Chapter 5#

A Glimmer in Clear Eyes#

Xiao Man gestured to Rong Yuan to wait under the tree and walked over to him. “What are you here for?”

Rong Yuan was carrying a food box, its surface engraved with seal markings to keep the contents warm. He lifted the lid, took out a medicine bowl and a small vial, and held them out to Xiao Man. “The Peak Master asked me to bring you these.”

The sword-attendant was only about ten years old, small in stature, and Xiao Man was considerably taller — the posture of tilting his head back and holding the medicine bowl aloft at full stretch looked like something of an effort. Although Xiao Man’s feelings for Yan Wushu had died, he could not bring himself to be annoyed with this child, nor did he want to make things difficult for him. He took the bowl from his hands.

“The Peak Master asked me to make sure you drink all of it,” Rong Yuan said earnestly.

Xiao Man made a quiet sound of assent and began to drink.

The medicine was powerfully bitter, with an astringent finish. If not for those years at the Grand Zhaohua Temple spent taking herbal decoctions and growing accustomed to the taste, Xiao Man would very nearly have spat it out.

Rong Yuan clasped his hands behind his back, rose on his toes, and after a moment could no longer contain himself — he voiced the question that had been troubling him:

“Your Highness — why have you come to White Blossom Peak?”

“Why not just cultivate on Snow-Intent Peak? It’s noisy here with so many people, but Snow-Intent Peak has abundant spirit-qi, few people, and proper quiet. And if you encounter a difficulty, you can ask the Peak Master directly. Isn’t that better than White Blossom Peak in every way?”

Mindful of the constant flow of people around them, Rong Yuan kept his voice very low. Xiao Man held his breath through the last of the medicine, returned the bowl, and said: “In a few more years, you’ll have to come here too.”

“That may be so, but… ah, the Peak Master won’t answer, and neither will you.” Rong Yuan gave a small sigh, then reached into another compartment of the food box and opened a small paper packet. “Please have a preserved sweet, Your Highness.”

“There’s no need.” Xiao Man waved a hand.

“The medicine smells terribly bitter — just have one, please, Your Highness.” Rong Yuan persisted.

Xiao Man could not argue him out of it, and took one and put it in his mouth.

Rong Yuan then held out another item: a white jade ring for storing objects, engraved with Gushan’s insignia, finely made though not of the highest grade.

“This is the Qiankun ring White Blossom Peak is issuing to you — it contains books, sect uniform, and so on. When I was looking for you earlier, I collected it on your behalf.” Rong Yuan said.

“Thank you.” Xiao Man reached out and ruffled Rong Yuan’s head.

The little sword-attendant smiled, a hint of bashfulness in it. “It’s only what Rong Yuan should be doing.”

Xiao Man put the Qiankun ring away. Rong Yuan tilted his face up again, looking as though he wanted to say something, then seemed to think better of it. Xiao Man asked: “Aren’t you going back?”

“Your Highness — when are you coming back?” Rong Yuan rubbed his hands together, his voice small.

“Is that your own question?” Xiao Man looked at him steadily.

The sword-attendant lowered his head. “…The Peak Master also wants to know.”

“He wouldn’t want to know,” Xiao Man said, his tone giving nothing away. “I’ll go back when it’s time. Go and see to your own things.”

With that, he turned and went back to Qu Hanxing and Mo Juntian.

Qu Hanxing’s nostrils twitched; he leaned in and sniffed. “Medicine — that kid brought you medicine? Are you sick, Mǎn-gē?”

“A recurring old complaint,” Xiao Man said quietly.

“Is it serious?” Mo Juntian asked with concern.

“I’ve grown used to it,” Xiao Man said.

Qu Hanxing made a fist and smacked it into his other palm with a sharp sound. “Then all the more reason to cultivate hard — once your realm is high enough, no matter how stubborn the ailment, it won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Mm. I hope so.” Xiao Man smiled.

As time passed, the breeze that had moved through the mountain paths earlier was no longer cool; the clear, bright calls of birds had faded, and the air around them held nothing now but the sound of people and the relentless drone of cicadas.

Everyone had risen early, and having just eaten, a certain drowsiness was inevitable. Qu Hanxing, walking along, gave a yawn. “Rest time runs until noon — which room is your dorm, Mǎn-gē?”

Xiao Man lowered his gaze. “White Blossom Peak hasn’t assigned me a room.”

