Chapter 221: Punishment becomes increasingly harsh, and the young heart is afraid of the strict teacher
At noon, the monastery was filled with solemnity. Sunlight filtered through the mottled leaves, casting shadows on the bluestone path.
In this silent atmosphere, the muffled sound of the cane hitting flesh was like a heavy hammer, striking hard at people's hearts. This sound happened on time, like a ritual, a sign of perseverance in practice.
The wielder of the cane had a serious face and a determined gaze. Every blow carried a sense of majesty. Sizhui, being beaten, gritted his teeth, enduring the pain, not daring to utter a single groan.
Sizhui knelt on the cold bluestone, his back straight, yet he trembled uncontrollably. Every blow from the cane sent a fiery sting through his hips, like a scalding iron repeatedly crushing them. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he bit his lip tightly, refusing to cry out—he was afraid that crying would only make his master even angrier, leaving him no room for respite.
Mei Nianqing stood before him, rattan staff in hand, his expression made even colder by his moon-white robe. His usually gentle features now seemed frosted with frost as he regarded him calmly, "Today's thirty strokes of the cane are to teach you the price of losing control of your immortal power. If you harm innocent people again, the punishment will be doubled."
After the caning, Sizhui couldn't even stand steadily, and could only slowly rise, holding onto the doorframe. The pain in his hip made every step feel like treading on the edge of a knife. But he didn't dare delay. He had to go to Lingjun's residence to apologize, and then come back to copy the "Master's Rules" three hundred times.
The medicine the fairy boy had brought was on the table, but Sizhui didn't dare use it in front of his master. He felt that his master's eyes were filled with disappointment, and even getting close would only make him more unhappy. He could only clumsily apply the medicine himself at night when no one was around. When his fingertips touched the red and swollen wound, he gasped in pain and could only bite the quilt and cry secretly.
In the past, when they were studying the Dharma, Mei Nianqing would always rub his hair with a smile and use his magical power to condense small butterflies to make him happy; but now, even if he copied the "Master's Rules" neatly, even if he went to protect Lingjun on time every day, the master never smiled at him again, and his tone was always light when he spoke, and even his eyes rarely fell on him.
That afternoon, while practicing his "wind control technique," Sizhui accidentally let his magical energy drift, causing the books on his master's desk to scatter. Terrified, he immediately knelt, his voice trembling with fear, "Master, I was wrong..."
Mei Nianqing simply walked over and quietly sorted out the classics. He didn't scold him or punish him, but just said softly, "Forget it, come here first today and copy the precepts."
But it was this very calmness that made Si Zhui even more panicked. He would rather his master scold him harshly like before than face such indifference - this indifference was like a layer of ice, freezing all the warmth between him and his master, and making him increasingly afraid of this once gentle person in front of him.
At night, Sizhui hunched over the table copying the precepts, his handwriting increasingly sloppy. He recalled his days in Yunshen Pavilion, when his father would write with him, Brother Lin would offer him sweet-scented osmanthus cakes when he was tired, and his grandfather would secretly give him fairy fruit... But now, all he had was a table full of precepts and the lingering pain in his body, and not even a friendly look from his master.
Tears dripped onto the rice paper, blurring the words "guard against arrogance and impatience." Sizhui choked back sobs, burying his face in his arms—he missed his family so much, was so afraid of his master, and regretted his own mischievous behavior. He didn't know how much longer this would last, nor did he know if his master would ever forgive him.
At that moment, Mei Nianqing stood outside the window in the corridor, watching the small, trembling figure inside the house, a subtle flash of pity in his eyes. He sighed softly and turned back to his bedroom. On the table was a bottle of "muscle-solidifying ointment" that was more effective than the one Sizhui used - but he couldn't let this child who needed a lesson know about this tenderness for the time being.
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