Chapter Ten: Intelligence

One month later, early morning, Deaf and Mute Valley.

“Just seven hundred units of inner strength, and you can’t manage it?” Zhang Chengyi released his grip and replenished his inner strength fully.

Wuyazi smiled helplessly, saying nothing. Over the past few days, he had been fed a massive amount of inner energy intermittently, enabling him to cultivate the Northern Darkness Divine Skill to unprecedented heights.

The Northern Darkness True Qi harmonized yin and yang, automatically protected the body, was impervious to all poisons, and greatly enhanced physical strength. All these effects were now several times stronger than ever before.

Previously paralyzed, he now moved as usual, his entire body penetrated by inner strength, like a puppet in a marionette show. The only difference from before paralysis was the loss of sensation; otherwise, he was no different—perhaps even faster and stronger.

He would likely never have an intimate life again.

At over ninety years old, it didn’t really matter.

Yet even so, in Wuyazi’s estimation, his inner strength was only seven hundred units. Zhang Chengyi claimed to have two thousand units—just how powerful was he?

Wuyazi marveled silently. Their brief acquaintance had already dissolved his reservations. The debt of life was greater than the heavens. Zhang’s rough, straightforward, and somewhat roguish way of speaking now seemed carefree, candid, and natural to him. His rash rush into Deaf and Mute Valley revealed a compassionate heart eager to save others. His plain appearance was simply understated talent, and even his picky eating showed refined taste.

In short, in Wuyazi’s eyes, his lifesaver was flawless. The only issue was that he refused to become his junior disciple.

He was quite helpless about that.

“What are you looking at?” Zhang Chengyi felt the old man’s increasingly kind gaze and got goosebumps all over.

“Master Zhang, Master Zhang!” Su Xinghe’s loud voice came from outside, growing nearer.

“Come in, come in,” Zhang Chengyi called out, stepping back slightly. Lately, he felt Wuyazi’s gaze on him growing stranger—was the old master admiring his handsome exterior?

Upon hearing this, Su Xinghe pushed open the door and entered, bowing first to Zhang Chengyi, then to Wuyazi, hesitating before he spoke: “Master Ke Baishui of the Funiu Sect recently died at the hands of his signature technique, the Hundred Victories Soft Whip. Master Xuanbei of Shaolin was killed by the Great Weituo Staff at the Shijie Monastery in Luliang Prefecture. Master Sima Wei of the Qingcheng Sect perished in Baidi City, Eastern Sichuan, due to the Broken Moon Cone Brain Drain. The Beggar’s Sect...”

He listed the deaths of more than a dozen renowned martial artists in the Jianghu before continuing: “Now the martial world stirs at the news, and everyone is heading toward Gusu Murong.”

Not all were seeking revenge—some were opportunists, others looking to exploit the chaos. The Gusu Murong’s Water Pavilion was truly mesmerizing.

Listening, Zhang Chengyi roughly pinned down the timeline.

He recalled Duan Yu’s arrival in Suzhou was in March, yet now it was only mid-February. Calculating, the current events of the Heavenly Dragon story hadn’t reached the Wanjie Valley arc yet, and it would be over a month before the heroes gathered at Canhe Village, with a two-month gap before the negotiation at Apricot Grove.

No rush, then. He could take his time.

Mainly, he didn’t want to stay in Deaf and Mute Valley any longer—there wasn’t a single person to talk to properly. Everyone was overly respectful, which felt dull.

Wuyazi noticed Zhang Chengyi’s intention to leave and said, “Young friend, I am preparing to settle some personal matters.”

His handsome middle-aged face showed a complex expression—Ding Chunqiu and Li Qiushui, a wicked apprentice and an accomplice who had tried to kill his old lover.

In the novel, he eventually entrusted Xu Zhu to seek out Li Qiushui, but that didn’t mean he himself could let go of grudges.

Now, wielding power several times stronger than before, he was eager to resolve his worldly attachments.

“At the latest, I shall return to Deaf and Mute Valley by the golden autumn to await your command,” he said humbly.

Zhang Chengyi was caught off guard. “Huh? Leaving so soon?”

“Better to seize the day. Since all is ready, it’s time to depart.” Wuyazi cupped his hands. “Young friend, I entrust Xinghe to you.”

“Farewell.” With that, he left with grace.

Such a flowery way of speaking.

Muttering to himself, Zhang Chengyi glanced at the eager Su Xinghe beside him, holding up his hand to refuse. “Don’t look at me—I’m about to head south myself.”

“Yeah, leaving this afternoon,” he added.

Su Xinghe fell to the ground with a thud, kneeling and knocking his head thrice, “I beg Master Zhang to give this old servant a chance to serve at your side.”

This old man had cared faithfully for his paralyzed master for thirty years, pretending to be deaf and mute all that time. When Ding Chunqiu nearly killed his master in the novel, his thoughts were only of his master’s suffering—a rare filial devotion.

A month ago, he learned Zhang Chengyi had saved his master’s life; when Zhang made a move against the benefactor, Su Xinghe tried to commit suicide on the spot.

Once saved and calmed by Wuyazi’s intervention, he sold himself into servitude, willing to be a beast of burden for his savior.

Zhang Chengyi found it hard to refuse—would he just watch the old man kill himself? After a few coaxing words from Wuyazi, he ended up with a servant, quite absurdly.

A poor hunter with no possessions, yet his servant was a famed deaf and mute elder from the martial world.

The real trouble wasn’t Su Xinghe himself, but his eight disciples.

The eight friends of Hangu were exactly like their master. Recently receiving a letter from Wuyazi, they all gradually returned to Deaf and Mute Valley. They were experts in various disciplines and should have had some backbone.

Yet, brainwashed by filial piety, upon hearing their master became someone’s servant, they scrambled to pledge loyalty to Zhang Chengyi.

Wuyazi, fed up with the hassle, sent the eight friends away from Deaf and Mute Valley. They ended up living together in a bamboo grove outside, where the sixth disciple, Feng A’San, a skilled craftsman, fixed up a house in a few days. The eight kept to themselves in the bamboo grove, occasionally visiting their master, ancestor, and benefactor.

Though in a desolate wilderness, they lived contentedly.

If Zhang Chengyi traveled alone, even steep cliffs would be easy to traverse; no one could chase him—not even Wuyazi. But with Su Xinghe tagging along, it seemed the eight disciples would trail behind as well.

“Master Zhang’s martial skills are peerless, but there are always unpleasant matters that need handling. Please, Master Zhang, grant this old servant the chance to serve you faithfully,” Su Xinghe pleaded, knocking his head repeatedly.

Though the ground was not cement or asphalt, the packed earth was firm, and he soon drew blood.

“You’re stubborn, old man,” Zhang Chengyi sighed. “Fine, fine, you can come along. I’m not in a hurry, and we’ll take a carriage south.”

“To Suzhou City, to join the excitement.”

Having another servant was a luxury—though awkward, accepting the reality felt strangely satisfying.

“Yes,” Su Xinghe said respectfully as he rose, “this old servant shall prepare immediately.”