That cry of “Binghe” sent chills down his own spine. Charles Clark also visibly shuddered, clearly unaccustomed to it, but he still managed a slightly bashful smile. “This disciple is foolish and still... can’t grasp the essentials.”

John Sullivan was so frustrated—he wished he could grab a megaphone and shout into Charles Clark’s ear: You’re holding a fake cultivation manual; it’s a miracle you haven’t gone astray already. How could you possibly grasp the essentials? Kid, stick with me! Let your master give you the real cultivation method!

That demonic, siren-like alarm blared incessantly. John Sullivan shouted inwardly at the system: “I’m just thinking about it, can’t I?! Of course I know this is against the rules!”

He could only continue casually, “I’m punishing you today out of impatience. Time flies; you’ve been my disciple for quite a while now. How old are you this year?”

Charles Clark obediently replied, “This disciple is fourteen by nominal age.”

Oh. Fourteen.

John Sullivan held his forehead.

In other words, at this point, the master-disciple pair of John Sullivan and Charles Clark had already gone through the kneeling-at-the-gate punishment, the group brawl on Qingjing Peak, the “talking back” to master and getting beaten up incident, the breaking-a-magical-item-and-being-forced-to-do-hard-labor incident... and so on, all glorious achievements [manual wave].

Author’s note:

☆ What am I supposed to do with you, male lead

John Sullivan is someone who can really go with the flow.

Since he’s already been reborn into “Proud Immortal Demon Way,” and there’s a ninety percent chance his original self has already kicked the bucket, he might as well muddle along here.

Arriving in a cultivation world, he’s gained a pretty decent set of skills and swordsmanship for free, and he’s from a prestigious orthodox sect. If he wants to stand out, he can do so anytime; if he wants to keep a low profile, he can just hole up on Qingjing Peak of the Cangqiong Mountain Sect and ignore the world. What’s not to like?

Well, finding girls is a bit of a challenge.

In these wish-fulfillment harem novels, as long as a girl isn’t ugly, she’s bound to end up in the male lead’s pocket. Everyone knows how it goes.

But John Sullivan really doesn’t ask for much. As long as he can coast along, eat and wait to die, and enjoy his twilight years, he’s perfectly content. After all, it’s not much different from his previous life.

However, as long as Charles Clark is around, forget about standing out—so long as he remains on this continent crafted by the original author, even if he hides away in the most secluded paradise, once Charles Clark takes over, he’ll still have the means to drag him out and turn him into a cripple.

It’s bad enough to be reborn into a harem novel, but why couldn’t he have transmigrated as the protagonist?!

Not the protagonist? Fine. But why did he have to become cannon fodder doomed to die under the protagonist’s halo?!

Cannon fodder? Fine. But why did he have to transmigrate after he’d already tormented the protagonist to death and thoroughly offended him?!

“It’s not that I don’t want to cling to the male lead, but who told the author to make the male lead a dark type? The kind who repays every grudge a thousandfold!”

John Sullivan cursed the author who created this dark-type male lead Charles Clark: If you’re going to write a harem novel, just write a harem novel! What’s with all the originality crap!

In short, he could only try to interact with the system as much as possible, figure out ways to earn points, level up quickly, and unfreeze the OOC system.

If things looked bad, as a last resort, he’d have to find another way out.

Step one, he planned to look around and get familiar with the environment.

The twelve peaks of the Heavenly Palace stood like twelve majestic, awe-inspiring swords forged by heaven and earth, piercing straight into the clouds.

Qingjing Peak, where John Sullivan resided, wasn’t the tallest, but it was the most tranquil—lush, shaded, and elegant, with bamboo groves everywhere. Plus, nearly every one of John Sullivan’s disciples had to learn a bit of music, chess, calligraphy, or painting, so from time to time, the sound of reciting books or the faint notes of a zither would drift by. It was truly the perfect place for ancient literary youth. It fit the original John Sullivan’s pretentious tastes perfectly.

On the way, a few disciples greeted John Sullivan respectfully. He imitated the original’s demeanor, kept a cold face, nodded slightly, and walked on with his hands behind his back, managing to get by. Internally, though, he was already worrying about how to match the names from the book to the real faces he was seeing now.

But none of that was John Sullivan’s top priority at the moment. To protect himself, he first had to recover all the original’s cultivation and sword skills.

If he remembered correctly, before Charles Clark turned dark, the Cangqiong Mountain Sect would still go through several major events—demonic invasions, the Immortal Alliance Conference, and so on—all of which would require him to show off his skills. If he was just wearing a shell without any real power, he’d be doomed! Forget about following the plot—he wouldn’t even need the protagonist to act; any random little demon or monster could kill him!

John Sullivan walked alone into the depths of the forest. After making sure no one was around, he took the sword hanging at his waist, gripped the scabbard with his left hand and the hilt with his right, and slowly drew it.

This “Xiuyajian” was the sword John Sullivan had carried since his youth, and it was quite famous. The blade was snowy white and bright, but not blinding—truly a top-quality weapon. According to the original, if you infused your spiritual energy into the weapon, the blade would glow faintly.

John Sullivan was just wondering how exactly to “infuse spiritual energy” when the sword in his hand began to shine with a white, crystalline light.

It seemed that the original’s cultivation and martial skills—anything at the physical level—were all inherited together. He didn’t even need to deliberately remember them; they came naturally.

John Sullivan wanted to test its power, so he casually slashed forward.