Chapter 378: Mud Pit
Wangchen reminded himself, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his pale cheek. ’If I murder his trainees, he will be angry and call me toxic. He is attempting to refactor their meridians. I must support his pedagogical endeavors. I cannot eliminate the competition with violence.’
Wangchen took a slow, deep breath.
He looked down at his own hands. He looked at his pristine, immaculate, fully buttoned white Sovereign robes.
A new, and incredibly devious plan began to form in the immortal’s mind.
If he could not kill them to remove the distraction... he would simply have to out-compete them.
’They are but some immature boys that doesn’t understand Ji’an,’ Wangchen sneered internally, his ruby eyes glinting with a dark, supreme, untouchable arrogance. ’They possess the crude, unrefined bulk of manual laborers and feral beasts. But I am different, I am a mature Immortal. My physical vessel was forged in the absolute zero of the Eternal Cloud Peak. I possess the flawless, jade-carved, mathematically perfect aesthetics of Ji’an’s liking.’
He was going to weaponize his own body to initiate a hostile, aesthetic takeover of the Chef’s retinas.
’I will not let his eyes linger on the mud,’ Wangchen vowed, his possessive intent crystallizing. ’I will descend and will integrate into his training regimen. And I will completely, undeniably blind him with my own superior, highly refined physical presence. He will savor the sight of me, and he will forget those dirty, sweating novices even exist.’
"Senior brother Shen," Wangchen called out softly.
Shen Zechuan, who was currently floating on his void-disc near Wangchen’s ice canopy, happily weaving a small, intricate crown out of glowing blue swamp-weeds, looked up.
"Yes, Brother Xie?" Zechuan blinked his innocent, dark eyes.
"We are joining the training regimen," Wangchen announced, his voice smooth and resolved.
Zechuan’s face lit up with pure, golden-retriever enthusiasm. "We are?! Are we going to sit in the purple mud? It looks very squishy! I have not played in mud since... well, I do not think I have ever played in mud!"
"Indeed. We must show solidarity with the Vanguard," Wangchen lied flawlessly, dismissing his massive ice canopy with a flick of his wrist.
Down on the palm-leaf yacht, Ji’an was just reaching for a dried plum when the temperature above her head suddenly shifted.
The ice-umbrella vanished, allowing the hazy, green-violet light of the miasma sun to filter back down into the valley.
Ji’an looked up, squinting slightly.
Descending slowly from the sky, drifting down with the effortless, ethereal grace of two descending deities, were Xie Wangchen and Shen Zechuan.
They landed lightly on the dry moss at the very edge of the bubbling purple mud pit, right in front of Ji’an’s hovering yacht.
The thirteen sweating, agonizing disciples in the muck opened their eyes, pausing their circulation to stare at the two absolute anomalies of the sect.
"Wangchen?" Ji’an asked, raising an eyebrow, completely confused by the sudden abandonment of his pristine, high-altitude outpost. "What are you two doing down here? You don’t need to stress-test your cores. You’re already at the max level."
Wangchen didn’t look at her. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, projecting an aura of absolute, unwavering, noble martial solidarity.
"A true leader does not observe from the clouds while his comrades suffer in the mire, Brother Ji’an," Wangchen lied, his melodic voice dripping with such profound, righteous sincerity that Gu Zhiwei actually teared up in the mud. "I cannot, in good conscience, allow them to bear the burden of this toxic crucible alone. I shall join the filtration exercise."
"Me too!" Zechuan cheered, practically bouncing on his heels. "I am going to filter the squishy mud!"
Ji’an stared at them.
Her lie-detector was violently twitching.
Wangchen didn’t give a single damn about martial solidarity. He literally hated everyone in that mud pit!
’What is he plotting?’ Ji’an narrowed her eyes, deeply suspicious.
But before she could interrogate him, Wangchen initiated his masterclass in calculated seduction.
He didn’t just rip his robes off like Zhiwei or Yanlie.
He turned slightly, angling his body so he was positioned in the perfect, most optimal line of sight from Ji’an’s lounging position on the yacht.
He raised his long, pale, elegant hands.
With deliberate, slow precision, Wangchen reached up to the high, pristine silver collar of his Sovereign robes. His long fingers unfastened the first intricate jade button.
Click!
Then the second.
