Chen Wuya's fingertips still rested against the blood-soaked rune, his palm faintly warm. He neither moved nor spoke, only slowly tucked the bamboo scroll another half inch into his robes, so gently it was as though he feared waking something.
The air before the cliff was thick with moisture, damp cold clinging to their faces. A Green City Sect disciple stepped out from the crowd, his strides crisp, his sword tassel swaying softly with each step. He stopped three paces away and curled his lips. "A lousy student who couldn't even stay at an academy thinks he deserves to discuss the true meaning of martial arts? If the Heavenly Machine Scroll falls into the hands of someone like you, it would be better to burn it clean."
The moment he said this, several people around him murmured in agreement. Some sneered, some shook their heads, as if they had finally found a righteous justification—not coveting a treasure, but cleansing the house.
Chen Wuya slowly raised his head. The dimple on his left cheek emerged, as if he were smiling, yet not quite.
"A lousy student?" His voice was hoarse, but unhurried. "Then tell me: back when Zhang Sanfeng chopped wood and tended fires on Wudang Mountain, did anyone call him trash? He had never read the Inner Canon, never studied under a famous master, and could barely recognize all the characters. Yet he comprehended Taiji, used softness to overcome hardness. The breathing methods and guiding arts you practice today—which one of them did not spring from that mind of his that 'didn't understand the rules'?"
The man froze, his brows knitting together.
Chen Wuya continued, "You call me a lousy student. What about you? You memorized a few cultivation formulas, so now you can understand the words on this scroll?