Two months passed in the blink of an eye.
The academy, though humble in appearance, had proved a place of constant challenges. For Qin Wuye, it was less about the lessons themselves and more about the world around him. The others tried, and failed, to draw him into their petty games, but for Qin, it was just another day of weaving through the chaos, unnoticed by most, but always the center of it.
In the beginning, the academy had been a game—one that Qin played with calm and precision. His demeanor was cold, not from lack of warmth, but from his disinterest in the trivialities of those around him. Qin wasn't just any child. He wasn't here to learn the basics of Gu cultivation like the others; no, he was here to watch, to bide his time, and to understand the rules of this world before he made his move.
In the classroom, where others fidgeted and whispered, Qin sat at the back, his expression unreadable. His black abyssal eyes gleamed with an almost imperceptible flicker of amusement, like someone observing the world through a haze, detached from it yet perfectly in tune with its rhythms. His long, cascading hair framed his face like the dark curtain of an ancient king—untouched by the trivialities of the present. His aura seemed to press against the air, thick with an unspoken power. No one dared approach him unless invited, and even then, they kept a cautious distance. His every word and action felt deliberate, his silence a statement in itself.
And yet, in his rare moments of speech, his humor was sharp, like a blade hidden beneath velvet.
One afternoon, the teacher, Liu Fan, stood at the front of the classroom, lecturing about the Binding Spirit Gu and its uses. The children hung on his every word, eager to prove themselves. When Liu Fan paused and glanced at the class, his eyes landed on Qin.
"You," Liu Fan pointed to him, "What is the first step in mastering the Binding Spirit Gu?"
Qin leaned back against the wall, his expression perfectly neutral. "First, you should get the Gu to agree to a non-compete clause," he said, his tone dry and unbothered. "Binding is all well and good, but the real question is whether you can make it work for you."
The class froze, unsure whether Qin was being serious or mocking them. Some snickered, but the nervous energy that rippled through the air was palpable. Liu Fan paused, his brow furrowing, before he let out a forced chuckle.
"You do have a way with words, Qin Wuye," Liu Fan remarked, his voice tinged with annoyance but also a strange admiration.
Qin merely nodded, his lips curving slightly. "I aim to be efficient," he said, his voice smooth as always. "No sense in binding something when a simple agreement would do."
The room went quiet again, as the other students tried to make sense of his words. Liu Fan gave a small shake of his head, clearly frustrated but unwilling to engage further.
But as always, Qin's bad luck followed him like a shadow. It wasn't the first time things had gone awry for him, but each time, it felt as if the universe itself was conspiring against him in the most inconvenient ways.
Later that day, during Gu practice, Qin was asked to demonstrate his control over a basic Gu. It was meant to be a simple task—nothing too advanced. Yet, as Qin manipulated his energy to channel the Gu's power, a misfire sent a shockwave through the courtyard, sending students tumbling to the ground.
A burst of energy erupted around him, knocking over tables, scattering Gu items, and causing chaos to ripple through the courtyard. Qin stood in the center, untouched, not a hair out of place. His expression remained impassive, as though the explosion had no bearing on him whatsoever.
The teacher, Liu Fan, let out a frustrated sigh. "Wuye, what did I tell you? Keep the energy contained! We don't need another crater in the courtyard."
Qin, unperturbed, slowly lifted his hand and spoke, his voice casual. "I didn't know my aura was that strong. I'll be more careful next time."
The students around him stared, awe mixed with a bit of fear. The way he had said it—it was like an apology, but not quite. It was too effortless. Too… detached.
Later that evening, as Qin walked through the academy's halls, mind wandering in thought, his foot unexpectedly landed in a puddle of spilled Gu fluid—sticky, ancient, and notorious for its difficulty to remove. The students around him gasped, and Qin blinked, looking down at his shoe as it sank into the mess.
He sighed inwardly. "Not again," he muttered, looking up to see the stares of his fellow students. He didn't bother to remove his foot; it wasn't worth the effort. His expression remained unchanged, even as the others slowly backed away from him.
"You've got to be kidding me," someone whispered. "Wuye's cursed."
Qin gave a small, faint smile as he removed his foot with difficulty. "It's just a bit of mess. I'll have it cleaned up," he said, his voice still cool and unconcerned.
But as the students looked on, they couldn't help but marvel at the sheer presence Qin exuded. No one seemed to question him, even in these moments of misfortune. His aura, too refined and too deep for them to fully understand, made him seem otherworldly. They were all aware that it wasn't just his skills in Gu cultivation that set him apart—it was how he carried himself, how everything around him seemed to bend to his will, or at least, seemed too insignificant to do anything else.
Qin's luck, as always, was nothing short of disastrous, but the way he dealt with it made the world around him pause. No matter what happened, no matter how chaotic things became, his gaze remained unwavering. The upcoming Awakening Ceremony was drawing nearer, and Qin Wuye was preparing for something much more significant than anything these petty trials could offer.