Chapter 51: The Beautiful, Powerful, and Tragic Villain Cannon Fodder—My Father Is a King (Part 4)

Both children were gravely wounded; in an ordinary world, such injuries would have meant certain death. In a modern setting, with timely intervention, their lives might be barely sustained, and with careful convalescence, perhaps they could survive—but they'd be frail, sickly souls ever after.

But this world was different.

Qin Ye poured his internal energy into their bodies with abandon, healing the injuries to their organs. Once the wounds were stabilized, he retrieved the top-grade healing pills he'd pilfered from the Demon Sect headquarters and forcibly fed them to the two children. When they seemed to choke, he gave them each a cup of cold tea to wash it down.

Little Three: ...

He couldn't bear to watch, truly couldn't.

After all this, Qin Ye stroked his chin and examined the two children closely.

Both boys had striking features. Though the original body's child was not his biological son, the boy's father was Yan Wushuang. The original host had no idea what Yan Wushuang looked like, and the plot had never described it. But the child's mother, Qiu Lingsu, was the Saintess of the Demon Sect.

Both the Demon Sect Saintess and the Righteous Sect Immortal Maiden were renowned in their generation for martial prowess and intelligence, and, inevitably, had peerless beauty that would shame flowers and eclipse the moon. Qiu Lingsu was no exception; with a mother like that, unless his father was particularly unfortunate, the boy could not possibly be ugly.

In the original host's memories, the child was a chubby little bundle, a snowball of innocence—this was the most vivid impression. But five years had passed, and now, before him, the two boys were youths of eleven or twelve, their faces starting to lengthen, baby fat gone.

Qin Ye couldn't tell them apart for the moment.

"Don't make a sound, let me analyze. With my unrivaled intellect and extraordinary talent, I believe the one with the wounds on his face must be my mission target," Qin Ye mused.

Little Three: ...

[Congratulations...]

A smug smile crept onto Qin Ye's face.

[Wrong guess.]

The smile vanished.

"Little Three, stay away from those other systems when you have nothing to do. They're all bad influences; don't let them lead you astray."

Little Three's data core sent back a wave of smug satisfaction, not caring what Qin Ye said.

Qin Ye was a bit abashed, but fortunately both children were unconscious and no one would know he'd mistaken his mission target—an embarrassing blunder.

Though the boys were still unconscious, this place was ill-suited for recuperation. Qin Ye decided to head to Tianwu City, where the Crane Pavilion was located.

The Crane Pavilion belonged to the Daoist sect among the seven major factions, dwelling in the Crane Forest, just outside Tianwu City.

The Saint Sect was temporarily led by Qiu Lingsu, who was locked in a fierce struggle with Shui Yue An. By comparison, the Saint Sect's influence in Tianwu City was weaker.

The Daoists valued non-interference; as long as you didn't provoke them, they wouldn't meddle. The Crane Pavilion wasn't particularly xenophobic—because they simply didn't care. If you wanted to come, fine; if not, that's your business.

Qin Ye bought a donkey cart, loaded the two children onto soft bedding, and leisurely set off, driving the stubborn donkey.

After a day's journey, the children had not yet awakened, but the pursuers had caught up.

Qin Ye glanced at the donkey, which was munching grass by the roadside and looked back at him, snorting twice. Its expression seemed to say, "What are you staring at?"

What a donkey—he could travel faster using lightness skill.

Making up his mind, he dealt with the pursuers, then carried one child on his back and another in his arms, playing the beast of burden himself.

Indeed, traveling with lightness skill was far quicker. That wretched donkey was utterly useless.

On the road, Qin Ye encountered a monk carrying a horse across the mountains.

The monk was a delicate-looking youth, lips red and teeth white, yet his actions were anything but childlike. He hefted a perfectly docile steed over his head and traversed the forest as if on flat ground.

Qin Ye, carrying two children, met the monk, bearing a horse, head-on. Both thought the other’s behavior odd, perhaps a sign of mental deficiency.

Despite such thoughts, they exchanged polite nods and passed by.

The two boys, now awake, met the horse's clear, large eyes.

Horse: Hey, you people have pets too?

Children: Is the horse riding a person?

They reached Tianwu City in three days, not counting the time spent preparing meals for the children.

The Tai'a Sword, exhausted from all the effort: ...

Never in its wildest dreams did it expect its master, wielder of a divine weapon, would use it merely as a battery.

Tai'a, as the foremost of the Seven Divine Weapons—did it not deserve more dignity?

Qin Ye opened a medical clinic in town, purchasing the entire courtyard along with it.

His wealth was thanks to the generous sponsorship of the Saint Sect brethren.

Once settled, Qin Ye finally had time to bond with the children.

Jiang was precocious; he sensed the unfamiliarity between Qin Ye and Qin Bing, and promptly introduced himself, then fell silent to let father and son nurture their bond.