“What?” Qu Hanxing and Mo Juntian both stopped walking.

“How can that be?” they said, puzzled.

Xiao Man’s tone was even. “They said all rooms are full.”

That had been the White Blossom Peak Master’s own answer the previous night — though its credibility was admittedly questionable. Xiao Man had thought it through afterward: the upper levels of Gushan almost all knew he was Yan Wushu’s cultivation partner. If White Blossom Peak gave him a proper place to live there, it would likely provoke Snow-Intent Peak’s displeasure. The White Blossom Peak Master not wanting to wade into that particular muddy water was understandable enough.

The two in front of him didn’t know this, and couldn’t help but worry: “So where are you staying?”

“Snow-Intent Peak,” Xiao Man said honestly.

“Hss—!”

“Hss—!”

Qu Hanxing and Mo Juntian exclaimed in unison, their expressions some mixture of shock and undisguised envy. The reaction made Xiao Man smile briefly — very briefly — before his expression settled back into its usual calm.

“Just temporarily,” he said mildly.

Qu Hanxing said “ah, I see,” then turned something over in his mind and found himself with a new question: “But why would Gushan let you live on Snow-Intent Peak? I mean — how did Snow-Intent Peak’s Peak Master agree to that? That’s one of the hardest places to get into on the whole mountain!”

A visible trace of hesitation crossed Xiao Man’s face.

“Ah — you don’t have to answer, forget I asked.” Qu Hanxing realized he’d pushed too far. “Do you want to rest in our place at noon? Going back and forth between the two peaks is quite a hassle.”

“Thank you.” Xiao Man smiled, his eyes curving. “But this is my first day on White Blossom Peak, and I’d like to have a look around. Another time.”

“Want us to show you around?” Mo Juntian offered.

Xiao Man shook his head. “No need — I won’t get lost.”

“Then don’t be late! Afternoon classes start at the hour of Wei at the training ground — make sure you’re there on time!” Qu Hanxing called after him.

“I will,” Xiao Man said.

They parted ways there — Qu Hanxing and Mo Juntian heading north, Xiao Man going south.

The scenery of White Blossom Peak was quite unlike Snow-Intent Peak.

Snow-Intent Peak held more spirit-qi than White Blossom Peak, which was why rare plants and flowering trees grew thick from the mountainside upward, drawing unusual creatures to nest among them. White Blossom Peak had none of that. But White Blossom Peak had people — even during rest hours, cultivators could be seen at practice, some working through sword forms, some sitting in breathing meditation, the whole peak alive with a sense of vigorous, forward-pressing energy.

Xiao Man wandered slowly along the mountain paths. Occasionally a bird settled on his shoulder and nuzzled him; occasionally one dropped a piece of fruit at his feet. When he grew tired, he found a quiet corner, sat down, and regulated his breathing.

At the hour of Wei, as the sun began to tilt westward, sword practice began.

“Realm is forged through fighting.”

This was the saying most widely known on Gushan, held by its disciples as the highest truth. And so each day from the hour of Wei to the hour of You, White Blossom Peak’s disciples sparred and practiced against one another — what the timetable called sword practice.

The venue was the training ground, a field of vast and seemingly boundless extent. Xiao Man stood with Qu Hanxing and Mo Juntian on the southwest side, three zhang of open space on all sides — plenty of room to swing a sword, or anything else.

Qu Hanxing raised his sword and spun a flashy arc with it. “Mǎn-gē, you’re good with a bow — but can you use a sword?”

Xiao Man took out the iron sword issued to lower-ranked disciples from his new Qiankun ring and looked it over carefully. “I’ve never used one.”

“Then what will you do?” Mo Juntian asked, eyes wide.

“I’ve read the sword manual.” And he had watched people practice sword forms and techniques. He and Yan Wushu had known each other for so long, and he had watched the man practice so many times. Yan Wushu probably never knew — but long ago, Xiao Man had already memorized the sword techniques of Gushan by heart.

His expression was composed and unhurried, his words easy with quiet confidence. Qu Hanxing was staggered. “Just read the manual? When? Not just now, right…” His voice trailed off toward something almost despairing.

Xiao Man gave him a small smile.

Mo Juntian, who was younger than the other two, sighed and put his hand to his forehead. “In that case — you two partner together, and I’ll find someone else. That way nothing should go too wrong.”

“You don’t need to do that on our account, I can perfectly well—” Xiao Man declined, then paused mid-sentence as his gaze met that of someone to the east.

