But the black cat slowly walked over, stood beside Li Buyan, rubbed against him, and stretched lazily.
Li Buyan bent down to pick it up and stroked its head. "I won't kill you."
The black cat meowed happily.
"Kill, kill, kill—can’t you think of anything else?" Fang Zhiyi said helplessly.
Li Buyan lowered his head. "I heed Uncle-Master’s teachings."
"Demons and humans alike—some are good, some are evil. Some demons gain enlightenment without harming a soul, while others feast on human flesh, cruel and bloodthirsty. Some humans, though poor, strive to help others, while others, given power, trample over corpses to climb higher." Fang Zhiyi paused. "By your logic, should we just kill them all? Wouldn’t it be better if the world had only you left?"
Li Buyan remained silent, head bowed, still holding the cat demon in his arms.
"Stubborn fool. Everything in this world exists for a reason, each with its own path. It’s not as simple as ‘kill’ or ‘spare,’ nor can it be resolved with mere kindness." Fang Zhiyi looked at Li Buyan. "Starting today, you’ll stay here and preach the Dao to them."
Li Buyan jerked his head up, his usually expressionless face showing a flicker of shock. "Me? Preach to them?"
"Yes. And to yourself as well." Fang Zhiyi stared at him. "Now that other matters are settled, I’ll begin lecturing tonight. The next day, you’ll repeat what you’ve understood to them."
Li Buyan lowered his gaze, then cupped his hands in respect. "Understood, Uncle-Master."
"Oh, and don’t forget to extract that demon core! We’ll sell it for a good price later." Fang Zhiyi added, "As for the meat and hide—ask if any of them want it."
Four had entered, but only three came out. Zhao Yichen had held his tongue the entire way. As they stepped outside, watching the busy junior disciples and devotees offering incense, he felt as if he’d crossed into another world. "Uncle-Master, I just don’t get it. Why not just release them? Instead, you keep these demonic creatures right in our temple."
"You understand nothing," Fang Zhiyi replied without explanation.
Fortunately, Zhao Yichen didn’t dwell on it. His current joy was counting money every evening after closing the gates.
When night fell, Fang Zhiyi gathered all the disciples, including his nephews, and led them into the rear courtyard. Many of the disciples were entering for the first time, their faces paling at the sight of the demons.
But both sides kept the peace, and soon, they were absorbed in Fang Zhiyi’s lecture.
"Now, about corpse refinement—rumors exist, but most dark practitioners fail at it. Why? Because a corpse’s movement comes from tendons and bones reacting to external stimuli. So that whole idea is nonsense."
"What’s your question? A devotee asked how to deal with vengeful ghosts? Give them a few talismans for protection! How many ghosts do you think there are? Ghosts don’t exist! And you lot in the back—stop chattering! I’m talking to you, that snake! And Little Six! Are you two rehearsing ‘The Legend of the White Snake’?"
"Back to the topic. When a person dies, they become a corpse. When the corpse decays, it turns to fertilizer and returns to the earth. That’s the natural cycle—one of the many paths of the Dao. Speaking of which—why are you still fixated on ghosts? Didn’t your Second Senior teach you? Most people are haunted by guilt, either from wrongdoing or fright. They come here seeking peace of mind, got it? Just sell them more protective talismans. For business matters, go find Zhao Yichen later."
Jiang Mubai found his uncle-master’s lectures far more interesting than his master’s—no tedious, sleep-inducing jargon.
Li Buyan listened intently, occasionally lost in thought.
Days passed like this, though Fang Zhiyi’s demon-hunting expeditions became much simpler. Before, he’d take three nephews. Now, he marched out with a dozen disciples and a few demons in tow, his entourage resembling a cult leader’s procession.
Under the combined pressure of Daoist and demonic arts, the demons didn’t even think of resisting. And when they heard about free meals, lodging, and lectures, they practically fell to their knees, calling him "Righteous Father." Those who refused? They were beaten to death.
As a result, the area within a hundred miles of White Cloud Temple became eerily peaceful. Fang Zhiyi’s grand displays ensured that every villager knew the temple’s Daoists had subdued the demons, filling them with reverence.
The temple’s incense offerings flourished, and the disciples grew accustomed to the demons. Though the rear courtyard remained off-limits to devotees, disciples could come and go freely—Fang Zhiyi declared the demons useful for sparring, sparing him the effort of crafting paper puppets for training.
Li Buyan and the others suspected this was why their sect was labeled as dark practitioners. Cohabiting and training with demons? No orthodox cultivator would turn a blind eye.
Perhaps out of jealousy or sheer principle, rival sects came knocking every now and then. But they rarely left unscathed, and Fang Zhiyi grew tired of them.
After sending a few packing, he announced another journey—this time taking Li Buyan along. With dozens of White Cloud Temple disciples in tow, villagers who spotted their banners whispered about which demonic force was doomed. Little did they know, the doomed ones were the rival sects themselves.
Li Buyan followed his uncle-master’s instructions to the letter: deliver a formal challenge, smash the gate, then beat them up.
The process wasn’t wrong—just the intervals were too short.
The junior disciple receiving the challenge hadn’t even reached his master before the gate was in splinters. Fang Zhiyi found it a bit vexing, but the results were satisfactory.
In this era, true cultivators were few. When White Cloud Temple’s dozens stormed in, resistance was feeble. Fang Zhiyi, ever the diplomat, claimed they’d come for "friendly sparring to foster camaraderie"—never mind if the hosts agreed.
The opposing sect’s finest disciple barely finished chanting when Li Buyan summoned heavenly thunder with a flick of his hand, instantly sapping his will to fight.
"Fight that? He uses ultimate techniques like basic attacks!"
"We cultivators resolve matters with virtue," Fang Zhiyi declared—though the wooden staff engraved with the character "Virtue" in his hand made it hard to believe. In the end, the "visited" sects all signed peace treaties with White Cloud Temple.
Within two years, nearly every cultivator in the Great Wilderness knew the name White Cloud Temple. Many even whispered that its disciples were dark practitioners—but none dared say it outright. How could they? Criticize them today, and tomorrow Fang Zhiyi would parade their broken treaties and humiliating defeats in the streets. They had no doubt he’d do it. For the sake of reputation, they swallowed their pride.