Uncle-Master 013

Though some highly skilled cultivators were still alarmed, private investigations revealed that while the White Cloud Temple acted boldly, it had indeed caused no harm to the common folk. Instead, it had set clear standards for compensation, and wandering cultivators who exorcised evil spirits in the villages now received due rewards. Some accused the temple of beating fellow practitioners, but others noted that as long as visitors were polite when seeking lodging or a meal, the White Cloud Temple treated them with courtesy.

Thus, it became difficult to judge whether the temple was righteous or wicked. Over time, the cultivators collectively accepted its existence.

Yet one man remained determined to oppose it. Xiao Yunche had returned, empowered by a divine artifact that fell from the heavens. With its help, he had achieved several victories, his cultivation advancing significantly. Most crucially, he had captured Xuan Chen, who had been performing acts of kindness.

The name of the White Cloud Temple echoed across the wilderness, fueling Xiao Yunche’s fury. He swore vengeance.

But he found no allies—only empty promises from those who feigned ignorance when the time came.

Xiao Yunche consulted the divine artifact, which told him, "The White Cloud Temple reeks of demonic energy. It must be under the influence of monsters. If you use Xuan Chen, you can turn the tide."

In the past, this might have been uncertain.

But when he dragged Xuan Chen to the temple, he found only a man sitting on the threshold, cracking melon seeds as if waiting for him.

"It’s you! Last time, you humiliated me! Today, I’ve come for revenge!" Xiao Yunche recognized Fang Zhiyi. He glanced around but saw no one else.

"Oh? And what’s your leverage?" Fang Zhiyi continued cracking seeds, not even bothering to look at him.

"This old fool! Hahaha, isn’t he your senior brother?"

Fang Zhiyi glanced sideways. "Yes. So?"

"So..." Xiao Yunche faltered. This wasn’t what the artifact had said would happen.

"Senior Brother, look at your sorry state. You went out doing good deeds again, didn’t you? Spending your whole life trying to shed the label of a demonic cultivator—no wonder your Dao heart shattered." Fang Zhiyi stood, brushing off melon seed shells. "After you die, I’ll carve you a tombstone. I’ll make sure to write ‘Demonic Cultivator’ in big letters. How’s that?"

Xuan Chen only sighed in response.

"You—this is your senior brother!" Xiao Yunche was stunned.

"So what if he is? His three disciples aren’t here. And by the way, you keep calling us demonic cultivators—have you ever heard of a demonic cultivator who cares about hostages? Hmm?" Fang Zhiyi clapped his hands, and a black cat emerged from behind him, growing larger with each step.

Xiao Yunche panicked. This wasn’t right. Then he sensed movement on both sides—a giant serpent to his left, a bird-beaked monster to his right. When he stepped back, he bumped into something. Slowly looking up, he saw a branch lowering toward him. "How rude, young master, bumping into little old me."

"A... a tree demon!"

"Ugh, so uncouth. I’m a peach blossom spirit."

Xiao Yunche refused to surrender. He unleashed his techniques, but in the next moment, a black streak darted toward him—and the divine artifact hovering by his shoulder was snatched away.

"Cultivator Growth System? Pah. Tastes awful," the black cat muttered.

Fang Zhiyi wasn’t surprised. "So now he’s useless?"

Xiao Yunche pointed at him in shock. "You! You could see my divine artifact!" He remembered—no one else was supposed to see it.

Fang Zhiyi shrugged. "This guy’s lost it. Don’t kill him—just beat him half to death." He turned and walked back into the temple. Wasting half a day’s business on this idiot was a sin.

"Impossible... How could you see it...?" Xiao Yunche muttered in fear before a heavy blow struck his back.

"Tsk, tsk, young master, why do you keep backing up?" He nearly coughed up blood.

Three figures rushed out from the temple. "Master!"

Xuan Chen stared blankly at his disciples. They seemed changed, yet unchanged.