The person was wearing a pale grey-blue robe — it was Wei Chuyun, the same one he’d exchanged a few words with in the Wugou Tower. Wei Chuyun’s expression carried something exploratory; he seemed very much to want to test himself against Xiao Man.

During his earlier wandering, Xiao Man had recalled the family Wei Chuyun belonged to.

The Wei family of Luochuan — a cultivation clan of considerable renown, with deep-rooted history and a rich family inheritance. It seemed this clan had never produced anyone with middling or poor spiritual aptitude; their younger members were competed for by every major sect.

Wei Chuyun in front of him — one of only three disciples on White Blossom Peak at the Upper Baoyu Realm, with faint signs that one foot was already crossing the threshold into the next realm — was, at this stage, an exceptionally worthwhile sparring partner.

Xiao Man had just made up his mind to face Wei Chuyun when Qu Hanxing grabbed his arm.

“Look carefully,” Qu Hanxing said quietly. “How many people in this place are glaring at you right now? They’re still sore about you showing up halfway through and taking the victory — including that Wei Chuyun. You’ve never practiced sword before. If you partner with someone else right now, you’ll absolutely come off worse.”

Mo Juntian nodded alongside him. “And it’s not a burden on us either — Hanxing and I have been sparring together for two years, and we can’t just keep going over the same moves against each other. We need to see how other people fight. So this is an opportunity for us too.”

“Exactly,” said Qu Hanxing. “And speaking of which — I’ve been wanting to ask you about that bow strike last night ever since you knocked me out with it.”

Their goodwill was that of young people: entirely unguarded, genuine from their eyes to their words.

Xiao Man’s lowered lashes trembled faintly. A warmth rose in his chest. This was the first time in his life that anyone had thought of his situation and considered it carefully on his behalf, when they had known him so short a time.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded. “Alright.”

“Then it’s decided!” Mo Juntian tucked his sword under his arm and went to find another partner.

Qu Hanxing grinned, spun another sword arc, and asked: “Want me to go easy on you at the start?”

“No need — come at me the way you normally would.” Xiao Man declined.

“Really?” said Qu Hanxing.

“Of course,” said Xiao Man.

“Bold of you, Mǎn-gē. You asked for it — don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

“Please, make your move.”

Both of them smiled. They raised their swords and bowed to each other.

Gushan’s beginner sword form comprised six stances in total. Qu Hanxing opened with the third — Unknowing of Spring’s Return. The technique called for a leap toward the opponent followed immediately by a charge; in the instant of passing each other, one reversed the sword and drove it toward the opponent’s flank and lower back.

At Qu Hanxing’s hands, the technique was blindingly fast, his figure near-impossible to track. Xiao Man was genuinely impressed — no wonder this was the person who had survived to the final stage through evasion and escape alone.

Xiao Man was still working out how to counter it when, without any warning, a wooden staff fell from the sky.

Qu Hanxing’s entire focus was on his sword and on Xiao Man; he had no guard up for visitors from above. There was a thud, and he went face-first into the ground, raising a cloud of dust.

The supervising instructor landed at the same moment, made a clawing gesture with five fingers, and called the staff back to his hand from thin air. “This is sword practice,” he said curtly. “You learn and spar with swords — nothing else. Take those body-lightening talismans off your feet.”

Qu Hanxing only then remembered they were still on him. He pulled them off quickly and apologized with every appearance of sincerity: “I’m sorry, Instructor — I came in a hurry and forgot.”

The instructor gave a cold sound and confiscated the talismans into his own Qiankun ring. “I’ll hold onto these. Start again.”

After the instructor left, Xiao Man extended a hand to help Qu Hanxing up. The sight of the boy’s completely ash-grey face made him bite back a laugh.

“That’s one of the rules of sword practice — commit it to memory, or you’ll end up like me just now.” Qu Hanxing grabbed Xiao Man’s hand and got to his feet, delivered this advice with complete sincerity, and then — without so much as a word of warning — raised his sword and swung it at Xiao Man.

A sneak attack.

First stance of the beginner form.

Xiao Man moved aside quickly.

This stance had a beautiful name: Spring Wind Through the Balustrade. On the page of the sword manual, it appeared soft — light and yielding, as though there were no solid point to strike at. Executed by Qu Hanxing, when it found its mark, it turned sticky, clinging, extraordinarily difficult to shake free of.

