The Immortal Sect's Little Martial Uncle

On Little Green Mountain lived a group of immortals led by the Old Sect Master. They could fly through the heavens and burrow into the earth, split mountains and divert rivers. There was nothing they couldn't do.

The Old Sect Master had lived far too long!

After his seven disciples, each blessed with peerless talent, successively ascended, the Old Sect Master's health remained absurdly robust.

On the day he laid his seventh disciple to rest, the Old Sect Master wept over the coffin. With his bare hands, he split open the mountain and placed his seventh disciple inside. Including the seventh, there were now seven coffins in all.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven...”

“Eh? Why is one missing?”

“There's still an eighth!”

The Old Sect Master scratched his head and closed Little Green Mountain with a wave of his hand, muttering, “Where are you, my eighth disciple?”

A thousand miles away, a teenager with a bamboo basket on his back was picking mushrooms in the woods.

As he picked, he sneezed twice in a row, sending snot flying far away.

The boy deftly raised his left hand and rapidly worked through a series of finger calculations. After a while, he broke down: “That old geezer really won't give up on me, will he?”