“Cicada……”
The sounds of summer insects echoed through the deep mountains.
It was already midsummer; two whole months had passed since that night in the peach grove.
In the northern part of the town, what was once the prosperous Zhang family mansion now bore only a shocking gash.
That gash started from the main gate, slicing straight through the entire mansion, splitting it in two.
The crack was three feet wide, its edges smooth as a mirror, as if cleaved by something.
The buildings on either side of the fissure barely stood, walls tilting, tiles scattered—it was no longer habitable.
The townspeople all said it was the wrath of an immortal.
After all, only an immortal could create such a scene.
Two months ago, in the dead of night, a white light descended from the sky, landing on the Zhang mansion, followed by a deafening boom that shook the ground.
When the bold ones approached to look, the Zhang mansion had already become like this.
Strangely, no one died.
The Zhang family’s masters and servants—all survived.
They just climbed out of the ruins disheveled, faces full of terror.
The eldest miss, Zhang Yiwei, stood by the edge of that crack, motionless for the entire night, until dawn when someone helped her away.
Along with this major event, there was a minor one: the return of the former schoolteacher in town, Shuang Feixue.
She didn’t go back to her own home but stayed at the rundown inn on the far west side of town.
She rented the top-floor room, paid for three months, and then stayed inside day after day without coming out.
The errand boy who delivered meals said her room was full of the smell of alcohol.
A thick, choking smell of alcohol.
…………………………
The top-floor room of the inn was indeed filled with the smell of alcohol.
The windows were closed, curtains drawn; the room was pitch black, so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
On the table, floor, and bedside—empty wine jars everywhere.
Some lying on their sides, some upright, some shattered; the dried wine left dark stains on the floor.
Shuang Feixue sat by the bed, holding a half-finished jar of strong liquor.
She wasn’t wearing her white robes, just a dusty gray coarse cloth long shirt; her hair was messily tied back, a few stray strands hanging over her forehead.
In two months, she had lost a great deal of weight—sunken eye sockets, pale face; only her eyes still shone, but the light wasn’t clear—it was murky.
Shuang Feixue raised the jar and took a big gulp.
The wine was cheap, the town’s lowest-grade farm brew; it burned spicy on entry, scorching her throat with pain.
But she didn’t care; what she needed now was this pain—this pain that could cover all other sensations.
“Little Xi……”
She murmured to herself, her voice hoarse.
Another gulp.
The wine trickled down the corners of her mouth, dripping onto her collar; she couldn’t be bothered to wipe it.
For these two months, the woman had lived like a ghost.
Drinking during the day until blackout drunk; waking in fright at night, then continuing to drink.
In rare moments of sobriety, she would recall that night in the peach grove, recall her powerlessness as Ao Xian abducted Nanxi.
Then came even fiercer drinking.
She had no other way.
Dragons could fly, while Shuang Feixue could at most drift in the air for a while.
She couldn’t catch up to that dead loach; besides numbing herself with alcohol, she had no methods.
Drinking was to avoid thinking; she didn’t dare think about her disciple’s fate.
Violation was the limit of what she could imagine.
Every time the thought emerged, she would smash things like mad, breaking everything smashable in the room, then curl up in the corner hugging her head, crying like a child.
Cried out, continue drinking.
“Useless trash…… can’t even protect a child…… trash……”
She recalled twelve years ago, on Qilian Mountain, the scene of her five junior sisters dying before her eyes.
The same powerlessness.
The same despair.
So she had never changed. Still that trash who could only watch important people disappear, unable to do anything.
The jar was empty.
Shuang Feixue shook the jar, confirming not a drop left, and casually tossed it to the corner; the jar hit the wall, the shattering sound especially piercing.
She stood up, swaying to the table, wanting to grab a new jar. Suddenly, her foot kicked something; looking down, it was that warm jade short sword.
The sword was still in its sheath, lying quietly on the floor.
Since that night, this sword hadn’t glowed again—no matter how she tried, how she infused internal energy, the blade remained cold as before.
Shuang Feixue stared at the sword for a long time, then suddenly laughed.
The laughter was light, cold, carrying self-mockery.
“Even you don’t want me? The thing the immortal left for him…… I can’t even guard this……”
She gripped the hilt, wanting to draw it, but her fingers trembled badly; after several tries, she failed and gave up, hugging the sword and sitting back on the bed, burying her face in her knees.
The room quieted again.
Only her intermittent sobs.
She didn’t know how long passed before Shuang Feixue raised her head.
The sky outside had darkened; another day was ending. She wiped her face, got up, and went to the window, pushing it open.
Cold wind rushed in, dispersing the room’s alcohol stench.
She looked at that distant gash; even from here, she could clearly see the wound piercing through the Zhang mansion.
