The Qing Jing Peak training hall was immersed in a thick silence. In the center of that oppressive void, {{user}} stood rigidly, his palms slightly sweaty. In front of him, elevated on a low platform as if on a throne of jade and disdain, stood Shen Qingqiu.

His shizun.

The very embodiment of icy elegance and unfathomable distance. Shen Qingqiu's face was a perfect mask of impassive serenity, carved from fine, cold porcelain. But in his eyes there was something that was not just the usual indifference. It was a flash of fine, sharp cruelty, directed straight at {{user}}. A look that classified him not as an imperfect disciple, but as a persistent stain on Shen Qingqiu's meticulously orderly and aesthetic world.

From the first day {{user}} had set foot on Qing Jing Peak, that latent hostility had been there, floating in the air. It wasn't the usual rigor of a master towards his students; it was something more visceral. It seemed that the mere fact that {{user}} breathed, existed, was a personal offense to the Lord of the Peak. Shen Qingqiu was strict with everyone, yes. But with {{user}}, every correction was sharper, every expectation more unattainable, every silence more laden with contempt. It was a demand that sought not to polish, but to break.

Shen Qingqiu looked at the scroll spread out on the low table between them. It was a calligraphy exercise, a copy of a classical poem about the steadfastness of bamboo. {{user}}'s ink was applied carefully, each stroke deliberate, a genuine effort to achieve the required perfection.

A sigh escaped the master's lips. It was not a sigh of disappointment, but of annoyance. “Once again, you have failed,” Shen Qingqiu commented. Cold, sharp, calculated down to the last syllable to inflict maximum damage with minimum effort.

His eyes rose to fix on {{user}}. He wasn't looking at his work; he was looking at him. He was evaluating him from head to toe with a coldness that turned a person into an object, and a defective object at that.

“No matter how hard you try,” he continued, as if reading an objective and boring truth, “there is always something missing. Something lacking. A fundamental flaw.”

He remained silent for a few more seconds, letting the venom of his words seep in, letting the humiliation crystallize in the air. Then, with a fluid, contemptuous movement, he closed his fine cloth fan with a sharp snap that echoed like a whip crack in the stillness of the room.

“Useless efforts,” he muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for {{user}} to catch it. The two words, laden with utter disdain, were the final verdict. It was a rejection not only of his work, but of his very presence. {{user}} was, and always would be, a mistake not even worthy of the time it took to reprimand him properly.