Chapter 71

A stick of incense burning down—truly, it passed all too quickly.

Without her sword in hand, Qing Zhouxue threw every ounce of her strength into breaking free, yet she couldn't so much as stir a ripple in the sea of vines. The biting cold radiating from her froze a patch of green vines stiff, and when she kicked out, they shattered with a crisp, dry crackle.

But in the end, she still couldn't snap them free.

After the incense burned out, she crashed to the ground. The vines before her vanished entirely, leaving only a pair of delicate embroidered shoes in her line of sight.

She lay there, drained of strength, gazing weakly up at her master.

Yun Shuchen stood before her, looking at the shallow cuts on her disciple's fair skin. In the blink of an eye, they healed without a trace. Even the deeper ones stopped bleeding and regrew fresh flesh at a visible pace.

She bent down, reaching out to brush her fingers over the spot on her disciple's wrist that had just been bleeding. Now, it was perfectly smooth.

"A constitution like yours—speak of it to no one, and let no one else learn of it. Do you remember?" Yun Shuchen furrowed her brow, then withdrew her hand.

"Mm."

Qing Zhouxue touched the ground, then sat up. Her first instinct was to reach for her sword, but her hand closed on empty air.

Yun Shuchen's fingertip gave a slight tap, and the sword, wrapped in a current of water, floated suspended before her. When she grasped the hilt, cold as ice, she felt a pang of freezing pain in her palm.

The Qingshuang Sword—truly worthy of its reputation.

She took Qing Zhouxue's treasured sword, turned, and sat back down in her original spot. With a finger, she brushed away the frost clinging to the blade, flicking it off, then said, "Until you've practiced enough, there's no need to use this sword."

"Huh?" Qing Zhouxue was momentarily stunned. Ever since she'd obtained this sword, she had maintained it with great care, never letting it leave her side. It was almost as if it had grown together with her.

On one hand, the sword was naturally attuned to her. On the other, it was one her master had picked out with her—a gift, in a sense.

"Do you remember, my disciple, what the old sword seller said when you acquired this blade?"

"A true sword cultivator cares not what they wield—a blade of grass, a fallen leaf, a drifting petal—all can serve as a sword," Qing Zhouxue slowly recalled.

At that, she had a good idea of what her master meant. She let out a soft sigh and nodded.

When she had fallen earlier, her first instinct had been to reach for her sword. Yun Shuchen had deliberately moved the Qingshuang Sword farther away, expecting her to think of other means. But she hadn't anticipated that, without her sword, her disciple would keep her eyes fixed on it, as if she couldn't rest easy until she reclaimed it.

Focused on that, she'd lost sight of everything else—too reliant on the blade.

When the vines had been spreading, she could have found several opportunities using her own strength. But with her precious sword out of reach, her mind had been unsettled, and she'd let those chances slip by.

She needed to understand this: in every path of cultivation, the practice was always of oneself, not of external things.

Yun Shuchen saw the look on her disciple's face and knew she'd already grasped the point. After all, Qing Zhouxue had been clever since childhood, with a high comprehension for cultivation. Many things didn't need to be spoken in full—just a hint was enough.

Though heaven was fair in its own way, making her comprehension in certain matters utterly lacking—utterly, utterly lacking—that was fine too. At least there was no need to worry about her being easily led astray by unsavory sorts.

With that thought, she added inwardly.

*\

Qing Zhouxue entered the formation a few more times to train. Though her state of mind had gained some insight, she was, as always, bound tightly, never once managing to escape.

Yun Shuchen asked, "Tired?"

Qing Zhouxue slowly sat up, her movements clearly weary and weak, but she shook her head. "As long as Master isn't tired, I can keep practicing."

Just then, sitting on the ground, she felt a gentle hand ruffle the top of her head. "No need to be greedy for more. Let's stop here for today."

Yun Shuchen's other hand lifted her chin. A few drops of water quietly condensed from the air, then merged together, first moistening her lips, then feeding her a sip of water.

Qing Zhouxue froze in place, her lashes trembling before she lowered her gaze.

For some reason, the moment those drops of water, infused with her master's spiritual energy, touched her lips, it felt like a little hammer striking a bell in her heart.

She couldn't help but think of the Dreamweaver Spider's illusion.

And so it continued for the next few days.

Qing Zhouxue didn't really fuss over herself, but she was far more anxious about her delicate master, who couldn't withstand wind or exertion. Every time she saw Yun Shuchen's face grow a shade paler after using spiritual energy, she'd suggest a rest.

She never said it outright—just claimed she was tired.

Yun Shuchen knew it in her heart and, in tacit agreement, never called out this subtle display of concern.

Qing Zhouxue had focused on sword cultivation all these years, making little progress in spellcraft. Condensing water was still a stretch, and forming ice was only convenient within three chi of her body.

Now, deprived of her sword, she had no choice but to rely on herself.

The vines still bound her tightly.

Qing Zhouxue closed her eyes, spreading the not-so-abundant spiritual energy in her dantian, flattening every bit of it until it was as thin as paper, straining to reach as far as possible.

At first, she could only condense the water vapor drifting in the wind, freezing the area around her white. Centered on herself, the frost was thick and solid, freezing a large swath of writhing vines stiff. But farther out, the white gradually thinned, unable to cover the lush green of the vegetation.

Within those three chi, she wrestled with Yun Shuchen, feeling her presence through the thriving, blooming plants.

She closed her eyes, frowning, pushing her hidden force to the limit. But the moment the frost extended even an inch more, it would immediately be pierced through by the vigorous life force rising from the earth.