Xiao Man shifted sideways and stepped back, again and again, always just barely escaping before the blade came again.

His brow rose slightly. This was interesting.

“Ha — Mǎn-gē, this is two and a half years of hard training right here.” Qu Hanxing grinned.

Xiao Man said nothing. He spun aside from the blade.

Qu Hanxing pressed the attack; Xiao Man barely dodged; the sword followed again, persistent as a burr. There was no clean way to pull free of it.

Then Xiao Man stopped retreating. His eyes lifted. His wrist turned in a sudden snap — he brought the sword upright before him and moved forward, toward Qu Hanxing.

Two steps.

The first step landed on the Zhen position. His sword came up from below and struck at a sharp, unexpected angle, meeting the edge of the other blade — and then drove forward, breaking through it.

The moment after breaking through, the second step followed. He used the lunging footwork from Unknowing of Spring’s Return, passed Qu Hanxing in a flash — and reversed the sword.

Clang—

A clean hit to the hilt. Qu Hanxing’s sword flew from his hand and landed in the dust.

Xiao Man lowered his sword and stepped back. The pale hem of his robes spun and lifted in the air before settling — a brief arc of light, gone in an instant.

Qu Hanxing stood very still for a moment. He looked at the hand that had been holding the sword, then looked at Xiao Man, as though he couldn’t quite believe it. “No. I’ve been drilling this since I first arrived at Gushan — and you’ve glanced at a sword manual, and you’ve already broken my technique?”

“I’m not particularly versed in swords,” Xiao Man said, with a mild and unhurried manner, “but I’ve spent many years studying Buddhist principles. All methods under heaven share the same roots. Beyond that — any technique, observed with patience and care, will reveal its openings. The times I spent retreating just now were me looking for yours. The first step I took forward, the direction my sword went — that was the weakest point in your attack. Breaking through there made the counter natural.”

He continued: “Your technique has a great deal of character, and it’s quite clever for it. Precisely because of that, the force behind the swing cannot be heavy — it needs to be light, and it needs to be fast.”

Qu Hanxing seemed to grasp something and nodded slowly. “How fast?”

“Faster than me,” said Xiao Man.

“That sounds like a challenge, Mǎn-gē.” Qu Hanxing’s lips curved. He bent down, picked up his sword. “Again!”

Xiao Man said “of course” quite naturally.

They resumed. Qu Hanxing relied on Spring Wind Through the Balustrade as his main offensive stance — it was the one he had trained longest and felt most deeply, and he pushed it to be better. Xiao Man, in turn, used the opportunity to feel his way through all six of Gushan’s beginner stances — thrust, cleave, tap, lift — from learning the form to grasping the intent, growing more practiced by the round.

After a long while, a light sweat had formed on Xiao Man’s back. Qu Hanxing was drenched. They stopped and leaned against a tree to rest; Qu Hanxing pulled out a water skin and took a long drink, then tossed it to Xiao Man. He was about to say something when the same instructor who had confiscated his talismans walked over.

Qu Hanxing reflexively straightened. The instructor was not looking at him — he was looking at Xiao Man. “I’m told you arrived today.”

“That’s right,” Xiao Man replied.

“Have you studied Gushan’s sword form before?” the instructor asked.

“He hasn’t,” Qu Hanxing cut in. “He had a quick look at the manual during lunch.”

The instructor looked Xiao Man up and down. “You didn’t look like someone who had practiced before, from the start — but still. Very good. Very good.” He said “very good” twice, evidently quite satisfied. “Would you care to exchange a few moves with me?”

Qu Hanxing grinned. “Instructor, you’re at the Guiyuan Realm — that’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

Xiao Man handed the water skin back to Qu Hanxing, stepped out from under the tree, and said pleasantly: “It’s all right. The Instructor is here to give guidance.”

The instructor shot Qu Hanxing a look, and nodded to Xiao Man. “Good.”

Xiao Man raised his sword and bowed to the instructor.

The instructor returned the bow.

In the next instant, they began.

The instructors who taught on White Blossom Peak were all at the Guiyuan Realm — two full major realms above the batch of newly-entered disciples before them. In his past life, Xiao Man had climbed from Guiyuan all the way to Taixuan; this instructor’s realm held no mystery for him, and he felt no particular fear of it.

This instructor did not attack with force or pressure. He led Xiao Man through each move with measured, appropriate guidance, helping him build a deeper understanding of all six beginner stances.

