His interest was like that of an old wolf spotting a rabbit. Henry Carter almost wanted to step back, but he held his ground, standing straight and answering expressionlessly, “Henry Carter.”

“Oh, Little Henry.” Emily Thompson nodded in a familiar manner, putting on a fake smile, “Hello.”

All Henry Carter could see were his gleaming white teeth. By now, he was certain that, in the entire Fuyao Sect, aside from his master, there wasn’t a single person he could even slightly like.

Though, who knew if his master was even human.

After a while, Samuel Foster and Master arrived as well. Samuel Foster plopped himself down right in front of Henry Carter without any hesitation, grumbling about how Henry Carter never came to play with him, all the while taking every opportunity to sample each snack on the table.

Samuel Foster would sometimes beam ingratiatingly at Master, and at other times turn to Henry Carter and make faces, busy but not flustered, perfectly embodying the saying “ugly people make the most mischief.”

As for the eldest senior brother, Charles Bennett, he was a full two quarters of an hour late, finally arriving with a yawn.

He absolutely refused to walk, insisting on being carried in a rattan chair by two young Taoist boys, who bore him all the way from his cozy quarters.

A beautiful young girl followed behind him with dainty steps, fanning him, while another Taoist boy held an umbrella at his side.

There was Charles Bennett, leading his two attendants, dressed in flowing white robes, his clothes billowing like clouds.

This young master seemed less like he was here for morning lessons and more like he was here to stir up trouble.

Upon entering the Hall of Preaching, the eldest senior brother first shot Emily Thompson a disdainful sideways glance, his contempt written all over his face. Then he looked at Samuel Foster and the table of half-eaten pastries. At this, he snapped open his folding fan with a “swish,” shielding his eyes as if to protect his pure gaze from defilement.

In the end, with no other choice, he walked over to Henry Carter with a look of utter displeasure. The attendant beside him stepped forward expertly, wiping the stone stool four times, placing a cushion on it, brewing tea, and setting the hot tea on a tea tray inscribed with talismans. In the blink of an eye, the tray cooled the steaming tea until a fine layer of condensation formed on the outside of the cup. Only then did Charles Bennett pick it up and take a half-hearted sip.

Only after all these steps were meticulously completed did Young Master Bennett finally deign to sit down.

Emily Thompson ignored him as if he didn’t exist, while Samuel Foster stared in shock, as if to say, “What on earth is this?”

Henry Carter, witnessing the whole scene up close, found himself at a loss for words, uncharacteristically speechless despite his usual sharp tongue.

And so, the Fuyao Sect’s chaotic morning lesson began, with the four disciples of Master Muchun all mutually displeased with one another.

Author’s note: Note: “Rites are the thinnest form of loyalty and trust, and the beginning of disorder.” — Laozi, Dao De Jing

☆, Chapter 7

Who knew if Master had already foreseen this scene—maybe his battered old divination plate and those rusty coins were actually useful. In any case, he seemed well prepared.

With drooping eyelids, Master Muchun walked up to the platform, ignoring the undercurrents among his four unruly disciples below. In a half-dead tone, he began, “For today’s morning lesson, all disciples will recite the ‘Qingjing Sutra’ with me.”

The “Qingjing Sutra” was not the “Taishang Laojun’s Classic of Purity and Tranquility,” but rather a string of nonsensical, repetitive phrases—likely something Master had made up himself, with content that was utterly incomprehensible.

Perhaps to demonstrate “purity and tranquility,” Master Muchun dragged out every word to twice its normal length. He stretched them so much that he sometimes ran out of breath, so every sentence ended with a quavering, wavering tone, like a crazy, toothless old opera singer.

After listening for a while, Henry Carter felt his ears buzzing, so much so that he grew anxious—worried that Master might suffocate himself.

After Master finished the first round, barely breathing, he slowly picked up his teacup to moisten his throat. Henry Carter quickly brushed off his goosebumps, waiting to hear some profound insight, only to despair as Master, in that nerve-wracking voice, drawled, “Good, let’s recite it again.”

Henry Carter: “……”

Someone slapped Henry Carter’s shoulder unceremoniously—his outwardly dazzling but inwardly rotten eldest senior brother had taken the initiative to speak to him.

The eldest senior brother said, “Hey, kid, move over a bit and make some room for me.”

As the sect’s prized treasure, when the eldest senior brother wanted space, Henry Carter didn’t dare refuse.

Young Master Bennett merely lifted his eyelids, and the attendant immediately trotted over with a bamboo recliner. He sprawled out on it without a hint of courtesy, closed his eyes right in front of Master, and openly took a nap amid the thunderous “purity and tranquility.”

Henry Carter observed for a while and discovered that his monstrous eldest senior brother did have at least one merit—he didn’t snore when he slept.

The others seemed long accustomed to this. While the eldest senior brother brazenly napped, the second senior brother had, in a short time, perfectly hit it off with his newly-minted little junior, and he hadn’t given up on Henry Carter either, winking and making faces at everyone indiscriminately.