Ji Wangshu let out a yawn, picked up the wooden sword that had just been placed on the stone table, and walked toward his own room.
Several paper lanterns hung by the small hut, flickering faintly in the night.
He had spent his energy worrying about his junior sister in the real world, and in the dream world, he’d been pulled back and forth by Chen Miao and Mu Zhiming. He was genuinely exhausted.
“Good night, see you tomorrow.”
He spoke up, then turned to head inside.
But out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Mu Zhiming still lingering in the courtyard. She pulled a wooden sword from her storage pouch and, under the cold moonlight, in the empty courtyard, began to dance with it once more.
The cold moonlight slanted down upon her, and several plum blossom petals rested on her shoulder-baring robe. Her figure swayed gracefully, her sword moves drifting like flowing wind chasing snow.
Ji Wangshu watched, utterly stunned.
This blockhead was honestly a bit much. She’d trained with the sword all day, and now she was still practicing after coming back?
Even at his most diligent, the most he’d ever done was train with his junior sister for four hours in a day, and then he’d be exhausted, dizzy, and complaining endlessly.
Ji Wangshu stood at the door of the small hut and spoke up: “It’s this late, and you’re still training?”
Mu Zhiming stopped her movements, turned her head slightly, her gray-white pupils fixed on him, and said stiffly:
“If I don’t train… I won’t win the big competition.”
Those words landed on Ji Wangshu’s heart like a pebble dropped into a cold mountain pool, the ripples spreading and refusing to fade.
With his nature, he couldn’t understand why someone would push themselves this hard.
In his past life or this one, in reality or in dreams, he had always been someone who lazed about. Though he wouldn’t completely lie flat, he could never become someone who diligently cultivated day after day.
Ji Wangshu looked at Mu Zhiming again, sweeping his spiritual sense over her, and found that the spiritual energy in her dantian had already been largely consumed. What was once a lake brimming with spiritual energy was now only a few shallow scoops remaining.
He frowned slightly.
Just what was this extra practice for the sect grand competition that Chen Miao had mentioned? How could it drain her spiritual energy this badly?
Looks like I won’t be getting any sleep tonight, he mused.
He sighed, then walked back under the plum blossom tree and spoke up: “No need to rush. The moonlight is nice tonight, so why not sit down and rest for a bit?”
With that, he sat down on the stone stool, set his wooden sword back on the table beside him, and reached out to tug at the corner of the blockhead’s collar, gesturing for her to sit.
Mu Zhiming hesitated for a moment, her nose twitching as she sensed the strange floral fragrance on him, then sat down on the stone stool, unconsciously placing her wooden sword on the table beside her as well.
A “tap” sounded.
The hilts of their two wooden swords hung over the edge of the stone table, the blades crossed where they rested, pressed tightly together.
“So what exactly is this extra practice?” Ji Wangshu asked curiously, while his restless little hand reached out and rested on the blockhead’s pale, fair palm.
A ticklish sensation spread through Mu Zhiming’s palm. Her delicate brows furrowed slightly, but she didn’t pull away. After a few breaths, she said calmly:
“…It’s practice for spiritual energy positioning.”
“Spiritual energy positioning?” Ji Wangshu leaned in a little closer, confusion on his face.
“After I lost most of my sight… my sense of distance got worse…”
“Originally, I relied on sound and smell to locate things… but against experts, that’s not enough…”
“…So I want to sense the spiritual energy fluctuations inside the opponent’s body, to control…”
Mu Zhiming spoke in fragments, and Ji Wangshu’s eyes went wide as he listened.
Cultivators had spiritual energy fluctuations in their bodies, and when they used different techniques or divine powers, those fluctuations would naturally reflect in their limbs’ movements.
But relying on that for distance positioning—he had truly never heard of such a thing. It might as well exist only in legends and storybooks.
If only there were some heavenly treasure that could heal her eyes.
Ji Wangshu met Mu Zhiming’s gray-white pupils, sighing inwardly.
But that was unlikely after all. He’d never heard of any heavenly treasure that could cure a cultivator’s blindness—otherwise, everyone would be searching for it.
He fell silent for a long moment, then shook his head, puzzled:
“With your heavenly spiritual root aptitude, even if you don’t win this time, there’s always the next. Why push yourself so hard?”
Mu Zhiming raised her head, her gray-white pupils glancing at him, and her pale, fair jade hand scratched lightly at his palm as she said:
“Life… doesn’t have that many next times.”
“The thing I regret most… is that when my village was slaughtered, I wasn’t there.”
“So that nothing like that ever happens again… I will slay every demon and monster in this world.”
Ji Wangshu was lost in thought at the first half of her words—”Life doesn’t have that many next times…”
Though Mu Zhiming was speaking to the fake childhood friend before her, the words struck him as if they’d crossed time and space, as if the one listening was Ji Wangshu of the Yixiu Sect in the real world.
When he heard her last sentence, his brows drooped. Though his hand still rested on Mu Zhiming’s slender jade fingers, it drew back slightly.
Slay demons and monsters, slay demons and monsters. When all was said and done, wasn’t it just slaying me?
He sighed inwardly. Wanting to probe Mu Zhiming a little, he weighed his words and slowly asked:
“Demons and monsters… surely there’s still a difference, right? For example…”
As he spoke, he caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of another plum blossom petal drifting down onto her brow, so he instinctively reached out, wanting to brush it away.
Mu Zhiming tilted her head, and before he could finish, she cut him off, her tone cold and resolute:
“No difference. They’re all evil. They all must… be killed.”
Hearing this, Ji Wangshu’s left hand, which he had extended to brush away the petal, froze mid-air, then silently withdrew.
The wooden swords resting on the stone table beside them trembled gently in the night breeze.
He suddenly felt that all his moments of flutter, all his closeness, had been as laughable as flowers in a mirror or the moon in water, a mirage.
Yes, demons were demons—no difference. Humans were humans. And fake was fake. Even if three months passed, it couldn’t change what was in one’s bones.
All these days—every accidental brush of fingertips during sword practice, every breath shared in close proximity during their night talks, and even that moment above the cloud sea when their fingers intertwined and their hearts drew close—all of it shattered in that instant.
Like osmanthus cake stored in a hot, humid environment: it only took a few hours to easily spoil.
Ji Wangshu lowered his gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he wanted to say something more, but he didn’t know where to begin, so in the end, he never spoke again.
A moment later, he lifted his eyes and quietly regarded the exquisite woman before him.
A few plum blossom petals drifted down in the courtyard, landing on her brow and her shoulder. The moonlight remained cold and clear, and the hint of green lingering in those gray-white pupils was still just as enchanting.
Only this time, he didn’t hold her gaze.
He pulled his left hand out from beneath Mu Zhiming’s cold jade hand, accidentally knocking the wooden sword off the stone table.
A “clang” sounded.
His wooden sword fell onto the blue stone floor, leaving only Mu Zhiming’s sword on the table.
Ji Wangshu crouched down, picked up the wooden sword, and without looking back at the woman as pure as a snow lotus, only said indifferently:
“It’s late. Rest early.”
Then, without waiting for Mu Zhiming to reply, he walked silently back into the small hut hung with paper lanterns. A gust of clear wind blew, and the lanterns swayed gently in the night breeze.
He closed the door, and in the courtyard there remained only a wooden sword, a plum blossom tree, a few petals, and an icy woman like a snow lotus.
Just as it had been before he arrived.