Their exchange was slow — every move and stance, every step forward and every turn of the body, aimed first and foremost for steadiness. Only when the sun dropped toward the west and the training ground was awash in burning amber light did they finally stop.

The instructor knocked the sword from Xiao Man’s hand.

The iron sword lay sideways in the dirt. Xiao Man’s face was covered in sweat, his chest rising and falling with his breath, his complexion pale with fatigue — but his eyes held a jumping brightness, and his whole person was in a state of keen, thrumming excitement.

He had lost — naturally; and yet he had understood an enormous amount. The connections between stances. The variations within a single move. How to counter different styles of attack. How to combine the existing moves into different sequences…

There was so much left to learn, so much to practice. Coming to White Blossom Peak had not been a wasted journey.

“You have many strengths,” the instructor said, looking at Xiao Man and speaking slowly. “Matching a Baoyu Realm against a Guiyuan Realm, you showed no cowardice and harbored no impulse to flee — your will held firm. From imitating the form to grasping its intent, you required very little time. Your gifts are exceptional.” He paused. “Keep at it, and one day your name will be known throughout the world.”

Xiao Man bowed to him. “Thank you, Instructor.”

“But there is one point — a critical one.” The instructor’s tone shifted. “You are impatient with your sword. You pursue speed above all else. For a beginner, this may let you outpace your peers and break through to the next realm faster than they do — but over time, it will prevent you from building a solid foundation. Remember: haste defeats itself. From now on, you must slow down.”

“…” Xiao Man lowered his eyes. “Your correction is right. I will work to change it.”

The hour of You had come and passed; sword practice had ended some time ago. Aside from the two of them, the training ground was nearly empty.

The instructor swept his sleeve, sending the sword on the ground back into Xiao Man’s hand, and rode the wind away.

Xiao Man stood where he was for a moment, sword in hand, turning over what he had understood. He looked toward Qu Hanxing.

The boy had been watching the whole exchange from the sidelines, learning no small amount from observing Xiao Man and the instructor. He had been turning it over in his mind — then caught Xiao Man’s eager, restless look out of the corner of his eye, and immediately flinched:

“Easy, Mǎn-gē, it’s already the hour of You — time for dinner at the Wugou Tower! If we don’t go now there’ll be nothing left!”

They had exchanged dozens upon dozens of moves earlier, and he was sore from hip to ankle. Xiao Man, on the other hand, had clearly gotten a tremendous amount out of the session and was in a state of considerable energy. Sparring with Xiao Man right now — how was that different from asking to be beaten?

“Realm is forged through fighting,” Xiao Man said, delivering Gushan’s highest axiom, and walked toward Qu Hanxing.

Qu Hanxing grabbed his sword and bolted. “Starving! Mǎn-gē, I’m so hungry! Let’s eat first!”

He even activated a body-lightening talisman. Xiao Man sighed — but then, without warning, a sharp pain flared at the back of his skull, and the world swam before his eyes. His vision blurred; Qu Hanxing’s voice seemed to come from somewhere far away, indistinct.

Fortunately the episode lasted only an instant. In the next moment, sound and sight returned to normal.

Xiao Man steadied himself and kept walking.

Qu Hanxing had not noticed anything.

Mo Juntian came running from another direction, shouting “wait!” at Qu Hanxing, then raised a hand to shield the side of his face and said in a very low voice to Xiao Man: “There’s someone outside the training ground watching you.”

“Let them watch,” Xiao Man said, unconcerned.

“I’ve never seen him on White Blossom Peak.” Mo Juntian frowned. “He doesn’t look much older, but I can’t read his cultivation at all — even his expression is impossible to make out.”

“Where?”

Mo Juntian pointed.

Xiao Man had already formed a guess, but couldn’t quite believe it — then he looked, and sure enough, there was a figure leaning against a tree, turning a folding fan in his fingers. Dark robes. Silver hair like frost.

Yan Wushu.

“Do you know him?” Mo Juntian asked.

“No,” Xiao Man said, looking away, his tone flat.

“Oh.” Mo Juntian said. “Then let’s go quickly — it’s getting late, and if we wait any longer the Wugou Tower will run out.”

The setting sun blazed as though it might catch fire; the evening light stretched their shadows long across the ground. Xiao Man fell into step with Mo Juntian, and the two joined Qu Hanxing and walked away from the training ground together. The white of Xiao Man’s robes had been dyed a luminous amber by the light, the hem turning and lifting in the wind like the wings of a butterfly in slow flight. He carried his sword in one hand, his slender waist bound by its sash — beautiful and, at that moment, looking strangely fragile.

