Chapter 70

The day was warm, and the grass beneath had all sprouted, spreading a layer of soft green, fresh and lovely.

Yun Shuchen had looked better lately. Once the weather cleared, she would sit in the most comfortable spot under the old locust tree, half-reclining as she read or watched her disciple practice the sword.

After Yun Shuchen had been ill, she remained frail and delicate for several months. Qing Zhouxue, unable to rest easy, requested leave from the Sect Leader and moved her sword practice directly to Heyi Peak.

The sword manual "Guiding Return" contained seven forms in total, considered the foundation. Qing Zhouxue had practiced it from age fourteen to twenty-one—exactly seven years—and had achieved considerable proficiency in the stances, able to execute them with her eyes closed. Even some of the deeper meaning seemed to have dawned on her.

Spring sunlight flickered on the gleaming blade; with each thrust and turn, light rippled across the small sword surface like glistening waves, a beautiful sight.

With the final closing stance, she stood holding the sword behind her back, her posture straight. No wind stirred, and her white robes hung motionless, like snow resting on a green pine.

Watching her disciple practice always made Yun Shuchen think of times long past.

The founding master had been a sword cultivator, so all his disciples had some knowledge of swordsmanship, including those like Liu Xunqin and Yue Changge who had chosen other paths—though they used it less, and their skill was nothing impressive.

Born frail, and still weak in cultivation at that time, Yun Shuchen easily fell ill. Sword practice was too strenuous; a few steps left her chest tight, a few flourishes left her breath short. She would return exhausted, soaked in sweat, and then burn with fever for days on end.

She wielded the sword unsteadily, and the founding master watched with equal unease, always fearing the pale, weak-looking girl would breathe her last at any moment.

He no longer dared let her practice, so she simply rested by the side.

Thus, Yun Shuchen had the pleasure of watching her fellow disciples' clumsy swordsmanship—truly clumsy. Especially the now alluring Yue Changge; who would have thought that in her youth she could trip over her own feet and land squarely on Liu Xunqin?

Half-closing her eyes, she recalled those days amid the spring light, and concluded it was her own disciple's swordsmanship that was truly outstanding. Her bearing was otherworldly, and every movement had a neat, pleasing quality.

As the saying goes: the manner of a master.

When Qing Zhouxue turned, she met her master's gaze. The woman was leaning lazily and beckoned to her. "Come here."

"It's time to find you a new sword manual."

"A new manual?" Qing Zhouxue thought for a moment. "Senior Brother Chen said that after mastering these seven forms, the next step should be Zi Yang Sword Art."

"I am not skilled in the way of the sword," Yun Shuchen said, "but the Sect Leader mentioned to me recently that that particular manual isn't the best fit for you."

"Why not, if I may ask?"

"You tell me."

She spoke with leisurely ease. "Across the nine provinces, those with Ice Spiritual Roots can be counted on one hand. Among them, sword cultivators are even rarer, and among that rare few, very few leave behind manuals or sword techniques. And there is no clear lead at present."

"The manuals currently circulating in Taichu Sect all fall within the five elements—metal, wood, water, fire, earth. It may be difficult for you to learn them."

Qing Zhouxue let out a soft sigh. "Then perhaps just make do—it might not be so bad."

"Make do?" Yun Shuchen smiled. "You are quite casual about it."

"No need to make do."

She propped herself up to sit, her long hair cascading down her back. Qing Zhouxue instinctively reached to steady her.

Just as she touched her shoulder, her hand was caught and squeezed gently. Yun Shuchen said, "Since there is none, why not write one yourself, disciple? That way, it will be yours."

Write one herself?

Qing Zhouxue looked at her in confusion, but saw that her master was not joking.

Yun Shuchen tilted her head, a strand of hair falling by her temple. She brushed it away with a fingertip, then lowered her gaze to the Qingshuang Sword in Qing Zhouxue's hand.

She lifted the blade with the tip of her finger, and Qing Zhouxue instinctively raised it slightly, as if afraid the sword might cut her master's hand.

"When I pondered formations back then, it was just the same," she said, gazing at the bright blade. "No one to guide me, no one who understood, no one to confide in. The world was vast, yet it seemed only I walked alone. Perhaps being the first always comes with more hardship than those who follow."

The blade's surface was smooth, reflecting Qing Zhouxue's eyes, which held a slight look of surprise. Yun Shuchen said gently, "But in the end, it is the first who leaves a name behind."

Hearing this, Qing Zhouxue had no objection. "As long as it is useful, hardship matters not."

Yun Shuchen curved her lips but sighed inwardly.

Some invisible providence seemed to tell her that the girl before her would achieve great things in the future. Still green now, with only a fraction of her brilliance showing, she was already so captivating that she was hard to look away from.

Qing Zhouxue chatted with her for a while longer, then returned to her sword practice. As she turned, her white dress, embroidered with patterns of flowers and birds, caught the light and seemed to dance like a phoenix in flight.

Truly enviable.

Yun Shuchen watched her quietly, at first with appreciation, but before she knew it, a little dust of sorrow settled over that feeling.

