Chapter Twenty-Five: The Wu Family's Son, Named Songru

"Look, here comes that fool! Not only did he refuse Yang Yuhuan’s invitation, he insisted on competing alone. If his cultivation were strong, that’d be one thing, but he’s just a useless wretch who hasn’t even opened his dantian. Isn’t that the mark of a true simpleton? Hahaha!"

Yu Lang paid no heed to the mocking stares around him. He first went to the overseer to collect his weight—a stone to carry on his back—then retrieved his secret weapon from his bookcase: roller shoes!

He’d discovered that the ground of the small training field was specially treated, hard and even, perfect for roller shoes. So, he’d fitted a pair of wooden clogs with four finely polished small wheels each, creating a Tang Dynasty version of roller skates. The spare pair he’d discreetly handed over to Yang Yuhuan.

Tremble, mortals! Have you ever felt the terror of being crushed by someone wearing roller shoes?

With two stones strapped to his back, Yu Lang sped past countless competitors with ease and grace. Wasn’t I known as the Little Overlord of South X University’s roller club for nothing?

No one dared laugh at Yu Lang now. From a distance, the students couldn’t see the wheels beneath his feet and assumed he was using some mysterious technique. They were awestruck.

In the end, Yu Lang placed fourth and advanced to the next round.

Why only fourth? The top three were all sons of powerful families who had reached the Sea-Soaring Realm in their cultivation, practically flying low to the ground! Fifth place went to Li Yun, younger brother of Li Yu. Though his cultivation had just entered the early Sea-Soaring stage and he pushed his inner breath to the limit, he couldn’t catch up to Yu Lang and was a bit disgruntled about it. But unlike his brother, Li Yun wasn’t one to brood over such things; he simply praised Yu Lang’s ingenuity.

Yang Yuhuan, unfamiliar with roller shoes, dared not go all out like Yu Lang. Relying on her exceptional talent for dance, she kept her balance and finished the race with elegance, quite satisfied. Gliding past on roller shoes was far more graceful than running.

Sitting on a stone bench, waiting for the herald to announce the results, Yu Lang felt a twinge of regret—perhaps he’d attracted a bit too much attention in this round.

The herald struck the drum: “Five hundred and ninety-nine students have qualified for this round. Those who did not qualify, please leave the field. In addition, Yu Lang, who placed fourth, is suspected of cheating and must follow me to the academy council for investigation!”

“I knew it! There’s something wrong with those shoes!” cried a sharp-eyed candidate in relief.

“The academy’s teachers have keen insight!” said another, delighted to see someone else take the fall.

Yu Lang had studied the academy’s rules beforehand. As long as the shoes didn’t use external force, they were at most a clever trick, not a violation. Strangely, though, the academy summoned only him, not Yang Yuhuan. Helping Yang Yuhuan seemed an act of kindness, but in truth, it was a hidden move—no matter how strict the academy, they couldn’t dismiss the emperor’s favored woman. If he was disqualified, then so should she be.

Inside the council hall, a curtain separated Yu Lang from the teachers. He handed the roller shoes to the herald, who delivered them to the team behind the curtain.

Soon, heated debate erupted among the teachers.

“Wheels on the soles—certainly clever, but it violates our rule against external aids.”

“Oh? Why is adding wheels considered external aid?”

“A carriage has wheels, right? If you ride a carriage instead of walking, isn’t that using external force?”

“That’s not quite right. A carriage is considered external aid because of the horse pulling it, not the wheels themselves. Did this candidate ride a horse? Clearly not.”

“A fair point. But if we allow this, won’t the next entrance exam’s third round turn into a roller-skating competition? Wait, why did that phrase just come to me?”

“Your concern isn’t misplaced… Still, it’s only an insignificant candidate. Let’s disqualify him.”

“Agreed.”

Hearing this, Yu Lang’s heart sank.

At that moment, the herald intervened: “Honored teachers, aside from Yu Lang, candidate Yang Yuhuan also used a similar pair of shoes. Should both be disqualified?”

“What! Yang Yuhuan wore those shoes too? In that case, both candidates advance!”

