Chapter 460: Day 25 into the Farming Story

Chapter 460: Day 25 in the Farming Story

"Excellent!" Di Qingji's eyes lit up with fierce brilliance—the instinctive thrill and competitive fire of a martial artist who's just met a worthy opponent.

He held nothing back. His blade unfurled like a ribbon of silk, a relentless, rapid assault, the blade whistling through the air.

An Yi's figure drifted through the flashing steel with effortless grace.

He used that piece of firewood—tapping, deflecting, guiding, thrusting.

Every move landed precisely where Di Qingji's blade was weakest—at the exact moment his power was shifting. Di Qingji felt like he'd fallen into a quagmire—every attack he threw was dissolved, redirected, and nullified into nothing.

He gave it everything he had, unleashing every technique he'd ever learned. His blade slashed in every direction, yet he couldn't even graze the hem of An Yi's robes.

"Again!" Di Qingji only grew fiercer. Even though he was completely on the defensive, the fire in his eyes burned brighter.

He lost fast. No matter how he changed his moves, no matter how he sped up, An Yi could always use that ordinary-looking piece of firewood to strike after him yet land first, casually dismantling his attacks and tapping the wood against his vital points—wrist, elbow, shoulder, heart, throat... Each touch was precise and controlled, leaving a cool sting behind.

The gap between him and An Yi in martial skill... was like the distance between clouds and mud.

Finally, when Di Qingji threw everything into a leaping overhead chop and An Yi simply guided it aside with the firewood, sending him stumbling off-balance, and the wood followed like a shadow, pressing against his lower back—Di Qingji gasped for air and went still.

He had lost. Completely. Utterly. Without a doubt. He even had the feeling An Yi hadn't really exerted himself at all—he was just... playing with him.

The gap between him and An Yi in martial skill... was like the distance between clouds and mud.

An Yi flicked his wrist, and that piece of firewood—which had clashed against steel blades repeatedly without so much as a scratch—arced through the air like it had eyes of its own and landed right back in its spot in the woodpile.

He dusted off his hands, turned to Di Qingji—who was still panting slightly but whose eyes were blazing—and asked casually, "Want to learn?"

Once he learned this, escorting caravans would be a breeze.

After all, the martial arts in this world didn't even have internal energy—just some crude external techniques.

Di Qingji nodded without hesitation. "Yes! Of course I do!"

What martial artist could possibly resist that?

An Yi looked at him, and a sudden urge to mess with him arose. A playful smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, and said half-jokingly, "Then... take me as your master?"

The excitement on Di Qingji's face instantly died. Take An Yi as his master? Become An Yi's... student?

He shook his head firmly and blurted out, "No! I won't learn."

This time, it was An Yi's turn to raise an eyebrow.

An Yi looked at him with keen interest, those clear, penetrating eyes seeming to see right through him. "Why?"

Di Qingji stared at An Yi, his racing thoughts settling.

Right—such skill must be a family heirloom technique. How could it be taught so casually?

Only after establishing a proper master-student relationship could it be passed down.

He'd been too caught up in his excitement to think of that.

But he... he had something more important he needed to fight for.

His chest heaved, his breathing rough, his gaze burning so hot it seemed ready to ignite.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, his eyes locked on An Yi's:

"Because my heart belongs to you, An Yi."

"What I feel for you is the kind of love that wants to walk through life hand in hand with you, to grow old together and never part."

"So... how could I possibly become your student?"

Every word landed in An Yi's ears and slammed against Di Qingji's own wildly pounding heart.

As he spoke, blood roaring in his ears, he stared desperately at An Yi's face, searching for any reaction—disgust? Shock? Or... the something else he dared to hope for?

The corners of An Yi's lips curved upward. "I know," he said.

Di Qingji was completely stunned.

It was like a basin of ice water mixed with boiling water had been dumped over his head, hitting him with the ultimate clash of extreme cold and heat.

"You... know?" He repeated almost instinctively, his voice dry, each word forced out with difficulty.

An Yi knew? When did he find out? So he really did know!

Those seemingly casual teases from An Yi that always made his heart skip a beat—they really weren't all in his head!

All those thoughts he'd thought he'd hidden so well must have been an open book to An Yi all along!

An Yi gave a slight nod, his gaze sweeping over that face—shock, embarrassment, anxiety, and a hint of "I knew it" all written across it.

His tone was light, even mischievous, with an almost endearing playfulness. "Qing Ji, your feelings aren't hard to guess. They're pretty obvious."

Di Qingji's face turned completely red.

So... so all his anxieties, his elaborate schemes, his careful caution—they'd been that obvious to An Yi?

Then an even bigger question threw his thoughts into chaos. Since An Yi knew his feelings, then... then what did An Yi mean by what he just did?

"Then... then what you just did..." Di Qingji's voice tightened, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Saying I should take you as my master... that was really... you were just messing with me, weren't you?"

He rephrased. What he really wanted to ask was—since you already saw through my heart, yet still offered the option of "taking you as master," doesn't that mean... this was a tactful rejection? Using a formal title to draw a clear line, to make him give up?

An Yi looked at him—that mix of nervousness, hope, and fear on his face—and the smile in his eyes deepened. He tilted his head, a few strands of ink-black hair slipping off his shoulder, gleaming softly in the morning light.

He said, "What would you have me do?"

What would he have him do? What could he even do?

He wanted An Yi's response. He wanted a clear answer.

He wanted to know whether this shocking, world-defying obsession of his would be met with utter contempt and complete rejection... or if there was even the slightest chance of acceptance? Of... An Yi feeling even a tiny bit of the same?

Di Qingji stepped forward and gently took An Yi's wrist, which hung at his side.

An Yi's wrist was pale, with a cool undertone. In the morning light, the faint blue veins beneath his skin were almost visible.

The bones were clearly defined, and held in his palm, his skin felt slightly cool.

Di Qingji's palm was broad, his knuckles prominent, covered in calluses from years of martial training. His skin was a healthy wheat color. Now, with nervous tension, his knuckles went white from the slight pressure—but the moment he touched that cool skin, he loosened his grip, not daring to actually squeeze.

The contrast between them was stark.