Of the four people present, only Henry Carter was somewhat tolerant toward their master. His tolerance and harshness were clearly distinguished, yet both were unwavering and meticulous. In this chaotic environment, Henry Carter, in order to keep the master from performing a solo act, sat motionless in his seat and recited the entire “routine morning lesson” with the master from beginning to end.

Emily Thompson, seeing that Henry Carter didn’t care to pay him any attention, rolled his eyes and came up with an idea. Like a thief, he fished a small porcelain bottle out of his sleeve and waved it under Samuel Foster’s nose, whispering, “Do you know what this is?”

Samuel Foster took it and opened it, immediately assaulted by a stench so foul it made his head spin. Even Henry Carter, sitting behind him, was unfortunately affected.

Emily Thompson said smugly, “This is my homemade Golden Toad Divine Water.”

While reciting scriptures with the master, Henry Carter managed to scoff without missing a beat: “Isn’t this just the Golden Toad’s foot-washing water?”

Samuel Foster pinched his nose and handed back the “divine foot-washing water,” enduring the stench as he asked, “What’s it for?”

Emily Thompson grinned, balled up a sheet of xuan paper from his desk, and dripped a few drops of the divine water onto it. The liquid quickly soaked into the paper, and in the blink of an eye, the paper ball turned into a real, live toad.

Of all the creatures in the world, why play with toads? What kind of taste is this?

Suddenly, Henry Carter understood a little why the eldest senior brother looked at the second senior brother as if he were a pile of crap.

Emily Thompson glanced up and met Henry Carter’s gaze, then mischievously poked the toad on the table with his brush handle and pointed at Henry Carter: “Go to him.”

The toad croaked and hopped toward Henry Carter, but halfway there, a withered hand caught it—at some point, the master had wandered over. The toad turned back into a wad of paper in his hand.

“Unorthodox tricks,” Mr. Ethan Clark sighed as if chanting a scripture. “Little Jun, you really are something.”

Emily Thompson stuck out his tongue.

The master said, “Since that’s the case, you lead your junior brothers in reciting the scriptures.”

Emily Thompson had no choice but to croak out the scriptures in a voice like a eunuch singing in the imperial hall, spending nearly an hour repeating that short passage of the Purity Sutra more than ten times. Only then did the master mercifully call a halt, bringing this long torment to an end.

Samuel Foster shivered and whispered to Henry Carter, “If he keeps reciting, I’m going to pee myself.”

Henry Carter sat up straight, pretending not to know him.

After more than an hour of resting with his eyes closed, the master was now full of energy. He said, “Stillness should be balanced with movement. Disciples, come out to the pavilion with me—oh, Henry Carter, call your eldest senior brother.”

Henry Carter, who had just suffered a disaster for no reason, was momentarily stunned. He turned to look at the white-clad youth, then braced himself and reached out a finger, poking his shoulder as if touching fire, all the while nervously thinking, “The master told me to call you, so don’t take it out on me.”

The Senior William, who had dozed off twice already, seemed to have slept enough and didn’t cause any trouble. He opened his eyes and stared blankly at Henry Carter for a while before taking a deep breath and getting up, waving his hand weakly: “Got it, you all go ahead.”

The not-fully-awake Young Master Bennett actually seemed to be in a much better mood. His peach blossom eyes were veiled with a layer of mist, and his gaze toward Henry Carter was much gentler.

Then, Charles Bennett asked softly, “By the way, what’s your name again?”

“…Henry Carter.”

“Oh.” Charles Bennett nodded indifferently. Compared to the undisguised disdain he showed Emily Thompson, and the way he covered his face with a fan in front of Samuel Foster, he was actually being quite polite to Henry Carter.

After the “oh,” Charles Bennett lost interest in Henry Carter, covered his mouth with his hand and yawned, then sat motionless, waiting for the maid Xiaoyu’er to comb his hair.

When Henry Carter was full of thoughts about humans and demons, there was a moment when he suspected that his flamboyant Senior William might be a pheasant spirit with a tail of dazzling colors. But seeing this scene, he dismissed the idea—even a real pheasant, if combed like this every day, would probably end up a bald, bare-bottomed, two-legged freak.

And the hair on Senior William’s head was still thick and healthy, not yet turned into a feather duster, which suggested he might be some even more bizarre kind of creature.

In the courtyard, a young Daoist boy walked over and respectfully presented a wooden sword to the master.

Immediately, both Henry Carter and Samuel Foster perked up. They had grown up on stories of immortals riding the wind and wielding swords. Even though Henry Carter had suffered the torments of the classics, he was still a little boy at heart. He wouldn’t admit it, but deep down he still yearned for those legendary powers that could summon clouds and rain.

The wooden sword was simple and ancient in style, exuding a quiet weight. In the boys’ minds, all the mystical arts—alchemy, cryptic scriptures, divining past and future by counting stars, even carving real talismans—none of them could compare to the allure of “sword-riding.”

What was ascension through tribulation compared to that?

Compared to wielding a sword that chills fourteen provinces, even the legendary art of riding clouds and mist would have to take a back seat.

Mr. Ethan Clark swung his thin arms and legs, his whole body as skinny as a stick, and slowly walked to the center of the courtyard, looking like a clothes rack with robes hanging on it.