Leaving the hall, Yu Lang thanked the herald. “Thank you for speaking up on my behalf.”

The herald smiled faintly, “I am Ji Chenhan, personal disciple of Tutor Du. No need to be so formal between brothers.”

Yu Lang felt a warm gratitude.

The fourth round would see 600 reduced to 159, with those who passed becoming full students of the Moon-Washing Academy.

This was the round Yu Lang felt most confident about: the written exam.

Reflecting on the previous rounds, he recalled the first was physiognomy, the second archery, and the third a team endurance run. The physiognomy round, said to be based not only on metaphysics but also to weed out those with ill intentions or ulterior motives, showed the academy did not focus solely on combat ability. Instead, they sought candidates with spirit, physical prowess, some cultivation, and a clean background.

Placing the written exam as the fourth round made sense: the academy didn’t want mere bookish scholars, but well-rounded talents in both civil and martial arts. Yet, making the written exam the gateway to admission showed they valued character and learning above all.

Throughout the first three rounds, only one person had truly caught Yu Lang’s attention: a scholar who hadn’t even opened his dantian and had no knowledge of inner breath. In the archery round, lacking strength, he shot his arrows in high arcs, barely sticking them into the target before they fell out. Out of pity for his lack of cultivation, the academy granted him the last qualifying spot.

In the third round, no one wanted to partner with him due to his weakness. Forced to run alone, he vomited three times over ten grueling laps but never gave up, finally collapsing just three zhang short of the finish line and crawling across in a contorted posture—snatching the 600th spot, ahead of several wealthy boys who’d already reached the Tempered Body stage. It was sheer grit that carried him through.

His first-round experience was also unusual. Du Fu, seeing his meager fortune and many destined hardships, but also his sterling character, didn’t want to reject him outright and merely advised him to return home and care for himself. The scholar adamantly refused, saying, “If I could hear the Way in the morning, it would be worth dying by evening.” Touched, old Du let him pass—again, with the last qualifying spot.

To survive three rounds at the bottom was, to Yu Lang’s mind, an extraordinary feat in itself. The scholar was said to be Wu Songru, grandson of the “Saint of Painting” Wu Daozi, who’d suffered scorn for his lack of talent in cultivation. This time, he entered the academy’s competition aiming for first place—to win the single slot for Meridian Cleansing and Bone Marrow Transformation.

Everyone treated Wu Songru’s ambition as a joke, but Yu Lang dared not underestimate him.

The written exam would be held the next day. The six hundred candidates were settled into yellow-numbered guest rooms in the Hall of Self-Reflection to rest before the contest.

Yu Lang lay in the Heart-Cleansing Pavilion, gazing at the sky beyond the eaves, deeply moved. Before entering the competition, he’d been motivated solely by the prospect of that single transformation quota. Now, he truly liked this place and wished to become a student of the Moon-Washing Academy—after all, the ivory tower held so many beautiful memories for him…

Lost in thought, he dozed off without realizing.

When he awoke, he saw Wu Songru, clad in a loose black robe, painting a picture.

On the paper was a single skylark, vivid and lifelike, wings poised to take flight—except for the eyes, which were left blank. Wu Songru set his brush aside and drank.

Yu Lang was puzzled. “Why not paint the eyes? Such a fine work—surely it’s a pity to leave it unfinished.”

Wu Songru sighed. “If I paint the eyes, the skylark will fly away.”

To create reality from illusion—this was the ultimate skill of Wu Daozi, the Saint of Painting, himself a master cultivator beyond the Three Realms, capable of true miracles. Wu Songru, unable even to open his dantian, could never achieve such wonders, no matter his talent.

Sensing Yu Lang’s doubt, Wu Songru smiled bitterly. “There’s no need to think too much, Brother Yu. The only difference between me and my grandfather’s art is in these eyes. But I fear I’ll never paint them in this life. That’s the difference between skill and the Way.”

Yu Lang suddenly recited a strange line: “The night gave me black eyes, but I use them to seek the light.”

Wu Songru was stunned, as if he’d suddenly grasped something profound.