Of course, Cheng Qian didn't really understand. In his small chest, awe for Mu Chun's mysterious power tangled with a strong sense of disapproval, and he couldn't quite separate the two. But since his master didn't approve of it either, he quietly filed Mu Chun away in his mind—alongside the broken oil lamp on the wall—and nodded blankly.
Mu Chun twirled his beard proudly, just about to bask in the glory of his showmanship, but Heaven wasn't about to give him another moment of face. Before he could speak again, nature took over. Just as the thunder faded, a fierce gust of wind suddenly slapped them in the face, snuffing out their bonfire in an instant and leaving behind only dead ashes. Then came more wind, more lightning, and booming thunder that seemed to rise up and roar straight from the west.
Mu Chun didn't even have time to keep pretending to be some kind of deity. He shouted, "No good—downpour incoming!"
Then he jumped up, grabbed the luggage with one hand and Cheng Qian with the other, and dashed off. His reed-like legs moved fast but awkwardly, like a goose with a long neck and tiny steps, fleeing the scene in a full-blown panic.
Unfortunately, the rain came too fast. No matter how fast his long neck moved, he couldn't outrun the storm.
Mu Chun held Cheng Qian tightly in his arms and took off his soaked robe to wrap around the boy. It wasn't much, but it was better than letting the little guy freeze bare-armed in the rain. He muttered to himself, "Oh heavens, where are we supposed to hide?"
Cheng Qian had seen countless birds fly in his lifetime, but being carried like this was by far the bumpiest, wildest ride he'd ever been on.
The roar of wind, rain, and thunder blended with his master's loud shouts. With his head covered by Mu Chun's robe, Cheng Qian couldn't see anything, but he could faintly smell a soft, woody scent on the old man's sleeves.
Mu Chun kept one arm wrapped firmly around the boy's chest, the other shielding his head. His old bones were bony and sharp, making the embrace a little painful—but the protection was real.
For some reason, even though this long-necked bird of a man had clearly lied to him earlier, Cheng Qian felt a strange sense of trust and warmth toward him.
Wrapped in Mu Chun's robe, Cheng Qian quietly peeked out through a gap and looked at his soaking-wet master. For the first time in his life, he was being treated like a child should be. He savored the moment in silence and decided—this would be his master, lies and all.
So, with that, Cheng Qian accepted him.
Master and disciple finally arrived at a dilapidated Taoist temple, soaked to the bone.
Back in the days of Emperor Xiandi, the great "Qingdao Purge" had cleared out many unorthodox sects, leaving behind countless deserted Taoist temples. Over time, these abandoned places had become shelter for beggars and travelers who'd lost their way.
Cheng Qian poked his little head out from under Mu Chun's jacket and looked up—only to come face to face with the statue of a so-called deity enshrined in the temple. The sight gave him a start. The idol had a round, flat "cake face," no neck, pudgy cheeks painted red, and a huge open mouth lined with jagged teeth. It looked more like a clown than a god.
Mu Chun saw it too and quickly covered Cheng Qian's eyes, scolding, "Red jacket and green robe—what a disgrace! Who worships in such vulgar clothes?"
Young Cheng Qian was speechless, unfamiliar with such things.
Mu Chun added with righteous indignation, "A cultivator must keep a pure heart and few desires. Even appearance matters—dressing like some opera clown… utterly improper!"
He actually knew what proper decorum was? Cheng Qian was mildly impressed.
Just then, the scent of roasted meat wafted from the back of the temple, cutting off Mu Chun's high-minded critique.
Mu Chun's throat bobbed involuntarily, and he fell silent. With a strange look in his eyes, he led Cheng Qian behind the creepy idol, where they discovered a little beggar—not much older than Cheng Qian—squatting by a pit he'd dug in the floor, roasting a fat chicken.
Mu Chun swallowed hard again.
When a man gets too skinny, certain impulses become hard to hide. Even his scrawny neck gave away his instinctive reaction.
Mu Chun set Cheng Qian down and, as if to demonstrate proper decorum, wiped the rain off his face, put on a friendly smile, and swayed over to the beggar like a floating cloud. With exaggerated elegance, he began weaving an elaborate tale about a golden immortal sect overseas, rich in treasures and grandeur.
The little beggar stared, utterly hypnotized.
Mu Chun pointed at him and said warmly, "I see you have excellent potential. With the right guidance, you might soar into the heavens one day. Tell me, child—what's your name?"
Cheng Qian thought this sounded oddly familiar.
The beggar, still dazed, replied with a sniffle, "Little Tiger. I don't know my last name."
"Then take my surname," Mu Chun declared, stroking his beard. "You'll be called Han Yuan from now on—'Yuan' as in destiny."
Cheng Qian: "…"
Han Yuan? Sounds more like "Injustice Yuan." How very festive.
Clearly, Master had let hunger mess with his head. He was naming beggars in between bites.
Though Han Yuan was a little older than Cheng Qian, he became the fourth disciple, while Cheng Qian—"the last disciple"—was now technically senior.
Turns out, the back door of the Fuyao Sect wasn't tightly shut.
As for the roast chicken… well, most of it went into the master's stomach.
Han Yuan never stopped talking, which only made things worse. Before this, Mu Chun had been the only one constantly babbling. Now, with the little beggar added to the mix, even Mu Chun seemed quieter by comparison.
The boy even seemed inspired by Mu Chun's earlier "don't steal or touch dogs" lecture. So he spun a tall tale about slaying a ten-foot-long rat and making off with a pile of treasure.
He flailed his arms dramatically, full of confidence and flair.
Cheng Qian couldn't help asking, "How can a rat be ten feet long?"
Han Yuan puffed out his chest and snapped back, "Of course it can! Master, can't a yellow weasel become a spirit?"