Chapter 327: Provocation
It was a smile that said: I know exactly who you are, and I find you incredibly amusing.
The audacity of that smirk completely overrode Ji’an’s survival instincts.
Her fear instantly evaporated, replaced by a surge of pure, stubborn, fiercely irritated young-master entitlement.
’You want to play games, clone-boy?’ Ji’an thought, her silver-flecked eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. ’You think you can just stand there looking like my brother and smiling at me like I’m an inside joke? Fine. I couldn’t interrogate you with violence. But I can annoy you to death until you snap!’
Ji’an didn’t sneak away.
She stood up straight, puffed out her chest, and strutted down the embankment into the clearing, adopting her most obnoxious, insufferable, highly toxic young-master swagger.
"Well, well, well," Ji’an drawled loudly, casually twirling her heavy cast-iron spatula. "If it isn’t the mysterious abyssal prodigy. Shen Zechuan, was it? The guy who spent five years eating dirt in the demonic rifts?"
Shen Zechuan turned fully to face her.
He didn’t bristle at the insult.
His hands remained resting casually behind his back.
"Martial Uncle Lin," Zechuan murmured.
His voice was a soft, smooth baritone that lacked Lin Feng’s booming resonance.
He offered a polite, shallow bow. "It is an unexpected fortune to encounter you so early in the culling. The Whispering Woods are treacherous."
"Save the pleasantries," Ji’an snapped, marching right up to his personal space, deliberately craning her neck to glare up into his face. "I know exactly how treacherous they are. My boots are already covered in mud, and now I am in a terrible mood."
She paused, crossing her arms over her chest, staring him down with a tyrannical glare.
"Since the universe decided to lump us together," Ji’an declared, projecting the aura of a spoiled imperial prince addressing a peasant, "you are officially conscripted. From now on, you are my guard and pack mule. You will walk ten paces ahead of me to trigger all the traps, and you will carry my heavy cast-iron wok because my shoulders are tired. Do we have an understanding?"
It was a blatant, outrageous, and suicidal provocation.
In the rigid hierarchy of the orthodox world, a Third-Generation junior demanding that the Sect Leader’s direct Senior Apprentice carry their luggage was a massive violation of face.
A normal protagonist would have immediately drawn their sword to defend their honor.
A normal villain would have unleashed their oppressive aura to crush the insolent brat into the dirt.
Ji’an waited for the flash of anger.
She waited for his melancholic mask to crack.
She waited for him to unleash the Void-Devouring Mantra so she could analyze its startup frames.
Shen Zechuan looked down at her.
He looked at her crossed arms.
He looked at the demanding glare in her silver-flecked eyes.
And then, to Ji’an’s horror...
Shen Zechuan’s smile deepened into one of genuine, indulgent, incredibly soft compliance.
"Of course, Martial Uncle," Zechuan whispered gently.
He smoothly unclasped his hands from behind his back.
He reached out with elegant, pale fingers, offering them palms-up in a gesture of acceptance.
"If the wok burdens you, I shall bear its weight. Allow me to clear the path for you."
Ji’an’s jaw literally dropped open.
She stared at his outstretched hands.
She stared at his serene, accommodating face.
’What?!’ Ji’an’s internal supercomputer blue-screened. ’Did he just say yes?! Did the endgame villain just agree to carry my cookware without a single syllable of protest?! Where is the malice?! Where is the killing intent?!’
"I... I have three woks," Ji’an stammered, frantically trying to escalate the unreasonableness of her demand. "And one of them is solid black-iron. It weighs four hundred pounds. It will completely ruin the aesthetic lines of your pristine silk robes!"
"Silk can be replaced. Your comfort is paramount," Zechuan replied softly. He took a half-step forward, reaching toward the dimensional aperture of her spatial ring as if eager to take on the manual labor. "Please."
Ji’an instinctively snatched her hand back, her paranoia flaring wildly.
’This is a trap. This is psychological warfare of the highest order,’ Ji’an deduced, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of her neck. ’He knows I am trying to provoke him. He is utilizing the ’Aggressive Pacifism’ strategy to unnerve me. He is trying to lull me into a false sense of security before he absorbs my soul! Two can play at this game, you damned vacuum cleaner!’
"Fine!" Ji’an barked, withdrawing the four-hundred-pound Black-Iron Wok from her ring.
She didn’t hand it to him gently.
She aggressively shoved the metal hemisphere directly into his chest.
Zhiwei would have grunted under the sudden weight.
Shiru would have used a telekinetic array to catch it.
Shen Zechuan directly caught the massive iron wok with one arm, cradling it against the pristine white silk of his Senior robes as if it weighed no more than a feather pillow.
The soot instantly stained his chest, but he didn’t even blink.
"An impressive forging," Zechuan noted, examining the wok with genuine, polite interest. "Shall we proceed toward the central coordinates, Martial Uncle?"
"Yes," Ji’an ground out, her teeth clenching in absolute, furious frustration. "Walk. And don’t step on any loud twigs. I have a headache."
.
.
.
For the next four hours, Lin Ji’an actively waged the most petty, relentless, insufferable campaign of psychological harassment ever witnessed in the history of the Celestial Sword Sect.
She was determined to break his mask.
She was determined to find the monster hiding beneath Lin Feng’s face.
But Shen Zechuan proved to be a completely, utterly impenetrable fortress of submissive compliance.
"Shen Zechuan!" Ji’an yelled, sitting comfortably on a mossy rock while pointing her spatula at a towering, heavily armored Rank 6 Venom-Spitting Centipede that had just crawled out of the brush. "That bug is looking at me funny! I want its core! But I don’t want you to use your Void magic. I want you to beat it to death using only the flat side of the wok!"
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