Yan Wushu narrowed his eyes slightly. The folding fan in his hand went up, and he caught it as it fell.

Yan Wushu rarely involved himself in Xiao Man’s private affairs. He had always respected Xiao Man’s wishes, never intervening in his decisions or intruding upon them — not unless Xiao Man came to him first. Yet in all the years they had known each other and shared a life together, Xiao Man had in fact never brought him a single thing that needed attending to.

This was unlike the vast majority of people Yan Wushu had ever encountered. Xiao Man had always simply been there, at his side — quiet, well-behaved; when called, he always answered; the tea he brewed was always exactly to his taste.

And so on Snow-Intent Peak, when he had lifted his head from a long stretch of complex calculation and found that the person who usually sat by the window reading sutras was not there — it had felt distinctly strange.

Mist Island had posed a problem he could not solve: he could not work out which stars, specifically, were meant by “some stars will deviate from their original paths.” In a moment of restlessness, he had left the Hall of the Dao and come to White Blossom Peak to find Xiao Man.

The sword form was coming along nicely. He had made friends. But he wasn’t going to acknowledge Yan Wushu’s presence?

Yan Wushu gave a quiet, mild sound of displeasure, took his fan, and followed at a distance behind the three of them.

He kept to a distance both shameless and deliberate — close enough that Qu Hanxing and Mo Juntian remained unaware, but just close enough that Xiao Man would notice. Xiao Man was a Phoenix; his hearing and perception were vastly sharper than an ordinary person’s.

After a while, as expected, Xiao Man stopped walking.

“I just remembered something I haven’t done,” he said to Qu Hanxing and Mo Juntian, his eyes half-lowered. “Go on without me tonight.”

“Alright — see you tomorrow.” Neither of them suspected anything; they said goodbye and left.

Xiao Man put his sword away in the Qiankun ring, breathed in and out slowly and deeply, and then turned and walked back toward Yan Wushu.

The last of the sunset lay across the mountain like water; the wind of early dusk had grown restless, lifting the dark hem of Yan Wushu’s sleeves into the air. Xiao Man looked at those sleeves, then let his gaze travel slowly upward until it rested on Yan Wushu’s eyes.

“What does the Lord of Radiant Light want?” he asked.

“To take you home.” Yan Wushu said it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

It was not a request or a question — it was a statement of fact. And the moment the words were out, his sleeve shifted, and Xiao Man disappeared from where he stood and reappeared on Snow-Intent Peak.

The courtyard was fragrant with flowers. The reclining chair on the covered walkway swayed in the breeze. Yan Wushu pressed Xiao Man down into it, folded his fan away, and pressed one finger to the center of Xiao Man’s brow, channeling spirit-force. “The injury to your spirit-soul has not yet healed. You should be resting quietly during this time.”

Someone else’s spirit-force moving freely through his meridians — even drawing his own spirit-force along to accommodate its rhythm — carried an indescribable sense of intrusion.

Xiao Man’s instinct was to knock Yan Wushu’s hand away. But he caught himself. The spirit-soul injury was affecting his cultivation significantly; the Bright Moon Dew he had received from Peak Master Tan had been used up last night; and Snow-Intent Peak did have medicine for exactly this kind of wound — but every plant and stone on this peak was Yan Wushu’s.

He had no medicine of his own for the injury. The injury would not heal on its own in any short span of time. There was no recourse but to rely on the man in front of him.

His half-raised hand fell back to his side. Xiao Man resented his own helplessness, and quietly reproached himself for it. He said nothing in response to Yan Wushu.

Yan Wushu waited a moment and received no reply. He asked: “Why the sudden interest in learning the sword?”

Xiao Man remained silent.

Yan Wushu made a sound that was almost a laugh. “Even if you won’t answer me now — at the Sword Trial Assembly in half a year, you’ll have to give an answer all the same.”

Still silence.

It stretched on — long enough for Yan Wushu to work through one full round of healing. Then Xiao Man raised his eyes, and asked quietly: “Do you really want to know?”

His eyes were dark, like a drop of ink slowly spreading — carrying a faint light within them. Clean. Unguarded. And deep.

He could ignore Yan Wushu’s deflection. But in this moment, something made Xiao Man feel that answering might not be such a terrible thing after all.