Her master's cultivation was far beyond hers; with a casual, absent-minded push, she made things immensely difficult for Qing Zhouxue.

In this deadlock where she could barely advance an inch, a thin layer of sweat broke out on Qing Zhouxue's forehead. She turned her head and saw her wrist had been cut again by a thorn. A drop of blood fell onto a vine, blooming into a small, vivid red flower.

More and more of those little red flowers clustered around her sides.

At that moment, the vines grew wildly, nearly enveloping her entire body.

Yun Shuchen watched with a slight furrow of her brow. Her disciple had trained for days now, and every time it ended like this—no progress at all.

Should she push harder?

She looked at the girl's fragile expression. Her fingers twitched slightly, a flicker of reluctance passing through her heart. Then, without hesitation, she slowly raised her hand again.

Qing Zhouxue felt something wrong at her throat. Struggling, she lowered her eyes to see a vine winding around her neck, tightening slowly.

She was forced to open her mouth to gasp for breath, a suffocating sensation driving her to struggle with all her might. But the vines binding her limbs and neck didn't yield an inch.

As she drifted into a daze, she strove to envision a scene of frost and snow covering heaven and earth—a long wind whipping up droplets of water, sweeping them skyward like waves, where they met the chill of the mountain ridges. In the desolate places, fierce gales howled and sang freely, blowing the cold air across the heavens, turning it into a thousand, ten thousand snowflakes.

How they spiraled up into the sky, how they fell, how they borrowed the water vapor of the vast world to take shape.

The wind blew here and there, burying everything under a blanket of white—a dead, silent expanse.

Yun Shuchen saw her disciple remain still for a long while and thought she'd fainted, intending to release her. But just as the thought rose, something felt off—the frost around Qing Zhouxue wasn't receding; rather, it was consciously gathering back toward her dantian.

Her hand, which lay limp among a bed of gaudy red flowers, moved slightly. The frost on her palm gradually turned that patch of skin pale and blue.

Yun Shuchen found it intriguing. What was this?

A wisp of frigid qi coiled around her palm, condensing into a sword hilt. Then, suddenly, it expanded upward—a magnificent, translucent sword, gleaming with cold light, appearing once more in the world.

Using condensed water to form ice and forging a sword was a fairly simple trick.

But looking closely, Yun Shuchen saw that the sword wasn't made of ice—it had no solid form at all. It was just a mass of extremely cold white qi, swirling into shape.

The outer edge met the moisture in the air, dispersing to give a rough outline of a blade. But deep within—was a void, an absolute chill.

Her fingers gradually tightened around that sword, her knuckles turning white.

The next instant, the vines around her all stiffened and snapped. With a sweeping swing of this sword of hers, white frost broke past three chi.

Four chi. Five chi.

After barely breaking through these layers of encirclement, the frost spread with astonishing speed, even freezing the ground where Yun Shuchen stood.

She stepped back once.

Then a fierce sword qi streaked past her side, clipping the tips of her hair—a strand or two turned to hoarfrost in an instant.

With that sword, everything in sight became vast snow, burying all the life force of the wood element.

Qing Zhouxue opened her eyes groggily. She swept her palm across the ground, feeling nothing but fragmented vine and bramble, which vanished in a moment.

The sky gradually cleared—they must have returned to the waking world. Yun Shuchen stood not far off, lifting her gaze with a smile. "Not bad. You finally broke out of the formation."

With delicate steps, she moved to Qing Zhouxue's side, watching her slowly sit up.

"What was that you just used?"

"...This disciple doesn't know either."

"Can you still use it now?"

Qing Zhouxue opened her palm, and the frigid qi coiled around it again, like a faint, immaterial sword shape. She noticed now that she could condense ice far more freely. A strange sense of familiarity welled up in her heart—this situation seemed like something she'd read in a book.

"Sword intent?" she murmured to herself, then stood and pointed at the air. The grass and trees before her turned white in a swath.

A blessing in disguise. What she'd sought so desperately before, after setting aside for a while, had suddenly dawned on her under her master's relentless training.

But why did she have only a faint, virtual sword? That day in the spar, Senior Brother Xiao had clearly manifested more than one sword shadow behind him.

"Since you've gained some insights, write them down. It'd be a shame to forget them later."

Yun Shuchen brushed a drifting snowflake from her shoulder. Touching a fingertip to it, she felt a faint chill. She held the tiny snowflake before her eyes, watching it quickly wither away.

They rode the wind back on their journey. Qing Zhouxue stood behind Yun Shuchen, recalling how her master had once spoken of her own youth, seeking the Dao alone in solitude.

She couldn't help but ask, "Back then, alone—was it tiring?"

"Aren't you the same now? The warmth and cold of it—why ask me?" Yun Shuchen didn't turn around, but she could feel her disciple's grip on her sleeve tighten slightly.

"Master is with me," she protested, "How can you call that being alone?"

Yun Shuchen paused, then let out an "mm."

Was she tired back then?

Her disciple had truly caught her off guard.

It seemed she'd never thought about it.

In truth, it was only in recent years, when the risk of further breakthroughs grew too great, that she'd slowly slowed her cultivation pace and grown lazier.

But at the same age as Qing Zhouxue, she'd known clearly that what she wanted to achieve would demand a tremendous price. She'd been harsher on herself than she was on Qing'er—downright cruel, stopping at nothing.

Weakness was the original sin. She never allowed herself to be tired.