Bai Zing poured tea into Mo Jian’s saucer, her smile bright as she toasted his role in driving off the demonic cultivator. Beside her, Bai Zhou let out a hearty laugh, sipping from his own saucer, relief softening his usually stern features.

  They sat across from each other at a low table, alone—except for a group of disciples behind a one-way sound-blocking talisman, plucking a gentle melody on the zither. Their music filled the space with warmth, adding a mellow harmony to the quiet evening.

  Originally, Zhou and Zing had planned a banquet in Mo Jian’s honor, but he had firmly declined. Large crowds weren’t to his liking. While he appreciated fine dining, he valued it more when enjoyed in peace. So, at his insistence, they had canceled the festivities and instead joined him for a more private conversation.

  “Are you certain, Senior? The sect would gladly set aside this year’s profits for you. Please, allow us to express our sincere gratitude,” Zhou said earnestly, his tone respectful but tinged with unspoken tension. He was likely remembering the kind of man the original Mo Jian had been, and this refusal was unsettling. Perhaps he suspected that Mo Jian harbored other demands yet unvoiced.

  How could Mo Jian explain the truth? For him, it was plain. First, it was a terrible idea to exploit the heroine’s parents. Second, taking their profits—especially now, after an attack that had shaken the sect’s foundation—felt wrong. They needed that wealth to rebuild, to survive. And he didn’t need it.

  Still, he had to reassure them. Painting on a calm, virtuous expression, he said, “Your generosity moves me, Sect Leader. But I must refuse for another reason. You see, I tricked the demonic cultivator into revealing why he attacked you. Do you know the reason?”

  Both Bai Zhou and Bai Zing froze. Their smiles vanished, replaced by a bitter, mirrored grief.

  “How could that be, Senior?” Zhou asked slowly. “We’ve never even seen him before. I have no idea what offense we could have given, or when.”

  Zing nodded. “I’ve racked my brain, Senior. Questioned every disciple, reviewed every patrol log, and every record. No one recalls meeting him. There were no slights given, no disputes that arose. I thought… we were simply cursed with bad luck.”

  Mo Jian sighed, letting the emotion seep into his voice, hoping his acting wasn’t too poor. “If only it were that simple. No… he had a specific target in mind.”

  He paused. They watched him with rapt attention, sensing the terrible news to come. He softened his tone. “Your daughter.”

  Zhou froze, his saucer halted halfway to his lips. The jar in Zing’s hand cracked and shattered, shards spilling onto the floor—but neither noticed. Mo Jian saw the emotions in their eyes: fear, anger, disbelief.

  Zing recovered first, her voice trembling. “Senior, how can that be? Ning has only just begun her cultivation. How could she have drawn the attention of a demonic cultivator like that? I’ve been by her side these past years. Surely… you misheard him?”

  Zhou, by contrast, didn’t deny it. His voice was quiet, laced with dread. “After little Ning? But why?” He turned to Mo Jian, eyes searching with an unspoken, heavy question.

  “I don’t know how or when he discovered this, but he mentioned she has a special bloodline. He said… that he wanted to turn her into a human cauldron.”

  Mo Jian kept his tone matter-of-fact, though no one in their right mind could be comfortable hearing such things. And to hear it about their daughter…

  Zhou slumped heavily, his face draining of color until he was ashen, the blood seeming to leave him entirely. His lips pressed tightly together, trying to contain the words or emotions threatening to spill out.

  Zing reacted differently. She shot to her feet, anger flaring instantly, a sharp contrast to Zhou’s shock. Her aura roiled through the room, thick and oppressive. From the corner of his eye, Mo Jian saw the disciples behind the one-way sound-blocking talisman flinch, and the zither playing stopped abruptly.

  “He dares… to target my daughter? That fiend!” Zing’s voice was fierce, breaths quick and sharp. The raw, protective fury of a mother filled the room. Mo Jian wisely chose silence, giving her space to process the blow.

  Zhou’s eyes closed in quiet defeat, but he reached up and tugged gently on his wife’s sleeve. She turned toward him, and instantly the fire in her eyes faded. Her anger melted into exhaustion, and with a soft thud, she sank back into her seat. Mo Jian saw tears welling in her eyes, but she fought them back fiercely. Zing’s sudden outburst seemed to have drained them both, leaving them quiet, fatigued, and broken.

