The Second Son of the Marquis Wants to Laze Around

...

...

Looking at his disciple who was now crying—no, like literally he was crying—the Master sighed. The kid had tears streaming down his face, looking at him in utter disbelief, devastated by what he’d just heard.

"What kind of reaction is that, Master!?" the boy cried out, his voice cracking with raw disappointment.

The man blinked lazily, clearly unfazed. "And what exactly did you expect me to say?" he asked, his tone flat and mildly annoyed.

"You want me to lie and say, ’Whoa! Amazing! I’m so impressed!’ with sparkles in my eyes or something? Cringe."

"Ugh!" freewёbnoνel.com

The boy winced, physically recoiling as if his soul took another direct emotional hit. He clutched at his chest like he’d been stabbed.

But the Master wasn’t done. He kept going with his cold, stoic tone.

"Or maybe you’d prefer I say, ’Hmm, interesting,’ while stroking my long white beard like some kind of wise sage?"

The boy paused. The Master didn’t have a white long beard, but still. That sarcasm stung.

Gritting his teeth and swallowing the pain of emotional damage, the boy pointed an accusing finger at his Master, still crying but now fuming.

"Just what kind of response is that?!"

"I’ve trained hard! Sweat and blood, every day! I followed your instructions to the letter, and I even developed this new sword technique like you asked me too on my own for ten months! And all I get is ’Meh’?!"

His voice kept rising as his emotions spilled over. "What kind of master—"

–Smack!

–Bang!

"ARGH!"

Before he could finish, a strong hand smacked him on the head with crushing force, slamming his upper body into the ground. Dust flew everywhere.

"Don’t yell at me when I’m standing right near you, stupid brat. your voice is so annoying!" the Master growled, raising his twitching fist menacingly.

The boy groaned in pain, grabbing his head as he sat up. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, this time from actual physical pain, and he glared daggers at his Master.

The Master ignored his look. With an annoying sigh, he continued in a more relaxed tone.

"Anyway, I can tell how much effort you put into creating that technique," he said, his eyes now scanning the two newly sliced mountains in the distance.

"Even if it doesn’t feel all that impressive to me, it’s decent enough to be considered ’official.’"

His words and tone carried a sarcastic flavor, making the boy stare at him with dull, unimpressed eyes.

’Official? What does that even mean?’ the boy grumbled mentally. He didn’t get it. And worse, his Master just called the technique he had spent nearly a months perfecting "good enough." That stung more than the slap.

The Master glanced back at his disciple and spoke again with that same unreadable stoicism. "Stop giving me that stupid look. I said it’s enough. That doesn’t mean it’s bad."

Still rubbing the growing bump on his head, the boy stood up slowly, looking at his Master with a skeptical raised brow. He wasn’t sure if the words were genuine praise or just indifference coated in faint encouragement.

With both hands behind his back, the Master began to pace casually. "What I mean is, use this technique as your foundation. Keep refining it. Expand upon it. Build it into something more."

"Foundation?" the boy echoed, his interest finally piqued.

"Yes," the Master said, nodding slightly. "Right now, what you did is basically just a casually slash. It’s flashy, sure, but it still feels plain. Dull. Like any regular sword slash ."

He then raised his right hand into the air, extending two fingers and pointing toward the drifting clouds.

"You need to create variations. Different forms. Combine your idea with movement, emotion, rhythm, purpose. Use this technique as a base, then build on top of it."

He slashed the air lazily with his fingers—

–Whoosh!

A sharp sound echoed through the sky as the cloud he pointed at split into hundreds of thin strands. Each slice was clean, surgical, and beautifully spaced, scattering like flower petals in the wind.

The boy watched the display, jaw slightly open. Even after everything, he couldn’t help but be amazed. He had seen his Master perform all kinds of absurd martial arts before, but no matter how many times he witnessed it, the feeling of awe always hit him.

It was part of why he followed this absurd man in the first place.

"But... isn’t this way too hard?" the boy muttered instinctively.

–Smack!

"Ouch! Again!?"

He clutched the back of his head, looking up at his Master in confusion.

"Hard, my ass," the Master said flatly, looking at him with displease look, like a disappointed parent. "You created a completely original sword technique by yourself. At sixteen. In less than a year. And you’re still saying it’s hard?"

"... I’m actually seventeen now" the boy murmured in a low voice while his head lowered.

And it was true. The boy he had taken under his wing wasn’t just talented—he was a super genius. No one in the martial world, not in recent years, had done what this boy had done. Not in the last few centuries.

