My Wife Is A Sword Immortal -
Chapter 355 - 263 Mr. Zhao?
Chapter 355: Chapter 263 Mr. Zhao?
Within the flower garden sprinkled by the dawn light.
Zhu Yourong watched her silent disciple across from her. As she set down her teacup, her hand gently raised but then lowered again. She couldn’t help wanting to stroke Yu Huaijin’s hair, styled in a man’s fashion, but she knew her disciple would surely get angry.
Zhu Yourong slightly spaced out and then chuckled without a sound.
She remembered the first time those people brought her to the unknowable place, and the first time she "saw" Little Yu Xuanji, she felt a sense of closeness.
A closeness with a history.
At a tender age with a tiny stature, wearing those meticulously complex and ornately embellished garments, she was almost entirely hidden from view, leaving only her eyes visible. Yet she stood up tall and straight, earnestly gazing into Zhu Yourong’s eyes with all the seriousness in the world and greeted her formality.
The first glimpse Zhu Yourong had of her, she had decided to take her out, even if in this matter, Zhu Yourong didn’t have the privilege to choose but was chosen instead.
But that was what she thought. It wasn’t out of pity or sympathy for the little girl who was so rigidly adherent to ancient rites and rituals to the point of dullness; it was out of closeness and affection. She wanted to take her out to see the world beyond and not to always remain in that place, where the mere accumulation of historical dust under a single roof tile was suffocating.
When the adults momentarily left them alone, Zhu Yourong still remembered that this girl, clearly not the heir to the unknown place but still treated as the apple of everyone’s eye, and even more important than the legitimate heir – as if she was an ’outsider’ – the rigid little girl, who had been silent throughout, suddenly spoke when the surroundings were silent. Zhu Yourong believed it must be her voice, as there could not be anyone else around.
Little Yu Xuanji’s voice was the distinctive shrill of a young girl, yet also hoarse and echoing, muffled as if spoken behind a curtain, contradictory yet complex, and completely different from now. The reason she remembered so much was that the memories of their first meeting were fresh.
"Can a teacher also be a ’teacher’?" she asked.
At that moment, Zhu Yourong remembered hearing this somewhat puzzling question, smiling and nodding, unable to resist suddenly reaching out to stroke Yu Xuanji’s hair.
This outrageous action must have startled that rigid little girl. She remembered her face flushing red, stammering at first, then with a straight face, managing to squeeze out a "Teacher, please show some dignity."
With righteous indignation.
Zhu Yourong couldn’t help but be amused.
Later, it became a quiet, wordless companionship while the tea cooled, and then the adults came back.
After that, she became Little Yu Xuanji’s teacher, the teacher who imparted knowledge and instruction.
Behind them, both the Confucian Temple and the others were very satisfied with this spiritual connection.
Zhu Yourong unsurprisingly gained a significantly brighter future, an addition like wings to a tiger, unless she had chosen a narrow path that ruined her prospects. Even then, Yu Xuanji did not leave, and Zhu Yourong was still not removed from the first-class register of Confucians by the Confucian Temple.
But Zhu Yourong didn’t care about those details; she was just happy that she got her wish to take her out. Together, they saw the Xuanhuang Nine Provinces that they both agreed, albeit it felt a bit rustic.
They traveled the same roads as the Ancient Kunpeng did.
The Martial Artists and the ice plains of the Northern Kunpeng Continent.
The Sword Qi and Demon Energy of Kun City in Western Fu Yao Continent.
The scholars and Public Offices of the Tunan Continent.
The female Cultivators and the great marshes of the Yun Meng Continent.
The Swordsmen and Heroic Spirit of the Southern Tranquility State.
And finally, they arrived at this small Wangque Continent.
If they were to describe the most remote among the smaller Three Provinces according to the habit of the master and disciple, taking turns with one line each.
Xuanji would say that the Li River is filled with Sword Qi.
In Zhu Yourong’s eyes, those days passed by very slowly.
Then, due to certain events and people, they finally stopped here, now sitting in this quiet courtyard in an Academy of the Cultivator’s city on the outskirts of Wangque, among the orchids.
Zhu Yourong picked up the teacup, swirled it gently, took a light sip, lowered her gaze, and eventually still refrained from reaching out to stroke her disciple’s head.
Other than some affectionate gestures she couldn’t often perform, she actually didn’t find anything wrong with her disciple being stern and serious.
Zhu Yourong never thought about changing anything about Yu Xuanji. Ever since the first time she respectfully and earnestly called her teacher, it had been that way. Reflecting on their journey while sipping her tea, she only imparted knowledge and resolved doubts, never intending to teach Yu Xuanji any life lessons, how to be a woman—no need for her to be lively, humorous, or even rebellious.
None of that.
Even though Zhu Yourong knew her disciple was most obedient to her elders and teachers, even if possibly in error.
Not preaching or imposing grand doctrines might be why those adults from the disciple’s household tacitly approved of Yu Xuanji following her.
However, Zhu Yourong’s intention was actually not for this reason.
The woman in the Confucian robe knew that Yu Xuanji had always been watching her silently.
Watching her bind her hair and talk about the Classics surpassing thousands of Confucian male peers, making a certain young gentleman bow his head in respect; seeing her unmatched at her peak, naively challenging the limits, only to hit a wall, becoming rebellious to the point of undutiful, and falling from grace; observing her lost in her obsession with calligraphy, crashing and bleeding, gaining nothing yet remaining content, traveling south to reside contently at the edge of the world, writing, teaching, and cultivating flowers.
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