With a twist of his wrist, Cui Huai caught the hilt firmly, weighing the sword in his hand. The blade was over two feet long, exceedingly thin yet razor-sharp. The hilt was adorned with a few ornate gemstones, but overall, it was a decent sword.

To have this sword rated as merely "decent" by Cui Huai was saying much; in the outside world, it would be considered a rare and exquisite weapon.

Beneath the watchful eyes of Master Qingyan, the young man secretly transmitted a message to the female cultivator: “Junior Sister, why did you lend your sword to Cui Huai? You know this sword can cut through iron like mud. Even a monkey wielding it carelessly could leave marks on the test sword stone. Isn't this blatantly giving him an unfair advantage?”

The female cultivator dismissed the concern: “If he, with a mortal body, can catch this sword, that alone proves he belongs here. Didn’t Master say nothing?”

The young man glanced toward the seated Master Qingyan, who was watching them and even nodded toward his junior sister.

Damn! Master must have overheard their private exchange.

That was the downside of the cultivation world—no privacy before those with high cultivation; speaking aloud was like broadcasting on loudspeakers.

As Cui Huai gripped the sword, his aura shifted instantly. His entire being sank into a calm focus. The others in the courtyard, engaged in their own affairs, vanished from his perception. All he saw was the sword in his hand and the target he must conquer.

Though this time, his opponent was not a heinous demon but a simple, low-tier test sword stone.

The young man mumbled, “Miss Cui’s aura is as if she’s about to battle this stone for three hundred rounds.”

The female cultivator’s eyes widened, nervous as she awaited the strike. Even the silent, seemingly disinterested white-clad male cultivator focused intently, observing the surging sword momentum.

Unlike others who merely watched for amusement, 003 knew Cui Huai’s true strength, and warned mentally, “Cui Huai, take it easy. Don’t overexert yourself. If the sword wind topples this place, you won’t have spirit stones to compensate.”

Heeding 003’s advice, Cui Huai hesitated mid-strike, then rotated her wrist, angling the blade downward to cleave straight—but the sword missed the edge of the test stone entirely. The stroke was empty.

Recovering from the thunderous yet feeble strike, the young man comforted her gently, “It’s alright, it missed this time. You can try again.”

Prepared for another strike, he was surprised when Cui Huai simply sheathed the sword and returned it to her junior sister. “Thank you for lending me your sword, Fairy.”

The female cultivator took back her sword, somewhat regretful at Cui Huai’s withdrawal. Master Qingyan, watching intently, remarked approvingly, “Excellent swordsmanship!”

The test sword stone on the ground slowly split cleanly into two halves, the cut precise and neat. The blue bricks beneath remained unscathed.

The young man stared in awe, casting a look of admiration at Cui Huai. It was truly impressive!

To think that Cui Huai had not even formally entered the Dao, yet could control her strength with such finesse using a mortal body. Those who practiced swordsmanship understood: while destructive sword techniques were powerful, the ability to temper and restrain one’s power was far more admirable.

Cui Huai stood tall, chin raised, one hand clasped behind her back, exuding the air of a master. Though accustomed to receiving praise after drawing her sword, she never tired of the thrill it brought.

Every time was different—the setting, the mood, the audience—so the excitement never waned.

Yet why did her body ache so much? When she was a teenager, she wouldn’t have been so weak as to be exhausted after a single swing, especially one so casual that it barely counted as a technique.

Before Cui Huai could ponder deeper, Master Qingyan’s sharp gaze fixed on her. “Your swordsmanship is at this level; are you sure you still want to take me as your master?”

Honestly, Cui Huai didn’t want to. There was no one else in the world who could teach her. But her struggle with the system was just beginning, and this Xiaoyao Sect was an important stronghold. She answered resolutely, “I am certain. Please accept my kowtow, Master.”

Master Qingyan was overjoyed. What luck was this? The Xiaoyao Sect was a minor sect, yet now it was a gathering place for heroes with promising successors.

“Jiang Xuan, prepare the tea for the initiation.” To prevent Cui Huai from changing her mind, he hurried to expedite the ceremony, allowing her to offer tea and perform the kowtow.

“Our sect has few rules. Minor mistakes are permissible as long as they are corrected; no need for undue fear. But one rule must be remembered: walk the righteous path and do good deeds. Cultivators possess abilities beyond ordinary people and must restrain themselves rather than act recklessly. Do you understand?”

Cui Huai nodded. “Thank you for your teaching, Master.”

Master Qingyan noted how reserved she was, very composed. He thought to himself that she surely wouldn’t bully others, more likely to be bullied herself due to her gentle nature. Hastily, he added:

“If others bully you, you need not endure it. Fight back. If you cannot, seek help from your senior brothers and sisters. If they can't handle it, come to me.”

Inwardly, he added: “If even I can’t manage, we’ll all train harder and reclaim the ground someday. A gentleman’s revenge is never too late.”

