In another inner sect disciple courtyard of the immortal sect.
Moonlight spilled into the room, illuminating the Xuan-rank sword resting on the jade mat.
The sword’s body still bore several fine cracks, clearly showing where it had once broken and been reforged at some point.
Now, those old hairline fractures reflected a faint cold gleam, like a room full of mirrors refracting countless rays of light.
The brilliance was almost too dazzling to look at directly; an ordinary woman would have squinted to adjust.
But the woman beside it was no ordinary woman.
A graceful, tall woman sat there, her lustrous hair pinned high with a wooden hairpin.
She wore a simple white attire. Her upper body wasn’t as full as Mu Zhiming’s, but it was delicately proportioned, and a black sash hugged her slender waist, still fastened even at this late hour, tightly cinching her long, elegant figure.
From the collar of her white robes peeked pale collarbones, beaded with fine sweat, tracing a deep V-shape like the contours of a mountain peak.
Su Qingyue simply gazed at the cold gleam on the Xuan-rank sword, her pupils utterly calm.
Calm as an unruffled sheet of ice.
After a moment’s contemplation, she extended a slender jade finger and gently traced the fine cracks along the blade.
These cracks were left behind five years ago, from her battle with Mu Zhiming.
Five years ago, Mu Zhiming had just reached Foundation Establishment and become the direct disciple of the Sect Master, their teacher—the youngest junior sister.
Five years ago, on the plaza, she had spoken to her junior sisters just as she always did:
“Today we’ll practice sword work. I’ll demonstrate the Ask Water Sword Technique. Watch carefully.”
The sunlight was fierce, the sword light intense, and a gentle breeze stirred.
After finishing the final stance, beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She looked at the assembled junior sisters and asked:
“Did you all see clearly? The last move goes like this… and this…”
“Great!”
“…No, it’s wrong.”
Amidst the chorus of approval, a dissenting voice abruptly cut through.
Su Qingyue recognized who it was.
That awkward voice belonged to someone who rarely spoke—low in pitch.
Among the junior sisters, only one person spoke like that.
So Su Qingyue turned to look at Mu Zhiming in the crowd.
The sunlight was fierce, the breeze gentle, ruffling the dark hair Mu Zhiming had pinned up with her plum blossom hairpin.
“Wood, what’s wrong with it?” she asked softly.
“Everything… is wrong.” Mu Zhiming replied haltingly.
Everyone in the field looked baffled, turning to Mu Zhiming, wondering how she could say such a thing.
“…Then you tell me, what’s wrong.” Su Qingyue’s tone carried a hint of displeasure.
“I… can’t explain it.” Mu Zhiming’s voice was still just as halting.
Su Qingyue’s face was already showing traces of anger.
Even if Mu Zhiming was the junior sister and could be indulged, sword practice was a matter of absolutes—she couldn’t just spout nonsense.
Just as she was about to lose her temper, Mu Zhiming spoke up nervously:
“I… can’t put it into words.”
“But my sword… can speak for me.”
And so, under everyone’s astonished gaze, she gripped her yellow-rank flying sword and challenged Su Qingyue to a match.
Back then, the sect members all treated it as a match with no suspense whatsoever.
Including Su Qingyue.
Because by that time, she was already at the Foundation Establishment Stage—she naturally hadn’t taken a newly Foundation Establishment inner disciple, one who’d just become their teacher’s student, seriously.
Until after that day, every cultivator within a hundred li knew the name Mu Zhiming.
The cracks on this Xuan-rank sword were all thanks to Mu Zhiming.
By all rights, she should despise Mu Zhiming.
Because before Mu Zhiming appeared, everyone said Su Qingyue was a once-in-a-century heavenly spiritual root, destined to become the second Nascent Soul cultivator after Sect Master Liu Fuyao.
But as the storybooks say.
When you are the once-in-a-century genius, the previous once-in-a-century genius is still alive, and the next once-in-a-century genius has already appeared.
Mu Zhiming was that next once-in-a-century genius.
But she couldn’t bring herself to hate her.
Because any cultivator, upon seeing Mu Zhiming’s swordwork, would blurt out:
“So this is how a sword can be wielded?”
“So the swords of this world aren’t just fast but powerless quick blades, nor merely flying swords released with light spiritual energy—there exists a third form…”
And then came the awe, envy, jealousy, admiration, resentment… all those emotions.
Su Qingyue was also a cultivator, and she naturally felt those things too.
All except hatred.
Because she too was a sword cultivator.
And between sword cultivators, there are no enemies.
If you lose, it means your skill is lacking, your swordwork isn’t refined enough—nothing more to say about it.
So after that day’s match, she remained the senior sister, and Mu Zhiming remained the junior sister.
Only the direction had changed: instead of Mu Zhiming learning the sword from her, she now learned the sword from Mu Zhiming.
Everyone else found it awkward, but she didn’t think much of it.
Those who understand the Dao come to it in different orders; mastery of any craft has its specialists. That was all.
And so, as fellow disciples, she and Mu Zhiming had cultivated together for five years.
For that very reason, she knew better than anyone what kind of sword Mu Zhiming wielded.
And that sword on the plaza today—it wasn’t Mu Zhiming’s sword.
“Wood… you need to recover by tomorrow.”
Su Qingyue sat upright before the sword, murmuring softly.
“Because if you don’t…”
“Even defeating you… would feel dim and lackluster.”
Then she withdrew her gaze and looked out the window.
Tonight’s moonlight was also cold as water, just like the day five years ago when she lost to Mu Zhiming.
So she gripped the Xuan-rank sword on the jade mat and rose to step out the door.
Because she understood Mu Zhiming better than anyone.
Under such moonlight, in such circumstances, Mu Zhiming would only do one thing.
Sword practice.
So she too rose and went out, to practice the sword.
In another courtyard halfway up the mountain.
Plum blossom petals fell in a flurry beneath the tree, scattering across the stone path, enjoying their final bloom.
Mu Zhiming looked up at the window.
The moonlight was cold as water.
But her heart couldn’t settle.
Lying on the jade bed, closing her eyes, what surfaced was still that tingling numbness she felt when Ji Wangshu had applied medicine to her with his hands earlier.
So Mu Zhiming couldn’t bear to use the Dust Cleansing Spell to wash the bedding.
Leaving that lingering sensation upon it, preserving also his scent.
Mu Zhiming put the black veil back on, her nostrils flaring slightly, legs pressed together, rubbing against her ice silk leggings, reminiscing about that tingling numbness.
Her rosy lips parted slightly, and she whispered softly:
…………
“Wangshu… Wangshu…”
After a moment, a gentle breeze stirred, ripples shimmered across the great lake beside her, branches rustled overhead, and a few dewdrops dripped down.
Her cheeks had flushed crimson at some point. She raised her eyes to look at the moonlight.
The moonlight was cold as water, just like five hundred years ago, when she was still in the immortal sect.
Back then, she was still young, and people called her the Ice Sword Immortal; back then, Su Qingyue had not yet died; back then, Ji Wangshu was still alive.
She sighed softly, the spiritual energy of her Deity Transformation stage rippling faintly.
Five hundred years had passed, the moon remained unchanged, still rising every day, and most of those from five hundred years ago were dead and gone—yet the story from five hundred years ago was still unfinished.
So she could no longer sleep. By the moonlight, wearing the black eye veil, her face flushed, she flew into the night.
Beneath the eye veil, those eyes gleamed with an emerald light.
She flew toward the Qingyun Sect at the edge of her vision.