That was what she had cleaved two months ago, after learning of Zhang Yiwei’s betrayal.
That day, she drank three whole jars, drunk to the point of unsteadiness.
But her mind was full of Zhang Yiwei’s face—that woman’s smile, that woman’s gaze at Nanxi, and what she did behind the scenes.
She grabbed her sword, staggering to the Zhang mansion.
The night watch servants recognized her, tried to stop her, but were paralyzed by her glare.
She walked straight to the main hall; Zhang Yiwei was there tallying accounts, her face turning deathly pale upon seeing her.
“Miss Shuang……”
“Where is he?”
Shuang Feixue knew her disciple had been abducted by the dragon, but she needed to vent.
Zhang Yiwei’s face carried sorrow, but her words were still piercing.
“Miss, you know better than I……”
The words weren’t finished.
Shuang Feixue acted.
Not with the sword, but her hand; she formed her fingers like a sword, lightly drawing across the ground at her feet.
No sound.
No light.
Just in the direction she drew, the ground split.
The crack spread forward, through the threshold, through the courtyard, through the rockery and pond, through building after building, straight through the entire Zhang mansion.
Bricks cracked, beams collapsed, dust filled the air.
When everything settled, the Zhang mansion was halved.
Zhang Yiwei slumped by the crack’s edge, her skirt torn by debris, face covered in ash.
She looked at that bottomless gash, then at Shuang Feixue, lips trembling, unable to say a word.
“Now the debt is settled.”
She turned to leave.
“Wait!”
Shuang Feixue stopped, without turning back.
“He…… is he really not coming back?”
Her voice carried sobs.
“I just…… I just wanted him to stay by my side; I never thought it would be like this……”
Shuang Feixue was silent for a long time.
“You did think of it; you just didn’t want to believe it.”
With that, she left.
Without another look at the gash, without another look at the woman slumped on the ground.
After that, she hid in this inn, never coming out again.
…………………………
The cold wind on her face sobered Shuang Feixue a bit.
She looked at that gash, feeling no satisfaction—only deeper emptiness.
What use was revenge? Cleaving ten Zhang mansions wouldn’t bring Nanxi back.
She closed the window, walked back to the bed, and picked up another jar.
Slapping off the seal, she tilted her head and gulped.
The wine was ice-cold, churning her stomach; she drank too fast, choked on a mouthful, coughing violently until tears came.
She leaned on the wall, bent over, coughing for a long time before stopping.
When she straightened, her vision blurred.
Not from tears—from the alcohol hitting.
She shook her head, wanting to stay clear, but her body disobeyed; she staggered to the bed and collapsed onto it.
The sword dropped from her bosom, falling to the floor.
Shuang Feixue reached for it, but her fingers trembled badly, unable to grasp.
She simply gave up, sprawling on the bed, staring at the blackened wooden beams on the ceiling.
“Little Xi…… where are you……”
There would be no answer—only the howling wind outside the window.
Shuang Feixue closed her eyes, letting the alcohol drown her consciousness.
Before fully blacking out, one last thought flashed in her mind.
If that night, she hadn’t taken Nanxi to the peach grove; if she had always kept him hidden by her side; if she had been a bit stronger……
But there were no ifs.
In the dead of night, Shuang Feixue woke from a nightmare.
She dreamed Nanxi falling from high altitude, smashing onto the ground, body shattered.
She rushed to hold him, but couldn’t reach.
She could only watch the blood spread, forming a small pool.
“Little Xi!”
She jerked upright, covered in cold sweat.
The room was pitch black, only a sliver of moonlight through the window.
She panted heavily, chest heaving violently; it took a long time to calm.
It was a dream—just a dream.
She kept telling herself, but her hands still shook.
She fumbled for wine, but touched something cold—it was the warm jade short sword.
Somehow, she had hugged it to her chest; the sheath against her bosom, she could clearly feel the fine patterns on it.
Shuang Feixue gripped the sword, sorrow surging in her heart.
She recalled the words the immortal said when handing her the sword that night.
“This sword is for him; give it to him when he’s sixteen.”
Nanxi was now fourteen.
Two years left.
But she might not wait until that day.
“I’m sorry……”
She hugged the sword to her chest, forehead against the sheath.
“I’m sorry…… I lost your child……”
As she spoke, she cried again.
This time quietly—no sound, just tears flowing endlessly, dripping onto the sheath.
She cried for a long time, until tears ran dry, leaving only dry sobs.
She curled up on the bed hugging the sword, helpless and despairing.
Moonlight leaked through the window crack, casting a thin long streak on the floor.
Shuang Feixue looked at that moonlight, suddenly recalling things from many years ago.
Recalling the first time she saw Nanxi—he was still a swaddled infant, black eyes looking at her, neither crying nor fussing.