Click!
He smoothly, gracefully pulled the heavy, diamond-embroidered white silk off his broad shoulders. He didn’t toss it into the dirt, but folded it neatly, draped it over a nearby clean rock, and turned back around.
Ji’an, who had been mid-sip of her jasmine tea, entirely forgot how to swallow.
The teacup halted inches from her lips.
Xie Wangchen was breathtaking.
He was not overly bulky like the Beast Lord, nor was he built like a brawler. His physique was the undisputed pinnacle of immortal ascension. His chest was broad, carved from what looked like flawless, pale jade.
His muscles were dense, lean, and incredibly defined, mapping out a perfect, v-shaped torso that culminated in a sharp, impossibly neat waist. The flawless, porcelain-like quality of his skin seemed to catch the faint, hazy light of the swamp, giving him an ethereal, practically glowing aura.
He looked like a masterpiece sculpted by a lonely, incredibly thirsty deity.
And he knew exactly what he was doing.
Wangchen raised his hand, casually, slowly running his fingers through his cascading silver hair, pushing it back from his face. As he did, his chest expanded, his abdominal muscles flexing with casual, devastating perfection.
He cast a quick, subtle, sideways glance through his thick silver lashes toward the palm-leaf yacht.
He saw Ji’an staring.
He saw the teacup frozen in her hand, and the faint, unmistakable, brilliant flush of red creeping up her neck, visibly battling the collar of her white inner-tunic.
The dark, sociopathic monster in Wangchen’s core let out a victorious, roaring cheer of absolute, unadulterated triumph.
’Target acquired and monopolized. Complete aesthetic dominance achieved,’ Wangchen smirked internally, his heart soaring.
"I am prepared, Brother Ji’an," Wangchen murmured softly, his voice a low, vibrating, incredibly husky purr that bypassed the other disciples and traveled straight to Ji’an’s ears.
He stepped gracefully into the bubbling purple mud. He didn’t flinch as the toxic sludge hit his pristine, pale skin.
He waded into the center of the pit, completely ignoring the groaning prodigies, and sank into a perfect, elegant lotus position.
The purple mud coated his chest, but the intense aura of his core caused the moisture to instantly freeze, turning the mud into a glittering, dark, incredibly aesthetic layer of frost against his skin.
He closed his ruby eyes, looking like a fallen, corrupted angel meditating in the abyss.
Ji’an sat on the yacht, her brain completely, utterly flatlining.
’He’s doing this on purpose,’ Ji’an’s inner monologue shrieked, executing a catastrophic gay/straight panic. ’He is literally treating a toxic death-swamp like a Vogue magazine cover shoot! He is actively, aggressively peacocking to distract me! Cover up your collarbones, you manipulative, silver-haired siren! I am a professional! I am your instructor!’
She forcefully tore her eyes away from the glittering, frost-covered masterpiece in the center of the pit, violently chugging the rest of her jasmine tea in a desperate attempt to cool the sudden, overwhelming heat in her cheeks.
"Get in the mud, Zechuan!" Ji’an barked, her voice cracking slightly, aggressively avoiding looking back at Wangchen.
Shen Zechuan, who had missed the intense, silent, romantic warfare occurring three feet away from him, happily kicked off his boots.
He didn’t bother folding his robes carefully. He just pulled his white tunic over his head, leaving it in a crumpled pile, and bounded toward the edge of the pit.
Zechuan’s physique was identical to Lin Feng’s, broad, sturdy, and built for war, but lacking the rugged, battle-worn scars.
He possessed the same powerful, reliable presence.
But Zechuan did not possess Wangchen’s elegant, calculated grace.
"Cannonball!" Zechuan cheered loudly, entirely abandoning all orthodox dignity.
He leaped into the air, tucked his knees to his chest, and violently crashed directly into the center of the bubbling purple mud pit.
SPLOOSH!
A massive, tidal wave of thick, corrosive, foul-smelling purple sludge erupted outward.
The wave hit Gu Zhiwei square in the face, completely covering the Holy Son in muck, splattered across Lu Jianheng’s nose. It completely covered Wen Shiru’s silver spectacles, blinding the Fox entirely.
And worst of all, a sloppy handful of the purple sludge hit Xie Wangchen directly on the side of his flawless, carefully posed face.