At first, Qin Bing was also a bit restrained, but that lasted barely two minutes before he flung himself into Qin Ye's arms and began to sob.

Qin Ye: ...

He was stunned.

The youngest child he'd raised was thirteen, and even then, more mature than a thirty-year-old in the modern world.

Moreover, as a royal father and son, they could never be so openly emotional—certainly not as Qin Bing was, hurling himself into his father’s arms and wailing.

"Father, why did it take you so long to find me?" the boy cried, as if suffering a grievous injustice. Well, he had indeed suffered greatly.

Qin Ye was numb, but his body, trained by the original host, automatically patted Qin Bing's back, soothing him softly.

"It's father's fault, for not finding you in time."

He blinked in surprise.

What had he just said?

Ah, yes—this was how the original host addressed his son.

Qiu Lingsu had married into Sword-casting Manor only as part of her scheme, seeking a convenient pawn. After bearing the child, she faked her death in childbirth and returned to the Demon Sect to cultivate forbidden arts.

When Qin Bing was born, he cried endlessly, forcing the original host to care for him personally.

The wet nurse couldn't feed Qin Bing, so the original host used sheep’s milk, holding the infant and feeding him mouthful by mouthful.

What father? He was more of a male mother.

Qin Ye’s heart was desolate; no wonder the original host’s greatest obsession was his child.

No grand ambitions, no revival of the family, no romance, no desire to rule the world—just raising his child.

Was this what it meant to be a male mother?

He loved it.

Expertly, "male mother" Qin Ye soothed the child.

Once comforted, Qin Bing became a bit embarrassed.

Though the original host was a male mother by nature, he had his dignity, never displaying any behavior unbecoming of his status in public. Comforting the child was always done privately.

Qin Bing had not learned much else, but he had mastered this thoroughly.

As the young master of the manor, he had his pride and couldn't let others see him cry for comfort and hugs—especially now he was older.

Jiang, his peer, was always mature and reliable, wherever he went.

Sadly, Qin Bing could not imitate Jiang's smile; when he tried, he was a soft, adorable bun—far too cute.

He did manage Jiang's impassive expression, though, which looked intimidating on Jiang, but on Qin Bing, it was just deadpan.

Feeling awkward, Qin Bing was somewhat embarrassed, while Jiang was a bit envious.

As Jiang lowered his eyes, Qin Ye, thinking one child or two made no difference, pulled the little adult Jiang over and ruffled his hair into a mess.

Jiang: ...

As for their past, even if Jiang remained silent, Qin Bing had already blurted it all out, full of grievances.

When feeling aggrieved, he’d throw himself into Qin Ye’s arms and cry; once the feeling passed, he’d return to his blank-faced effort to appear grown-up.

There was no need to continue their old martial arts training. Qin Ye abolished their internal energy and taught them a new martial art.

It was Qin Ye’s own creation, based on the original host’s memories and the techniques and insights of successive divine weapon wielders, as gleaned from the Tai'a Sword.

The purpose: high defense, longevity, rapid recovery, and near invincibility—for Qin Bing.

He named it Longevity Technique.

He thought himself brilliant at naming, until he stepped outside and saw that there were four or five ordinary manuals called Longevity Technique for sale on just one street.

A wandering martial artist picking up medicine at the clinic scoffed, "Any martial art with 'spring' in its name is just cheap, common rubbish. If Doctor Qin wants his descendants to have real skill, instead of wasting money on these spring-named trash manuals, he'd be better off paying for lessons at a martial arts hall. Anyone who dares open a martial arts hall in Tianwu City must have a genuine skill to teach—learning it would be enough to make a family prosper."

Qin Ye’s martial skill had improved greatly; now, so long as he didn’t deliberately reveal himself, he appeared entirely ordinary.

The Longevity Technique included breath-hiding formulas.

After buying the clinic and settling down for a while, Qin Ye opened for business but didn’t hire anyone, instead putting the two children to work.

As patients increased, his reputation began to spread.

Qin Ye was a jack-of-all-trades: diagnosis, treating injuries, detoxifying poisons.

His treatments were effective, and the cost was low. As his reputation grew, more patients flocked to him.

Qin Ye frowned.

With the Saint Sect’s sponsorship, he was now wealthy. Even if his funds ran out, he could always get more from his demonic allies.

So he didn't care if the clinic was profitable.

Fewer patients meant more leisure; more patients meant he'd have to work like a wage slave every day.

That wouldn’t do.

Qin Ye promptly set strict opening and closing hours for the clinic—no treatment outside those times.

Tianwu City was sizeable, after all, backed by the Crane Pavilion, one of the seven major factions.

Such a big city, and Qin Ye’s clinic was hardly the only one.

What he didn’t expect was that his capricious schedule only boosted his reputation further.