It had already been fourteen years.
Now that she thought about it, perhaps her junior sister’s choice had been the right one.
Leng Yanling stood in the center of the Daoist sect’s plaza, gazing at the long sword thrust straight into the ground before her.
When this thought crossed her mind, even she was momentarily stunned.
The morning mist had yet to dissipate, lingering among the mountains and blurring the distant peaks into hazy ink washes.
Dressed in purple robes, she stood amid the thin fog, like a solitary blooming magnolia.
The Hanyu sword.
The Daoist sect’s treasured artifact, forged entirely from ten-thousand-year cold iron, its blade gleamed with a bright blue luster.
Even in midsummer, it emanated a bone-piercing chill.
Fourteen years ago, on that dusk, Shuang Feixue had nailed this sword here, then, cradling the child wrapped in swaddling clothes, left without looking back.
At the time, Leng Yanling had been standing right there, watching from inside the Three Pure Ones Hall.
She watched her junior sister’s receding figure, trembling with rage, thinking Shuang Feixue had gone mad.
For an infant of unknown origins, betraying the sect, abandoning the title of strongest under heaven, relinquishing the honor of the Daoist sect’s holy maiden, even discarding Hanyu.
But now?
Leng Yanling slowly surveyed her surroundings.
The vast Daoist sect was now nothing but empty halls and grounds strewn with unswept fallen leaves.
The stone steps before the mountain gate were thick with moss, several stone slabs cracked, with tenacious weeds sprouting from the fissures.
On the training grounds, the wooden racks that once held Dao swords now leaned askew, empty except for a few broken hemp ropes swaying in the wind.
The library door hung half-open, revealing thick dust inside, with spiderwebs layering the beams.
Throughout the entire sect, only two people remained.
Her, and her disciple Ji Zimo, whom she had picked up at the foot of the mountain fourteen years ago.
The morning breeze passed through the desolate halls, producing a wailing sound, like someone sobbing softly.
“Master, breakfast is ready.”
A clear voice came from behind, breaking the mountain’s silence.
Leng Yanling turned and saw Ji Zimo emerging from the kitchen, carrying a food tray.
The sixteen-year-old girl wore a plain white training outfit, the fabric somewhat faded from washing but clean and neat.
Her black hair was tied in a high ponytail, secured with a simple wooden hairpin.
As she walked, the tips swayed lightly with her steps, exuding youthful vitality.
She placed the tray on the stone table at the edge of the plaza with gentle movements: two bowls of plain congee, a dish of pickled vegetables, two steamed buns.
For the head of a sect, it was far too simple and bland.
“Why so early today?”
“Last night during meditation, I had some insights. I woke before dawn.”
Ji Zimo sat opposite her, picking up a steamed bun and carefully breaking it open, first handing half to her master before taking a bite herself.
Her eyes, however, secretly glanced toward the sword in the center of the plaza, filled with curiosity.
“Master, is the Hanyu sword really impossible to pull out?”
She had asked this question many times.
From age six to sixteen.
Leng Yanling had answered many times, each time the same.
“It can’t be pulled out, unless…”
“Unless Aunt Shuang returns, or the child she held comes to claim it.”
Ji Zimo finished the sentence, her tone flat.
“Master, what kind of person was Aunt Shuang exactly? The storytellers all say she was the strongest under heaven, her swordsmanship divine, defeating all experts with a single Hanyu sword. But you never tell me about her.”
Leng Yanling silently sipped her congee.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to speak; she didn’t know how.
Shuang Feixue, her junior sister, the former holy maiden of the Daoist sect, had entered the sect three years after her but stepped into the innate realm five years earlier.
Entering the innate realm at sixteen, at nineteen she single-handedly challenged seven major sword sects, defeating all experts under heaven and earning the title “Jade Sword Immortal.”
Her talent was so high it despaired her peers, yet her personality was too straightforward: she didn’t smile when happy, didn’t cry when sad, spoke directly about what she liked, and wore her dislikes on her face.
She was a pure person, and also extremely difficult to get along with.
Until fourteen years ago, when she returned holding that infant, everything changed.
“Eat.”
Leng Yanling finally uttered just those two words, her tone cold, with a hint of displeasure.
Ji Zimo obediently closed her mouth, but her eyes couldn’t help drifting toward the Hanyu sword.
She had been at the Daoist sect for twelve years, and that sword had always been stuck there, like the old pine before the mountain gate, almost becoming part of the mountain.
In the hottest summers, within three zhang of the sword, it was cool.
She often moved a small stool to sit nearby and practice, more comfortable than in the shade.
In winter, it was even more pronounced: the entire plaza blanketed in snow up to the ankles, yet the area around the sword was spotless, the bluestone slabs exposed, without a single snowflake.
It was truly miraculous.
She had tried to pull it out: at twelve, at fourteen, and once last year.
Using all her strength, her face flushed red, the sword didn’t budge, and her hands went numb from the chill, unable to grip a sword for days.
When her master discovered it, she was punished by copying the *Quietude Scripture* ten times.
“After eating, wash the bowls, then go to the back mountain to practice swordsmanship.”
Leng Yanling set down her bowl and chopsticks, having drunk only half the congee and eaten only a small portion of the bun.
“Yesterday’s Flowing Cloud Sword set: your third move, Cloud Roll, and seventh move, Cloud Ease, were poorly executed. For Cloud Roll’s closing, sink your waist another three-tenths; for Cloud Ease’s opening, loosen your wrist two more degrees.”
“Yes.”
Ji Zimo responded, quickening her pace, stuffing the remaining congee and bun into her mouth in a few bites.
Leng Yanling watched her, a ripple stirring in her heart.
Ji Zimo was the one she had picked up fourteen years ago by the roadside at the mountain’s base. At that time, Great Liang had suffered floods, and waves of refugees fled south.
On her way back to the mountain, she saw a corner of tattered cloth poking from a haystack by the road.
Approaching and parting it, she found a four-year-old girl.
The child’s parents were already dead, lying nearby, bodies stiff.
But the little girl was still alive, clutching a biscuit harder than stone, neither crying nor fussing, her eyes wide open, staring at the sky.
She had intended to leave some dry rations and water and go, but as she turned, her robe hem was tugged by a grubby little hand.
“Mama…” the child called, her voice terribly hoarse.
Leng Yanling’s heart softened.
She picked up the child, brought her back to the Daoist sect, heated water to bathe her, fed her rice soup.
After eating her fill, the child slept for a day and night.
Upon waking, she wasn’t shy, following behind like a little tail.
Several elders said the child the sect leader had picked up had good bone structure, a seedling for martial arts.
So she named her Zimo—Zi for fine timber, Mo for depth—and took her as a direct disciple.
At that time, the Daoist sect hadn’t yet declined, with over three hundred members.
Her senior and junior sisters all said the sect leader had picked up a good disciple.
And indeed, Ji Zimo’s talent was exceptional: foundation building at six, meridian opening at nine, entering the acquired realm at thirteen.
At sixteen, she had already mastered the Daoist sect’s thirty-six sword forms to near perfection. Among the younger generation, she was top-tier.
But so what?
The current Daoist sect was long past its former self.
Leng Yanling rose and walked to the cliff’s edge. The mountain wind blew toward her, lifting her purple hair at the temples.
Gazing at the vast sea of mist below, she recalled the past once more.