What both of them said sounded very reasonable, and poor Zhang Chengling did not know which one to listen to. As he boggled, the true qi on him gathered for a second just to scatter the next, or flowed in the proper direction for a moment just to reverse its direction the next. Occasionally, he still had to undergo that special training method of Zhou Zishu’s--Zhou Zishu did not look like he had put in much strength, but that hand weighing on Zhang Chengling’s shoulder felt like a million catties.

A smidgen of worry involuntarily rose in Zhang Chengling’s heart as he thought, what if he could not grow taller because of how his shifu kept pressing down on him over a long period of time? Feng Xiaofeng’s savage and feral mien surfaced in his mind, and he involuntarily shivered.

Zhou Zishu did not know about his internal worries, and felt that while this child was indeed hardworking, he simply could not grasp the essence of the teachings. Back when he had taught Liang Jiuxiao, Zhou Zishu had always grumbled that he was too stupid--many times, he had only just managed to suppress his agitation to teach him. Yet, who knew, that compared to Zhang Chengling, Liang Jiuxiao was a top-tier genius.

If it weren’t for these years he spent in court, which had since ground him down to patience a long time ago, Zhou Zishu felt that he could even have had the urge to kill this child who gave him much grief with a single palm strike.

In truth, Zhang Chengling was also wronged. In the first place, Wen Kexing’s gongfu and Zhou Zishu’s gongfu did not share the same approach; if it had been one person teaching him, he still could have made some progress. However, between these two, neither of them knew how to teach a disciple. If one of them said something, the other had to say their own piece, and they did not care if others could understand them. Sometimes, as they yammered on, they would even start quarrelling between themselves, and if they could not settle their quarrels, they would leave to explosively fight their mutual discontent out, before returning. In the end, it would always result in the flushed faces of both parties, and one Ye Baiyi explaining as a narrator would off to one side that they were “using the excuse of exchanging techniques to partake in improper affairs”. All his words served to do was to inspire an unending wave of thoughts in a perpetually embarrassed Zhang Chengling, while he, simultaneously, understood nothing.

As the days went by, he felt that not only was his martial ability not improving, it showed signs of regression. The hand his shifu weighed on his shoulder only seemed to grow heavier by the day, and was about to crush the breath out of him.