The night in Mount Momoyama was deep, with only a dim oil lamp illuminating a corner of the training ground.
Kaigaku was drenched in sweat, panting heavily, as he once again futilely attempted the explosive power of Thunderclap and Flash.
His movements were distorted, his breathing erratic, and only the dirt beneath his feet was kicked up, revealing a desperate, clumsy effort.
Just then, another figure emerged from the deeper darkness.
The newcomer's steps were steady, his breathing long and even; it was Cheng Mo, who had just finished a round of late-night extra training.
There was only a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, and his eyes remained clear in the night.
It was as if he hadn't just undergone intense cultivation, but merely a stroll.
As he passed Kaigaku, his steps didn't falter in the slightest; he merely glanced indifferently at the messy ground Kaigaku had churned up, as if evaluating a substandard product.
"It's getting late. Incorrect practice when overly fatigued will only solidify wrong force application patterns, resulting in negative efficiency."
Cheng Mo's voice was calm and even, as if stating an objective fact.
Then, his figure disappeared into the shadows of the house, leaving behind a clean and decisive silhouette.
Kaigaku froze in place, looking in the direction Cheng Mo had vanished, then down at the mess he had created, his chest heaving violently.
The other's efficient, effortless demeanor was like a silent slap, harshly striking his facade of "diligence" and highlighting the ineffectiveness and clumsiness beneath it.
During the day, when Kuwajima Jigorō explained new techniques for applying force or the subtleties of breath coordination, this contrast became even more pronounced.
The old man would often finish demonstrating, and before his words even faded, Cheng Mo would nod thoughtfully and immediately try it out.
His movements might be slightly unpolished at first, but he could instantly grasp the core principles, and after one or two adjustments, he would reproduce them almost perfectly, as if the complex techniques were already a part of his body's memory.
When it was Kaigaku's turn, he would often frown deeply, his muscles tense, trying to mimic the form with brute force, but always failing to grasp the essence.
Kuwajima Jigorō had to repeatedly explain, demonstrate, and even physically correct him, but with little effect.
"No! Use your core! How many times have I told you! Don't just swing with your arms!"
Kuwajima Jigorō's cane thumped heavily on the ground.
Kaigaku's face turned crimson, veins bulging, growing increasingly agitated and making countless mistakes.
Cheng Mo, meanwhile, quietly adjusted his own movements to the side.
That effortless ease of "mastering it easily" appeared particularly glaring against Kaigaku's "hopeless dullness."
What made Kaigaku even more unbearable was the context of Cheng Mo's discussions with Kuwajima Jigorō.
Cheng Mo wouldn't show off; instead, he would use cold, business-like terminology that Kaigaku completely failed to understand.
"Sensei, regarding the flow rate of energy in the meridians, I believe there's still room for optimization."
"It's like the circulation of goods; blocked nodes lead to overall inefficiency and a poor input-output ratio."
"The instantaneous burst of Thunderclap and Flash carries an extremely high risk of recoil on the body."
"Perhaps more thorough risk control, meaning body strengthening and adaptability training, is needed before energy injection."
Kuwajima Jigorō often listened thoughtfully, even finding himself deeply inspired.
Kaigaku, standing by, completely failed to understand what these terms like "efficiency," "input-output," and "risk control" meant.
He felt utterly bewildered, and a sense of humiliation at being excluded from a higher-level conversation, coupled with intellectual frustration, welled up within him.
He could only clench his fists tightly, his fingernails digging into his palms.
And when Kaigaku himself made training errors due to his eagerness for quick results and was sternly criticized by Kuwajima Jigorō, Cheng Mo's reaction made him almost choke with frustration.
Cheng Mo never kicked him when he was down, nor did he even spare a glance at his discomfiture.
Often, it was only after Kuwajima Jigorō had finished his reprimand that Cheng Mo would appear to have just noticed the problem.
He would then add a purely technical, objective analysis in that extremely bland tone of his.
"That Fourth Form: Distant Thunder, the angle of the push-off from the ground was off, causing the trajectory of the charge to deviate from the intended target."
"Simultaneously, due to excessive force, the breathing rhythm became erratic in the second second, leading to a significant imbalance in the power connection of the subsequent three moves, and an estimated overall reduction of over forty percent in the effectiveness of the offensive."