  Zhou opened his eyes slowly, his face weary but resolute as he found a fragment of strength within himself. “Senior, that… what do we do? If Ning’er really has such a bloodline, and now the demonic path knows about it, she will always be in danger.”

  Mo Jian could only shrug helplessly. He had no easy answers to give—not now, maybe not ever. Even in the original story, the heroine’s special bloodline had never been mentioned. Setting that aside, the truth was grim: unless they stationed a Core Formation cultivator by their daughter’s side at all times, she would never truly be safe.

  Worse still, there were those in the cultivation world who would not hesitate to use her as a breeding vessel, hoping to exploit her bloodline and replicate its benefits. It was cruel, twisted logic—but all too real.

  Mo Jian understood their helplessness and anger. It made sense. Yet there was little he could do to help.

  The meeting ended soon after. Mo Jian offered a few hollow platitudes, fully aware they rang empty. Zhou and Zing needed time to process, to come to terms with it, and decide their next move.

  He left quietly, retreating to his rooms at the top of the hall—just as helpless as they were.

  The next morning, when Mo Jian opened the doors to his room, he was met with an unexpected sight—Bai Zhou and his wife kowtowing before him.

  Their foreheads pressed to the stone floor, postures low and unwavering. As soon as they saw him, they cried out in unison, voices thick with desperation.

  “Senior, this is our selfishness, but we beg you—please take our daughter, Bai Ning, as your disciple. Only then will she be safe. We are willing to do anything.”

  Zhou’s voice cracked as he pressed his head lower, body trembling with sincerity. “I know this one-sided request is shameless, Senior, but we have no other choice. I am willing to serve at your side for the rest of my life—live as your humble servant—if it means my daughter will be protected. Please… accept her.”

  Zing’s voice was just as steady, just as raw. “Senior Mo, my daughter is dutiful and intelligent. She will not disappoint you. If you grant her this chance, she will repay you with a lifetime of loyalty. I beg of you—let her follow you. Let her live.”

  Mo Jian stared in mounting horror as they bowed, tears in their eyes, voices cracking under the weight of desperation. This was their solution after yesterday’s conversation?

  For a moment, he was too stunned to react. Then understanding dawned.

  He was the only Core Formation cultivator they knew. They couldn’t make him stay in the sect, but they could send their daughter with him. In their eyes, he was her only chance at safety—the only future that didn’t end in a cage, a ritual circle, or worse. From their perspective, it made perfect sense.

  From his? Not so much.

  Mo Jian sympathized with them—truly, he did. But taking on the role of the heroine’s master? That sounded like the kind of plot point that ended with him heroically sacrificing himself so she could get a last-minute power boost and avenge him in the final battle. No, thank you.

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  Even setting aside his genre-awareness, he was new to this world. He lacked stable footing, let alone the qualifications to be anyone’s teacher. How could he guide a disciple when he didn’t even know where his own path led?

  Still, watching two loving parents lower themselves before him, utterly stripped of pride, he couldn’t bring himself to simply say no. He was deeply uncomfortable—but the words of refusal stuck in his throat.

  “First of all, get up,” he said, more roughly than intended. “There’s no need to debase yourselves like this. I… need time to consider. Taking on a disciple isn’t something I can decide lightly. Let me think it over properly, and I’ll give you my answer.”

  They lifted their heads, faces lit with hope. He hadn’t accepted—but hadn’t refused either. That was enough.

  Zhou immediately launched into praise, lauding Mo Jian’s wisdom and virtue as though he were some ancient sage sent from the heavens. Zing wasn’t far behind, extolling her daughter’s talents until she sounded like the finest prospective disciple the cultivation world had ever seen.

  Mo Jian smiled politely, made some excuse, and turned to head back into his room.

  The moment the door clicked shut, he slumped against it.

  Exhausted.

  That whole exchange had drained him more than the fight the day before. At least battles were straightforward.

