Leading Henry Carter, Mr. Ethan Clark coughed dryly at the side and called out, “Disciple.”

Charles Bennett turned his head, his gaze landing on Henry Carter. The child wouldn’t look at him directly, looking every bit like a sheltered kid who’d never seen the world, “shyly” lowering his head and following closely behind his master.

…In places where no one could see, he “shyly” mocked the many strange phenomena within the sect.

Ethan Clark pointed at Henry Carter and said, “Your second junior brother can’t manage alone. In a bit, help guide your third junior brother.”

Emily Thompson could hardly be said to be managing—he was nearly about to take Samuel Foster up to the roof to tear off the tiles.

Charles Bennett hadn’t even figured out his own sword moves yet and had no desire to instruct others. Hearing this, he frowned openly, venting all his impatience at his master with the arrogance of a favored child.

Little did he know, the one even more full of resentment was Henry Carter. He couldn’t understand why his master wouldn’t personally instruct him. What could senior brother even do?

Teach him how to look in the mirror to make his nose look higher?

But in the end, Charles Bennett didn’t embarrass his master in front of his junior brother. He suppressed the objection that nearly slipped out and, with forced patience, asked, “Master, I feel like there’s always something wrong with this move, ‘Wishes Go Against Reality.’”

Mr. Ethan Clark asked kindly, “What’s wrong with it?”

Everything was wrong. It didn’t flow at all. Practicing this move, Charles Bennett felt as if rivers were flowing backward inside him—utterly exhausting.

But though he understood this in his heart, he couldn’t quite put that mysterious feeling into words. A thousand thoughts surged on his tongue, but he didn’t know where to start. In the end, it was as if something possessed him, and he blurted out, “It just… doesn’t look very good.”

Watching coldly from the side, Henry Carter confirmed once again that this senior brother was just a flashy fool dressed in gold and silver.

Master smiled amiably and dodged the question, saying, “Haste makes waste. You can wait a bit longer with this move.”

Mr. Ethan Clark was always like this—this damn master never answered his disciples’ questions directly, always responding with some lofty, obscure nonsense.

Though Charles Bennett was long used to this, he still couldn’t help but half-whine, “Wait until when?”

Mr. Ethan Clark replied gently, “Wait until you grow a few more inches.”

Charles Bennett: “……”

As lazy as he was, there were always a few days each month when he wanted to rebel against his master.

After speaking, Ethan Clark grandly left Henry Carter to the sect’s “treasured prodigy” and strolled back to the pavilion to drink tea.

The Fuyao Sect upheld the ancient tradition of “the master leads you to the door, cultivation is up to the individual.” Their stick-in-the-mud master had never shown a shred of real skill, always just setting up a big empty framework for them, never caring what they filled it with.

Charles Bennett, annoyed and distracted, glanced at his solemn third junior brother. He had nothing to say to this little thing, so, sulking, he randomly picked a spot and plopped down, slouching against a stone table. A young Daoist attendant came forward, carefully taking his wooden sword in both hands and wiping it with a white silk cloth.

The attendant probably never washed his own face with such gentle care.

Then, for some unknown reason, the already-seated Young Master Bennett suddenly sprang up like a corpse rising from the grave.

His long brows furrowed as he shot an unhappy glance at Little Grace nearby, but refused to say anything, leaving the little girl pale and at a loss under his gaze, nearly in tears.

At last, Alice Foster, who was waiting for Henry Carter nearby, couldn’t bear to watch and softly reminded, “The stone is cold.”

Only then did Little Grace remember—she had just let their precious young master sit directly on the stone stool, letting him get chilled!

She hurried forward, looking as if she deserved death, crying as she quickly placed three cushions for the young master.

Only then did Charles Bennett glare at her, reluctantly sitting down with great dissatisfaction, weakly lifting his chin at Henry Carter: “Go ahead and practice. I’ll watch. If you don’t understand something, ask.”

Henry Carter treated this senior brother as nothing more than an eyesore, not even bothering to respond, determined to ignore him and focus entirely on his own wooden sword.

Henry Carter had been eavesdropping in trees since he was little. Back then, he had no books or notes, and certainly couldn’t ask questions, so he’d developed an uncanny ability to memorize everything he heard.

With his master’s demonstrations so calm and gentle, as soon as Henry Carter recalled them, every gesture of Mr. Ethan Clark lined up in his mind.

Relying solely on memory, he carefully mimicked his master’s trembling movements, constantly comparing his own actions to what he remembered, so he could correct himself before that annoying guy behind him could open his mouth to nitpick.

With such mimicry skills, even monkeys would feel inferior. At first, Charles Bennett was rather inattentive, but gradually, his gaze fixed on Henry Carter—the little brat was actually breaking down the first move according to the master’s instructions and practicing each part separately.