After that day, Xiao Yunche vanished. Disciples later reported seeing a madman resembling him in a nearby city, digging through gutters and broken jars, searching for his divine artifact.

Jiang Mubai, under his uncle’s orders, traveled the land as the White Cloud Temple’s representative—exchanging knowledge and delivering gifts to fellow cultivators. His uncle called it "the carrot after the stick." The eldest disciple was the stick; Jiang Mubai was the carrot.

It worked remarkably well.

Since his return, Xuan Chen no longer ventured out. He spent his days in the backyard, tending to plants, saying he’d never attain enlightenment, so he might as well care for the flowers.

As he grew older, Jiang Mubai realized the truth: his master had spent his life doing good deeds to shed the stigma of being a demonic cultivator, while his uncle couldn’t care less. Fang Zhiyi believed one’s origins didn’t matter—only their actions did.

On his way down the mountain, Jiang Mubai passed Wang Laosan’s grave, now overgrown with weeds.

His disciple asked why no one visited the grave. Jiang Mubai chuckled. "That man brought it upon himself."

Years ago, Wang Laosan had suffered but dared not speak out, fearing the monsters under Fang Zhiyi’s command. He didn’t know Fang Zhiyi had released them soon after. Months later, Wang Laosan’s wife bore another daughter. He took the child to the same pond, but this time, the waiting monster dragged him under.

Jiang Mubai later learned that after a hasty burial, Wang Laosan’s wife left with the child.

The White Cloud Temple’s reputation had transformed—from a den of demonic cultivators to a sacred place where even monsters could be redeemed.

His uncle was right: if your voice was loud enough and your fists strong enough, no one would dare criticize you. They’d even try to win your favor.

The eldest disciple now ran the temple. Xuan Chen spent his days wandering with the cat spirit in his arms. And Fang Zhiyi? One day, he packed his bags and left. The spirits—Little Qing, Old Huang, and the peach blossom spirit—went with him. He claimed he was going to face his heavenly tribulation. Jiang Mubai believed it, because in the days after Xuan Chen’s return, lightning struck wherever Fang Zhiyi stood—yet he always escaped unscathed.

The eldest disciple remarked, "Even as a demonic cultivator, one shouldn’t go too far." They all agreed.

After Fang Zhiyi left, the backyard grew quiet. Jiang Mubai often heard his master muttering curses about his uncle.

Fang Zhiyi had left behind their master’s memorial tablet—but Xuan Chen recognized it as Fang Zhiyi’s own handiwork at a glance. Yet he wasn’t angry. He placed the tablet in the shrine with solemn reverence.

The eldest disciple fully grasped Fang Zhiyi’s philosophy. Though his expression remained aloof, his actions were far more measured—perhaps because the sight of Fang Zhiyi dodging heavenly lightning had humbled him. After all, the wrath of the heavens far surpassed his own thunder techniques.

The second senior brother had gone elsewhere. As the number of disciples at White Cloud Temple grew, new branches were established in other locations, and many fellow practitioners were even invited to join. The second senior brother was so busy he barely had time to rest. Before the master uncle left, he had praised him, saying this was called "expanding influence."

Truthfully, Jiang Mubai felt this level of influence was already enough.

"Master," one disciple looked up and asked Jiang Mubai.

"Hmm?"

"Earlier, you mentioned, 'While parents are alive, one should not travel far. If one must travel, there must be a proper direction.' I’m too dull-witted to understand."

Another disciple cut in, "Junior brother, you’re so slow! It means that while your parents are still living, you shouldn’t wander off too far. And if you must go somewhere, you should inform them so they won’t worry."

Jiang Mubai opened his mouth but held back. The master uncle had said that since the world was now at peace, there was no need for violence—better to learn something more useful. The master uncle had left him a handwritten copy of "The Sage’s Sayings," but the explanations in it were completely different from what the master uncle had taught. Strangely, they made much more sense... For a moment, he seemed to see the master uncle’s face before him.

What would he have become if the master uncle had never appeared?