Chapter 562: This Netizen from the Island Nation

“Yes, yes, thank you, Third Brother for your concern.”

The group of earth monkeys nodded vigorously in agreement.

“Zhang Chulan, it’s time for training.”

Just as Zhang Chulan was enjoying his melon with great delight,

Feng Baobao’s flat, utterly expressionless voice sounded in his ear.

“Has the whole morning already passed?”

Zhang Chulan had never felt time slip away so quickly,

not even during high school holidays, Saturdays, or Sundays.

After all, the mountain of homework and exams in high school never left as deep an impression as Feng Baobao’s fists.

After all, Feng Baobao’s training was truly brutal—she’d beat him until he was nearly dead, as long as she didn’t kill him outright.

Even now, recalling past experiences, his whole body still ached faintly.

“Oh.”

Though he didn’t want to keep being a punching bag, thinking of the truth behind his grandfather’s death,

he forced himself to muster his resolve—he must earn a high ranking in the Luotian Da Jiao to gain the right to meet the Old Celestial Master.

“Jie Ge, I’d like to ask for your guidance.”

After agreeing to Feng Baobao, Zhang Chulan approached Zhang Jie with sincere invitation.

“Sure, I’d like to see how Bao’er Jie trains you anyway.”

Zhang Jie, with nothing else to do, had no objection.

Company affairs were handled by Xu San, the de facto head assistant,

so there was no need for a mere employee like him, no better than a temporary worker, to get involved,

and he could even use the excuse of training Zhang Chulan to slack off.

After bidding farewell to Xu San, Zhang Jie and the others arrived at the suburban villa.

“How dilapidated.”

Re-examining the utterly desolate villa, its walls scarred in Syrian war-torn style,

even Zhang Jie’s stoic nature couldn’t help but sigh.

Only because this place hosted the company’s occultist training, and thus still had some human presence,

would it avoid becoming the subject of ghost stories and another urban legend.

Though with his strength, even living in Chernobyl and drinking nuclear-contaminated water from Fukushima,

feasting on Japanese seafood would be as easy as picking up an egg with three fingers—child’s play,

as a mortal who never intended to abandon his humanity, he still cherished a comfortable environment.

“Jie Ge...”

Zhang Chulan gazed at Zhang Jie with a look of deep resentment.

You know how awful this place is, right?

You just walk away without a care and go home, while I have to live here forever.

The terrible living conditions, plus Feng Baobao’s genuine physical abuse,

have made Zhang Chulan seriously suspect his health index has dropped by at least two pluses.

“Cough, cough...”

Even Zhang Jie’s thick skin couldn’t escape embarrassment under Zhang Chulan’s resentful stare;

he cleared his throat tactfully, patted Zhang Chulan’s shoulder, and spoke with sincere tone:

“Chulan, the ancients said: when Heaven intends to bestow a great responsibility upon a man,

it first torments his mind, exhausts his body, starves his flesh, impoverishes his means, and frustrates his actions—

all to stir his heart and toughen his nature, enhancing what he lacks.”

“Really?”

Zhang Chulan asked instinctively.

“Of course!”

Zhang Jie answered decisively, his sincerity almost spilling from his face.

“But my dream in life is easy money, little work, close to home, more pay for less effort, and gain without labor.”

Zhang Chulan muttered under his breath, snapping back to reality.

Slap.

Zhang Jie smacked his own forehead.

Zhang Chulan was still Zhang Chulan—deeply calculating and shamelessly unashamed—

He’d never be motivated by a little bit of inspirational fluff.

“Chulan, you don’t want to miss the chance to uncover the truth behind your grandfather’s hidden identity, do you?”

With no other choice, Zhang Jie pulled out his trump card.

Feng Baobao sat to the side, cheek propped in her hand, lost in thought.

Why did that phrasing sound so familiar?

It reminded her of the lines Japanese bosses used to tell their wives in the films Xu San and Xu Si used to sneak-watch in their youth.

“Wife, you don’t want your husband to lose his job, do you?”

“Hey, Japanese netizen, tone it down.”

Hearing such unmistakably familiar phrasing, Zhang Chulan couldn’t help internally scoffing.

Though due to his Shou Gong Sha, he couldn’t pursue girls who didn’t truly love him,

nor could he indulge in the adolescent self-taught techniques most boys learned,

that didn’t mean he was ignorant of Japanese “art”:

My roommate seems like a Japanese spy—every night, when he thinks I’m asleep,

he secretly takes his phone and tissues to the bathroom, and I hear Japanese women’s voices.

I strongly suspect he writes classified info on paper and transmits it via video call to his Japanese female superior.

After reading the classified documents, his Japanese female superior would excitedly scream.

Then, minutes later, he’d rush back to bed. What should I do now?

………

“Hmm, Jie Ge, I won’t give up.”

Suppressing his inner sarcasm, Zhang Chulan nodded firmly.

“Good.”

Zhang Jie smiled and patted Zhang Chulan’s shoulder again.

Unlike other hot-blooded protagonists, Zhang Chulan wasn’t fiery or full of passion,

but rather, due to years of hiding, had grown somewhat gloomy and shameless.

Yet clearly, he held deep affection for his grandfather, who had raised and educated him.

As they spoke, the group entered the villa.

Inside, the villa was, unsurprisingly, also in Syrian war-torn style,

though not quite as dilapidated as Du Fu’s thatched hut—“the roof leaks, no dry spot left, rain falls like threads without end”—

it was truly bare-bones: even a rat would have to write a “Ode to a Humble Abode” overnight.

“Jie Ge, I was wondering, I was wondering...”

Each sat on a stool in the living room; Zhang Chulan spoke hesitantly.

“Just spit it out, kid. Are we strangers?”

Zhang Jie glanced casually at Zhang Chulan’s stammering.

“That true Qi from that night—could you give me a little more?

Not much—just two or three more bursts.”

With Zhang Jie’s encouragement, Zhang Chulan finally gathered courage to voice his request.

Earlier, when he was kidnapped by Lu Liang and others, Zhang Jie’s thought-form—a golden little figure—had saved him,

using his own Qi. After Zhang Jie returned it to him, Zhang Chulan discovered that Zhang Jie’s refined Qi was extraordinarily potent;

using it as a catalyst, his cultivation speed had at least tripled!

This discovery thrilled him, for to better honor his grandfather’s teaching—“hide your identity, live as an ordinary man”—

he had nearly ceased cultivation since his grandfather’s death.

Over these years, his cultivation hadn’t advanced; it had even regressed slightly.

Thus, compared to other young occultists, he was nearly ten years behind in cultivation time.

Though he believed his talent wasn’t inferior to theirs, losing so much cultivation time

meant his cultivation level lagged far behind peers of the same age.

Uh... here’s a necessary clarification: his talent was compared to other young occultists,

not to monsters like Zhang Jie.

Under these circumstances, his chances of achieving a high ranking in the Luotian Da Jiao were clearly slim.

But now, Zhang Jie’s true Qi could make up for this shortcoming.

Although he cannot directly reclaim those lost ten years, even making up a little will

undoubtedly greatly increase his chances at the Luotian Da Jiao.