But since she had just taken him as master, it would be embarrassing to admit he might lose a fight. That talk could wait.

Cui Huai’s thoughts were simpler: no one in this world could harm her anymore. Anyone daring to bully her would be courting death.

Taking the tea cup prepared by the young man, Cui Huai raised it respectfully to her eyebrows and bowed, offering the tea with a graceful twist of her waist.

She was familiar with this ritual; after all, it was her second time taking a master. Practice made perfect. Unfortunately, her previous master had died by her hand—she silently wished this Master Qingyan better luck.

Master Qingyan quickly accepted the cup, sipping happily, unaware of past misfortunes.

He introduced the other three disciples standing in the courtyard. “I have only three disciples; including you, four. You are all here now. Get to know each other.”

The young man spoke first, eager: “I’m Jiang Xuan, the eldest disciple. Just call me Senior Brother. I’m a sword cultivator too. Junior Sister, that sword stroke you just executed was amazing!”

Nearby, the female cultivator rolled her eyes discreetly but politely added, “I’m Zhao Zhixu, your second senior sister. Also a sword cultivator, but not very skilled. Junior Sister, please guide me in the future.”

In truth, she was the eldest sister, the master’s first disciple. But since Jiang Xuan joined, he had stubbornly refused to be the second senior brother. Never mind; she would be second senior sister, then.

Cui Huai nodded, recognizing these two seniors, then looked at the third—a white-robed male cultivator who had not spoken but appeared even more like the sect leader than Master Qingyan himself.

“I’m Fu Qin, proficient in both swordsmanship and magic cultivation. I haven’t been a disciple long. Your sword is passable; we should spar sometime.”

Quite arrogant? But before Cui Huai, everyone had to crawl on their knees, whether dragon or worm.

She smiled and replied, “Sounds good.”

Then it struck her—lined up before these three, she would be the fourth junior sister.

Cui Huai frowned. She had a harmless little quirk, a touch superstitious. She despised the number four but favored three. The Tao Te Ching states: “The Dao gives birth to One, One gives birth to Two, Two gives birth to Three, Three gives birth to all things.” She loved the endless vitality embodied in “three.”

Everyone was cultivating immortality—some superstition was natural. Little did they know, fortune-tellers who fail to draw good omens never leave home.

Annoyed that Fu Qin had taken her lucky number, Cui Huai spoke up, “Third Senior Brother says he hasn’t been a disciple long. When exactly did you take Master?”

Seeing her displeasure at seniority, the handsome cultivator raised an eyebrow bluntly, “Exactly one hour before you.”

***

Two hours earlier, while Cui Huai was wandering the mountain peak negotiating with 003, Fu Qin had already followed the signposts to the gate of the “Mizong Pavilion.”

Having grown up among rare treasures, the phoenix was invigorated by the pavilion’s unique charm.

The gate was rather ancient, and even the plaque above bore an aura of the Dao—neither fully apparent nor absent—elusive to the phoenix.

After some struggle, Fu Qin forcibly accepted the three characters on the plaque as “Mizong Pavilion” and stepped through the gate.

Further inside, the path was desolate, but eventually, he spotted a few shabby buildings.

His gaze was irresistibly drawn to several parasol trees planted there—truly wonderful, for no phoenix could resist the allure of these trees.

It was still spring; the parasol trees sprouted tender branches and leaves, delightful to behold. Fu Qin stood still, unable to tear himself away, scrutinizing each tree without blinking.

Since leaving Phoenix Valley, he had seldom seen parasol trees. The human race in this sect had some taste, though their tree cultivation skills were lacking.

He noticed a troublesome “huagai” tree nearby—a massive stump blocking sunlight, its overly dense branches shading half the parasol trees. Truly an eyesore.

He vowed to find a chance to cut down the huagai, both to please the eye and allow the parasol trees to bask fully in the sun.

Bidding farewell to the beloved parasol trees, Fu Qin entered the courtyard and swiftly passed the magical cultivation test. Even for a phoenix in transformation, weakened and damaged, this was a trivial challenge.

Yet when Master Qingyan lectured the disciples, Fu Qin realized he had made a mistake: this was not Mizong Pavilion but the Xiaoyao Sect.

In that instant, Fu Qin’s face darkened as he contemplated many things.

This wasn’t the Mizong Pavilion he had sought?

But here were parasol trees. The name “Xiaoyao” meant carefree and unrestrained—a higher level than Mizong Pavilion.

Was the Xiaoyao Sect’s environment too dilapidated?

But there were parasol trees. This was not dilapidation but a realm of artistic conception and taste.

The cultivators here looked poor?

Yet there were parasol trees. Such simplicity was hardly poverty but contentment with a humble life. Cultivators should renounce external things and cultivate their character and heart.

Thus Fu Qin persuaded himself, respectfully offered tea to the master, and eagerly claimed the title of Cui Huai’s third senior brother.