Recalling his first call of “master,” milky voice melting her heart.
Recalling his sword practice—so serious, so diligent; clearly sweating profusely but refusing to rest.
Recalling him humming tuneless songs while cooking, turning simplest dishes into something special.
Recalling him pouting when angry, but soon coming over himself, tugging her sleeve.
Recalling that night, the light in his eyes when he initiatively kissed her.
All memories surged like tides drowning her. She hugged the sword tight, nails digging into palms, drawing blood without feeling pain.
“Come back…… please come back…… Little Xi……”
“As long as you come back…… I’ll do anything……”
“Even trade my life……”
She rambled incoherently, not knowing what she said—just that these words had been bottled up too long; if not spoken, she feared she’d go mad.
By the end, she had no strength left, slumping on the bed, eyes open staring into darkness.
Just like this, she thought.
Just drunkenly die like this—maybe not bad.
At least no need to face this boundless despair.
She closed her eyes, preparing to sink into alcohol’s numbness again.
But at that moment.
The sword in her arms suddenly heated up.
A very slight heat, like splashed by hot water. Shuang Feixue first thought it illusion, ignored it. But the heat came again, this time clearer, making her chest tremble.
She opened her eyes, looking down at the sword in her arms.
The sheath was glowing.
Not the dazzling white light from the peach grove that night, but a soft warm glow—like fireflies, faint but clear enough in the dark room.
Shuang Feixue was stunned.
She sat up, holding the sword before her eyes.
The sword was indeed glowing; the engraved cloud patterns seemed alive, slowly flowing in the light. Even stranger, the blade vibrated slightly, emitting an extremely faint hum.
“This is……” she murmured.
Before her words finished, the light on the sheath suddenly condensed, projecting a light screen before her.
The screen was blurry, like through a layer of mist. But she could vaguely see the image: a beach, tides rising and falling; distant simple thatched huts. The image shook a few times, finally fixing on a figure.
It was a young man with a crutch.
Silver hair, white clothes, side-facing the screen, picking seashells by the sea.
Though the face wasn’t clear, Shuang Feixue recognized it at once.
It was Nanxi.
He was alive.
He was alive!
Shuang Feixue’s heart nearly leaped out. She stared fixedly at the screen, not daring to blink, fearing it would vanish.
In the screen, Nanxi seemed to sense something, turning his head. But just as his face was about to clarify, the screen shuddered fiercely and shattered.
Then those lights pointed out the window, toward the opposite direction of the Big Dipper in the sky.
Afterward, the light receded; the sheath returned to normal.
The room darkened again.
But Shuang Feixue maintained her sword-holding pose, motionless. Her breathing rapid, chest heaving; something burned in her eyes.
It was hope.
Hope that finally appeared after vanishing for two months.
“Seaside… beach… thatched huts.”
The image the sword showed had distinct features.
That beach was gentle, sand yellowish; distant low hills, huts rundown with thatched roofs, fishing nets drying in front.
This was a fishing village.
And not a large one—a small village, perhaps only a dozen households.
Shuang Feixue flipped off the bed, staggering to the window and shoving it open.
Cold wind rushed in, sobering her much. She looked at the sword in her hand, gripping the hilt tight.
“Can you point again? Tell me where he is?”
The sword didn’t react.
She tried several more times—infusing internal energy, dripping blood, even pleading softly; the sword remained cold, the light not appearing again.
But Shuang Feixue wasn’t disappointed.
Because at least she knew one thing: Nanxi was alive, and the sword could sense him—otherwise, it wouldn’t have suddenly glowed.
That was enough.
Enough for her to keep searching.
She turned back to the bed, starting to pack; wine jars kicked aside, rolling to the corner and shattering. She pulled the iron sword from under the bed, tying it to her waist. Then carefully stored the warm jade short sword close to her body.
For the first time in two months, she seriously washed up, changed into clean clothes, combed her hair neatly.
The person in the mirror was still haggard—dark circles thick as unremovable, face pale as paper—but those eyes were different.
They held clear light.
She pushed open the door, walked down the stairs. The innkeeper was dozing behind the counter; hearing footsteps, he looked up and nearly fell from his chair in fright.
“Sh-Shuang Miss?”
“Checking out.” Shuang Feixue tossed a silver ingot. “Keep the change.”
“Where are you going?”
Shuang Feixue didn’t answer, walking straight out of the inn.
She looked into the distance.
Seaside…… fishing village……
Great Zhou had few coastal areas; the north was mostly mountainous, only the southeast coast—but the direction the stars pointed was south; as a Daoist sect member, Shuang Feixue recognized the Big Dipper.
Then start searching from the south.
One by one, village by village, asking.
Until found.
Shuang Feixue gripped the sword at her waist tight, walking toward the south.