She shifted her gaze elsewhere, looking up at a leaf on the locust tree, then facing the sunlight, with the endless blue sky behind it.

Who can keep a phoenix tethered for life?

Perhaps not even she.

*

Yun Shuchen had said she should write a manual herself. That was not a jest, but neither was it simply asking Qing Zhouxue to theorize over blank pages.

She had other plans.

Hearing that her master was going out, Qing Zhouxue went along. As they traveled, the surroundings became increasingly familiar—Yun Shuchen led her to the open wilderness where she had practiced swordsmanship against heavenly thunder the last time.

Qing Zhouxue found it a little odd that her master also knew of this place, but then thought: perhaps this was the tacit understanding between master and disciple.

"This place is not bad," Yun Shuchen said, standing with her hands behind her back, her long hair bound by a silk ribbon, blown gently astray by the strong wilderness wind.

Qing Zhouxue looked at her silhouette and, for no reason, thought of how, at fourteen, Yun Shuchen had stood atop Yimeng Cliff, bathed in celestial light, glancing back at her.

That, too, would be remembered for a lifetime.

It seemed many scenes could be remembered for a lifetime. Perhaps as she kept remembering, a lifetime would pass, filled with her master's image.

At that very moment, Yun Shuchen happened to turn. This time, however, her smile was gentle, and she extended her hand. "Come."

She took her hand again, feeling the delicate softness of her palm, and her grip tightened then loosened. Just as their hands touched, a white mist rose, and the sky began to change.

"Forget all the stances you have learned," Yun Shuchen said, releasing her hand. "It may be a little difficult soon, Qing'er, but do your best."

After speaking, her voice became faint and ethereal, and at last she vanished into the vast white mist along with her figure.

Qing Zhouxue nodded, clutched the Qingshuang Sword, and kept wary watch of her surroundings. After a moment, she murmured, "Master, your health now... you can't strain your spiritual power too much... you needn't—"

Before she could finish, wooden spikes burst from the ground beneath her, nearly impaling her. Qing Zhouxue quickly planted her sword on the ground and launched herself into the air to avoid being skewered.

As soon as she landed, vines grew naturally and wrapped around her ankles. The Qingshuang Sword, radiating cold, cut through the creeping vines.

But the surroundings had shifted. The vegetation, which had seemed to sprout anew in the spring breeze, now grew wildly, towering at incredible speed, entangling her in a dense, airtight cage.

The very ground beneath her feet was covered with brambles like ghostly hands, bristling with thorns. Soon a ring of bloody welts appeared around her ankles.

Suddenly, from afar came the crisp, pleasant call of a deer. As the thick mist fully dispersed, Qing Zhouxue looked up and, in the deep, verdant jungle, saw a white deer with hooves like jade, draped in drifting clouds as if an immortal envoy, leaping among the clumps of brambles, appearing and disappearing.

That was the guardian of the formation's eastern eye—the wood god, Gou Mang.

Qing Zhouxue intended to chase it, but the vines clung persistently to her legs, and with each step she had to cut through several more. She sensed she would be trapped and killed here, so she focused her mind on the sky.

She calmed herself, poured her cold energy into the sword, and let the vines bind her tightly once more. Finally, she thrust forth, freezing the fragile new growth at the vines' base with frost, then with all her might she cut, and a mass of vines was severed cleanly.

For a brief moment, the wound froze, and in that instant, all motion seemed to halt.

It was through this gap that Qing Zhouxue shot upward on her flying sword, heading toward a patch of light in the sky above the jungle.

A flash of white; petals filled her face. Qing Zhouxue smelled a sweet fragrance, as if it carried the entire spring's blossoms and dew. Turning her head, she met a white deer treading on air, nimble and elegant, which snorted at her.

With her feet on the flying sword, she condensed a blade of ice in her hand and slashed at it. But the white deer made no move to dodge, letting the sharp edge pass through its body—

No harm done.

Only then did Qing Zhouxue realize the white deer, like the azure dragon and vermilion bird of before, was not made of flesh and blood but of countless fine white petals, shaped into the graceful form of a wild creature.

It moved gently around Qing Zhouxue, seemingly with no intent to attack. But every place it stepped, a vine would sprout from nothing, climbing slowly, and quickly pull Qing Zhouxue down again.

She crashed hard into a patch of brambles, her white robes spotted with blood, a pained grunt escaping from her lips.

Outside the formation, Yun Shuchen lowered her eyes, a cup of tea in her hand, untouched for a long time. She had wanted to be kinder, but on reflection, if she was too soft this time, she would never be able to reach this level again, so she gave up the thought.

When Qing Zhouxue fell, the thick vines curled and wrapped around her limbs and waist, holding her so tightly that it was hard to breathe.

"I'll give you a quarter hour to free yourself."

A familiar voice sounded in her ear, drawing a line for her. Qing Zhouxue's consciousness returned from the sharp pain; she tried to reach for the Qingshuang Sword, but her wrist was tightly bound by vines.

She gathered her strength and tried to pull her wrist free, but the vines followed her every motion, impossible to shake off. She was like a dying butterfly on a spider's web, fluttering its wings vainly and futilely.

Her disciple looked too outstanding.