His voice held no mockery, no emotion, as if he were reading a dry experimental report.
But it was precisely this absolute objectivity and calmness that felt like the sharpest needle, precisely piercing Kaigaku's most painful spot.
It was as if to say: Look, your failure isn't bad luck, nor is it a lack of effort; it's purely a technical, quantifiable inferiority. You're not even worth mocking; I'm just stating the facts.
Once, Kaigaku, out of jealousy that Zenitsu could occasionally perform Thunderclap and Flash while "asleep," deliberately picked a fight.
He struck Zenitsu heavily during sparring, knocking him to the ground and scraping a large patch of skin off his arm.
Cheng Mo was present at the time; he didn't immediately rush to help Zenitsu up, nor did he reprimand Kaigaku, merely observing with cold eyes.
It was only afterward, when Kuwajima Jigorō had severely chastised Kaigaku for Zenitsu's injuries, that Cheng Mo, while helping the old man organize medicinal herbs, brought it up as if by chance.
"Sensei, when I used to manage a guild, I found that internal strife and attrition among members often caused more damage than external competitors, severely hindering overall efficiency."
"If resources are used for internal friction, they cannot be concentrated to deal with real threats, which is unwise."
He abstracted the specific bullying incident into a management problem.
Kuwajima Jigorō's hand, which was grinding herbs, paused for a moment.
The old man raised his eyes, gazing deeply out the window where Kaigaku was practicing in the distance, a defiant look on his face.
The old man remained silent for a long time, eventually letting out a heavy sigh, his brow furrowed even deeper.
Cheng Mo said no more, continuing to quietly sort the medicinal herbs.
He knew the seed had been sown.
Kaigaku was sinking deeper into his own jealousy, anxiety, and narrow-mindedness, while Kuwajima Jigorō's disappointment and doubts were growing daily.
He only needed to remain calm, continue to grow stronger, and become that insurmountable mountain that would drive Kaigaku to despair.
The rest he would leave to time.
Cheng Mo's strategy was like a silent current, continuously and steadily eroding the embankment.
He didn't need violent conflict; he only needed to utilize existing resources and subtle psychology to push Kaigaku in the predetermined direction.
The allocation of "resources" became another invisible weapon in his hand.
During a training break, Cheng Mo took out a fine-textured whetstone, gleaming with a dull sheen, from his personal satchel (actually from his spatial storage).
He had prepared it before setting out, originally for his own sword, but it had never been used.
He didn't make a fuss, simply handing it to Kuwajima Jigorō naturally when the old man was inspecting his blade.
"Sensei, I occasionally found this stone; it seems to sharpen blades better than ordinary ones. Would you like to try it?"
Kuwajima Jigorō took it, rubbed it a few times on the blade, and a hint of surprise appeared in his eyes: "Oh? It's indeed much sharper. It's a good item."
Cheng Mo nodded, saying no more.
Another day, the mountain mist was heavy and damp, making people feel lethargic.
Cheng Mo brewed a pot of herbal tea; the tea was clear and exuded a faint, refreshing aroma.
He first poured a cup for Kuwajima Jigorō.
"Sensei, to ward off the damp chill and settle your qi."
The old man took it, took a sip, and nodded slightly: "Hmm, a good recipe. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."
Cheng Mo also drank a cup himself.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Zenitsu looking half-asleep and yawning incessantly; he paused, poured a cup, and placed it on a stone not far from Zenitsu.
Zenitsu blinked, sniffed the aroma, and hesitantly approached, taking small sips. His eyes instantly brightened, and his lethargic spirit seemed genuinely uplifted somewhat.
And that pot of tea, from beginning to end, never approached Kaigaku's direction.
Cheng Mo didn't say he wouldn't give him any, but he also didn't invite him.
The pot of tea sat there, its aroma wafting, yet it seemed to draw an invisible line.
Kaigaku had his back to them, performing monotonous sword swings, each strike carrying a suppressed ferocity.
He could hear the faint sounds of drinking behind him, smell the inviting tea aroma, and felt like an excluded, superfluous outsider.
A strong sense of "deprivation" and "being ignored" welled up within him.