  …………………

  Hiding in his room, Mo Jian sat on a floating cloud, his mind churning over Bai Zhou and Bai Zing’s request. Truthfully, he understood where they were coming from. They were only doing what any loving parent would—grasping at the best opportunity they could find for their daughter.

  Still, Mo Jian’s decision was already made.

  He was going to refuse.

  His offer to "think about it" had been nothing more than a polite formality. He had been in this world for barely a day. While he might possess the memories of a seasoned cultivator, he was still fumbling to find his footing. He wasn’t in a stable enough position to take responsibility for anyone else.

  All of that made sense. Yet it did nothing to quiet his guilt.

  Because their request wasn’t unreasonable. If he left—what then? Who would stop Chao Qinzi from returning to finish what he started? What if Qinzi had allies? What if he’d shared what he knew? Would Bai Ning spend the rest of her life being hunted by demonic cultivators?

  That path led only to suffering.

  And while Mo Jian would never claim to be a hero, he had a basic sense of decency. If he was going to save someone, he ought to do it properly. He’d already stepped into this mess. Didn’t that give him some responsibility—if not to fix it, then at least to see it through?

  He couldn’t just show up, scare off a threat, and walk away like that solved anything. If he truly wanted to keep Bai Ning—and her parents and sect—safe, he had to think long-term.

  The only solution he could see—imperfect though it was—was to remove Bai Ning from the equation entirely. If she were somewhere else, somewhere safer, or under the protection of someone powerful, those targeting her would be left grasping at nothing ineffectually. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than the alternatives.

  Which led to his current dilemma.

  There was no one else Bai Ning’s parents could turn to. The original Mo Jian—before his arrival—wasn’t exactly someone who inspired confidence. If they’d had a better option, they would’ve taken it. The fact that they had come to him meant, somehow, he had become their best hope.

  Clearly, the heavens had a twisted sense of humor.

  So, the real question was this: could Mo Jian refuse them in good conscience?

  Feeling irritated—at both himself and the situation—he rose from the cloud and began pacing. He’d made up his mind to say no, and yet his thoughts kept circling back to it. He couldn’t let it go. It was obvious he wasn’t certain about his decision.

  But what else could he do?

  He didn’t want to get involved in the plot. Ye Chen, the hero. Bai Ning, the heroine. The Immortal of Slaughter, the final villain. None of them had anything to do with him. He’d just transmigrated into this world and into this body, and all he wanted was to live freely.

  Maybe he was treating it like a vacation—both to avoid responsibilities and as a way to not think too deeply about how he’d ended up here… and what he’d left behind in the real world. But so what? He didn’t owe anyone here anything.

  Somehow, even in his own head, that didn’t sound convincing.

  Grumbling under his breath, Mo Jian crossed the little stream running through the room—then turned and crossed it again. Pacing always helped him think. But not this time. Not when he already knew what decision he was drifting toward. And he didn’t like it.

  Did he really have to take the heroine as a student?

  Still pacing, something caught his attention. Halfway across the room, tucked beside the bed, was a full-length mirror. Mo Jian hadn’t noticed it before, but now he found himself arrested by the sight of his own reflection.

  It was strange. Part of him recognized this face intimately. Another part saw a stranger’s skin staring back.

  Cultivators were generally attractive. Many didn’t bother, but methods to maintain a youthful appearance were widespread and easy to use. Combined with the physical benefits of cultivation, it created a world of breathtaking fairies and peerless lords. Cultivation smoothed the skin, added luster to the hair, and from the Foundation Establishment stage onward, freed one from the need to eat or drink.

  Only those who overindulged ended up with a less-than-ideal figure.

  Mo Jian was one of them.

  He had a thick face with heavy cheeks, and his balding head didn’t help—he looked more like a cultivator’s servant than a cultivator himself. Add in a noticeable gut—not enough to be called fat, but obvious even beneath his robes—and the picture was complete. This was clearly a man who enjoyed the fruits of life and had not yet “liberated” himself from the red dust of the mortal world.

  Not that it mattered.

  This was a world where strength defined everything. A cultivator could look like a toad crossed with a pig and smell like a skunk, and they would still be admired—so long as they had power.