The boy had left his old sect at just twelve years old because he literally had nothing left to learn there. He had beaten all the instructors, all the disciples, and even the sect leader. People thought he was cursed or possessed, but really, he was just very genius... than the other genius.

He wasn’t a regressor, not a reincarnated master swordsman, not a transmigrator from another world with a system, cheat skill, or talking spirit companion. He was just born this way. A once-in-a-millennium anomaly.

Like a certain white-haired, blue-eyed character who definitely didn’t exist in another franchise.

Anyway, after leaving his sect, the boy had gone on a long, dangerous journey to grow stronger. He faced wild beasts, terrifying monsters, rogue martial artists, and trials straight out of legends.

And eventually, that’s when he met him.

The mysterious man who would become his Master.

At first, the boy thought the man was just some shameless, delusional wanderer. A bum. Which he kind of was. The guy had no home, no money, and often wandered around challenging other martial artists to duels just so he could eat. Seriously.

There was even a time—before the boy officially became his disciple—when he spied on the man out of curiosity. He saw the guy waltz into a fancy restaurant with no money, order an outrageous amount of food, eat it all, and then, when it was time to pay, he provoked a group of martial artists from a nearby sec for money.

He challenged them to a bet. Said if they could beat him, they wouldn’t have to pay for his meal. If he won, he got their wallets.

The result? A group of battered martial artists lying outside the restaurant while the man walked away with a full stomach and a sack of coins.

Truly, a shameless human being.

But what was more memorable to the boy—more painful than any physical blow—was the day the man had done the same thing to him.

Yes. He had also been a victim of his Master’s shamelessness.

It happened about three years ago, during the boy’s solo travels. At the time, he had stopped to eat at a small, cheap restaurant in a town near the mountains. Nothing special—just some food to fill his stomach.

That’s when he saw it.

A mysterious man, with a lazy expression and long, unkempt hair, casually strolled into the same restaurant. The man ate a full-course meal like a noble and then walked up to a group of martial artists sitting nearby—well-known disciples from various sects.

He provoked them. Said something rude about their mothers, or their sects—it was hard to tell with how fast things escalated. In less than a minute, all of them were on the floor, groaning in pain, and the man had emptied their money pouches without an ounce of guilt.

The boy had watched it all with wide, curious eyes.

He thought to himself: Who the hell is this guy?

And then, as young and prideful as he was, he made a bold, reckless decision.

He challenged the man.

And within just one second—one—he found himself lying flat on the floor, completely humiliated. His body hurt, his pride was shattered, and his money? Gone. All of it.

It was still one of the most embarrassing, traumatizing memories of his life.

Ever since that day, the boy had been obsessed. He challenged the man again. And again. And again.

Every time, he lost.

Every time, he was humiliated.

And every time, his wallet was lighter.

Eventually, after countless defeats, he gave in to the painful truth—he stood no chance against this mysterious lunatic. So instead, he did the unthinkable.

He asked to become the man’s disciple.

...And that’s when his real suffering began.

Because the guy—his so-called master—turned out to be the laziest, most unmotivated teacher in existence.

All he ever did was sleep, eat, read some light novels he somehow got his hands on, and then sleep again. When he did give the boy instructions, they were usually insane, borderline suicidal tasks like:

"Go hunt down that Gold-Rank beast in the demon realm."

"Steal that sacred artifact from a number one high-ranking sect."

"Go assassinate that powerful martial artist who I hate."

"Cook for me some high quality meal."

Seriously. The master never trained him directly, never demonstrated anything helpful, and never offered praise. He just gave impossible missions and expected results.

And yet... the boy never once disobeyed.

Despite the danger, despite how unfair it all was, and despite how ridiculous the task was—he followed every command without complaint.

Well... maybe with a little bit of complaining.

But even then, he kept doing it. Because over time, he realized something important.

Each task, no matter how ridiculous or deadly, had taught him valuable lessons as he got alot of experience. They forced him to grow stronger, smarter, and more adaptable. His martial arts improved. His instincts sharpened. His understanding of the world deepened.

And he came to a realization. His master wasn’t just some random scam artist.

He was a true martial arts master.

An elite. A true master. A legend in disguise.

And that’s why, even now—two and a half years later—the boy still followed him faithfully.

(Yes, by the way, the boy was only thirteen years old when he first left his sect. Just let that sink in.)

After having a long train of thought and flashbacks, the boy finally looked up at his master with a determined gaze and nodded seriously.

"...Okay. I’ll try."

—SMACK!

"ARGH!"

But his master smacked him again on the head for some reason.

...

...