No Useless Martial Souls, Only Useless Soul Masters? Slapping Myself in the Face!

Tang San raised his head, glanced at Yu Xiaogang, then looked at Huang Fei, not rushing to speak.

He needed to think.

As for Huang Fei, after listening to Yu Xiaogang's defense, which was full of anger and grievance, he did not retreat; instead, he smiled.

That smile was relaxed, even carrying a hint of pleasure.

It was as if a hunter had finally waited for the prey to step into the trap.

"Master, don't get so worked up."

Huang Fei's tone was light, as if he were soothing a tantrum-throwing child.

"I was just asking casually, why must you lose your temper like this?"

He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"However, I have taken a look at your Ten Core Competition Theories."

Yu Xiaogang froze.

"You... have read them?"

"Yes, I have." Huang Fei nodded, his tone as casual as if he were saying, "I had breakfast today."

Yu Xiaogang's brows furrowed.

The Ten Core Competition Theories he wrote were his life's work—a thick volume covering every aspect of martial soul studies, from the mechanisms of martial soul awakening to the competitive relationships between martial souls, and from spirit ring ratios to Martial Soul Evolution routes; the content was incredibly complex.

A six-year-old child, claiming to have "taken a look"?

He suppressed the anger in his heart and asked coldly, "And then?"

Huang Fei did not answer immediately.

He straightened up from the tree, hands tucked into his sleeves, and paced slowly in place, as if organizing his words or deliberately building suspense.

Then he stopped, looked up, and met Yu Xiaogang's eyes.

"The first point: there are no useless martial souls, only useless spirit masters."

Huang Fei recited the sentence word by word; his voice was not loud, but every syllable was crystal clear.

"You proposed this, didn't you?"

The air in the clearing seemed to suddenly solidify.

Yu Xiaogang's body jolted violently.

His eyes widened, his lips quivering as if he wanted to say something, but the words were stuck in his throat, unable to come out.

This sentence was indeed proposed by him.

It was the opening line of his Ten Martial Soul Competition Theories, his core argument that he took pride in, and the golden phrase he used to inspire countless spirit masters with low-quality martial souls.

"There are no useless martial souls, only useless spirit masters."

He had said this countless times in classrooms, in articles, and in debates with others; every time, he said it with righteous confidence, feeling as though he stood on the high ground of truth.

But now, when this sentence was spoken by a six-year-old child and bounced back onto himself—

He suddenly realized that this blade was double-edged.

Huang Fei watched the face of Yu Xiaogang, which was twisted with anger and embarrassment, and the smile at the corner of his mouth deepened.

"So, Master."

His voice was neither heavy nor light, his tone neither hurried nor slow, as if he were chatting with an old friend.

"What does that make you?"

The air in the clearing felt as if it had been gripped by an invisible hand.

Yu Xiaogang stood where he was, his complexion shifting from red to white, then from white to green.

His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed again, his throat emitting a "clucking" sound, but he could not utter a single word.

Huang Fei was not aggressive, nor did he raise his volume.

He simply watched Yu Xiaogang quietly, that playful smile hanging on his lips, as if he had known this would be the result all along.

"You say 'there are no useless martial souls, only useless spirit masters,' yet your own martial soul suffered a malignant mutation, you couldn't solve it, and you've been trapped at level twenty-nine for over twenty years—"

He looked into Yu Xiaogang's eyes, not blinking or looking away.

"Aren't you slapping your own face?"

"Isn't it describing exactly who you are?"

Tang San stood to the side, completely stunned.

His gaze shifted back and forth between Huang Fei and Yu Xiaogang, the gears in his mind spinning rapidly.

The first sentence Huang Fei said, "There are no useless martial souls, only useless spirit masters."

He had seen it in a book.

At the time, he had felt that this sentence made perfect sense, and he had even taken it to heart.

But now, after being cornered by Huang Fei, he realized that this statement, when applied to Yu Xiaogang, was nothing short of a boomerang.

It flew out, circled around, and came right back to strike him.

If the martial soul itself wasn't the problem, then wasn't Yu Xiaogang's malignant mutation the very "counter-proof" to his own theory?

A theorist who claimed that "martial souls are irrelevant, it is the person that matters" had been trapped by his own martial soul for his entire life; if that wasn't irony, what was?

The way Tang San looked at Yu Xiaogang changed completely.

It wasn't disappointment.

It was pity.

A pity tinged with something inexplicable.

"Is this your theory? Did you really have to slap your own face like that?"

Yu Xiaogang finally spoke, his voice hoarse, as if someone were strangling him.

He stared at Huang Fei, a flash of killing intent crossing his eyes for a split second.

But it vanished quickly, replaced by a deep sense of exhaustion and powerlessness.

He took a deep breath, suppressed the surge of blood rising in his throat, and struggled to restore a calm expression to his face.

He didn't want to make things any more embarrassing today.

"Good... very good..."

He muttered, as if talking to himself, or perhaps to Huang Fei.

Then he turned around and strode toward the exit of the clearing, his back straight and rigid, as if he were using his last bit of strength to maintain a facade of dignity.

When he reached the edge of the clearing, he suddenly stopped.

He did not look back.

"You may go."

His voice came from ahead, devoid of emotion.

"I have said what I needed to say. As for the apprenticeship... consider it yourselves."

With that, he did not linger and strode away.

His footsteps gradually faded, eventually disappearing in the direction of the teaching building.

Tang San watched the retreating figure, then looked at Huang Fei beside him, his expression complex.

"Huang Fei, were you... perhaps a bit too harsh just now?"

What he actually wanted to say was "you were amazing just now," but the words changed as they reached his lips.

Huang Fei leaned back against the locust tree, looking up at the morning light filtering through the gaps in the leaves, the smile at the corners of his eyes not yet fully dissipated.

"Too harsh? I think it was fine."

Tang San opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but thought better of it and closed it again.

Because he knew that every word Huang Fei said was correct.

How could someone who couldn't even solve his own problems jump out and claim he could solve the problems of others?

"Let's go."

Huang Fei stretched lazily, loosening his muscles. "After all that trouble this morning, I'm starving. When does breakfast start at Dormitory Seven?"

Tang San sighed.

"I don't know either. Let's go ask Wang Sheng first."

The two walked side by side toward the exit of the clearing, the morning light casting two long shadows behind them.

Huang Fei took a few steps, then suddenly remembered something and turned to look at Tang San.

"Oh, right, Tang San."

"Hm?"

"If anyone else tries to take you as a disciple in the future, remember to ask them what level they are first."

The corner of Tang San's mouth twitched.

"...Got it."