  And Mo Jian did. As a late-stage Core Formation cultivator—the penultimate realm as known by the layperson—he held real weight. He could found his own sect, roam freely, be welcomed as an honored guest, or even set himself up as the ruler of a mortal kingdom. It was all within his grasp.

  His gaze lingered on the mirror a moment longer, then he turned away, shaking his head.

  His appearance didn’t matter. He didn’t have time for vanity. Yet, somehow, seeing himself in the mirror gave him the push he needed.

  Mo Jian exhaled slowly, then rubbed his face with both hands, as though he could scrub the indecision out of himself.

  Fine.

  If this was a trap set by fate, then he’d just… sidestep it. There was no need to leap headfirst into the role of a grandmaster guiding the heroine to her destiny. He didn’t need to fight against the plot—he just needed to stay out of its way long enough to hand her off to someone better suited for it.

  Yes. That was reasonable.

  He would take Bai Ning in—for now. Just until he could find a more appropriate sect. The Thousand Shattered Islands were full of wandering cultivators and hidden experts, and the original Mo Jian had spent over half a century there. He had contacts, connections, favors owed and half-forgotten promises tucked away in old correspondence. Surely among all that, there would be someone willing to take on a talented disciple with a rare bloodline. Someone who wasn’t a half-reluctant transmigrator still trying to figure out how to cultivate properly.

  It was a stopgap. A temporary decision. A contingency plan, not a commitment.

  Still, it was enough to make peace with his conscience.

  Decision made, he adjusted his robes, stepped to the gate, and pushed it open. It was really happening—he was going to be the heroine’s master. At least for a little while.

  …………………

  It didn’t take long to find Bai Zhou and Bai Zing.

  In fact, he didn’t have to search at all. They were waiting just outside his room. From the look of it, they hadn’t moved since morning, ever since he’d asked for time to consider.

  Dawn had already begun to yield to full daylight. The chill in the air was starting to fade, but both of them still looked exhausted and drawn—drained, not just from the cold, but from hope held too tightly for too long.

  The moment he stepped outside, Bai Zhou’s head snapped up, eyes rimmed with fatigue. Zing followed a heartbeat later, blinking rapidly, as if surfacing from a long, tense trance.

  “Senior,” Zhou breathed. “Have you… come to a decision?”

  “I have,” Mo Jian said, doing his best not to show how uncertain he still felt. “I will accept Bai Ning as my disciple—provisionally.”

  Zing gasped, her hands tightening into white-knuckled fists. Zhou swallowed, his throat working.

  “Provisionally?” he asked carefully.

  “I’ll take her with me,” Mo Jian said. “Train her and protect her to the best of my abilities. But only for now. I intend to find a more suitable sect—or someone more qualified to be her master. When that time comes, I’ll entrust her to them. That’s my condition.”

  The words came out more firmly than he’d expected. He wasn’t used to speaking like this—setting terms, defining boundaries—but saying it aloud helped steady him.

  Zhou bowed again, not prostrating this time, but deep and full of quiet sincerity. “That is more than we could have hoped for, Senior. Truly. If that day comes, we’ll trust your judgment. Until then… she is in your care.”

  Zing swiped at her eyes, her voice tight. “Thank you, Senior. With your protection… she’ll be safe.”

  Mo Jian met her gaze. “As long as she’s with me, I won’t let any harm come to her.”

  He hadn’t planned to say it quite like that. But once the words were out, they felt right. Maybe it was posturing. Or maybe it was the weight of the moment finally settling on his shoulders.

  Either way, Zing’s eyes shimmered again, and she nodded, gratitude etched into every line of her face.

  “I’ll prepare her things,” she whispered, dabbing at her eyes before turning to leave.

  Zhou lingered a moment longer, then slowly straightened. His back was stiff with fatigue, but there was strength in it now—something steadier than hope, something closer to resolve.

  “We won’t forget this, Senior Mo. Not in this lifetime.”

  Mo Jian said nothing.

  What was there to say? That it wasn’t kindness? That it was guilt? Pragmatism? A temporary fix to soothe his conscience?

  None of that mattered. They needed hope—and he’d given them that much. It was enough.