“You… Qi Refining Mid-Stage?” Mu Zhiming tilted her head and asked, a hint of confusion in her voice.
Ji Wangshu, who had just turned over and was staring blankly at the ceiling, froze for a moment.
Damn it! How could he forget about that!
The original childhood friend should have had no spiritual root, otherwise Mu Zhiming wouldn’t have gone to the Immortal Sect while he stayed in the village.
No, that wasn’t necessarily true. Ji Wangshu shook his head and searched his mind for the relevant memories.
In his memories as the Wood Spirit Three-Needle Flower, there was no clear mention of whether the original had spiritual root aptitude. It only said that Mutou was a Heavenly Spiritual Root genius, discovered by someone from the Immortal Sect and taken into the sect.
And immortal cultivation sects usually recruited disciples with three spiritual roots or above.
He’d have to gamble on this, he thought.
“Ahem… after I was taken by the Demon Sect, they found I had a Four-Element Spiritual Root, a fake aptitude. Hard to reach Foundation Establishment, but I still have a little something.” Ji Wangshu chose his words carefully, weaving his story.
“So they taught me some basic techniques. The Demon Sect people said having a bit of cultivation in my body would make their experiments go better.” After he finished speaking with feigned calm, he glanced at Mu Zhiming out of the corner of his eye.
She gave a slight nod and accepted it without pressing further.
Seeing her reaction, she really didn’t know whether the original had spiritual root aptitude or not. Looks like he got through this one.
Ji Wangshu breathed a sigh of relief, his whole body relaxing.
The night birds’ cries outside the window stopped, and with a flutter of wings, they flew off toward another distant mountain.
Mu Zhiming’s brows drooped slightly, as if lost in thought, but her hands kept moving, silently applying the medicinal ointment on him.
After about the time it takes an incense stick to burn, she said stiffly, “…Done.”
Ji Wangshu lay on the bed, then half sat up to take a look. The dense Hidden Injuries that had covered his body were now smeared with thick, green medicinal ointment.
It looked like white grains growing all over a strawberry—fine from a distance, but up close, it made your scalp crawl.
Tsk, his Dense Phobia was acting up.
He quickly turned his head away, pretending to look at Mu Zhiming instead.
Seeing him turn to look, her gray-white pupils met his gaze. Her vermilion lips parted slightly, then closed again. After several breaths, she finally spoke:
“…Do you remember when we were little?”
Ji Wangshu froze at the question, the relief he’d just felt jumping straight back to his throat.
When they were little? There were so many things from your childhood—how am I supposed to know which one you mean?
What’s worse, he couldn’t even ask her to clarify. Cold sweat began to form on his back again.
Fortunately, Mu Zhiming continued in a low voice: “…You said that when you grew up, you’d fly a sword through the skies like the immortals in the books.”
“Now that you have Qi Refining cultivation…”
“Once your injuries heal in two weeks, would you like to learn swordsmanship with me?”
She had never spoken so much in one go before. After finishing, she placed her right hand lightly over her chest, took a few deep breaths, her voluminous Daoist robe rising and falling with each one.
Ji Wangshu listened and relaxed.
So that’s all it was.
“Sure, sure.” He agreed with a feigned cheerfulness, but inwardly he was groaning.
Back in the real world at Yixiu Sect, he was constantly dragged into sword practice by his master and junior sister, training all day every day. He was already sick of it.
And now he had to do it in this Dream World too.
Seeing his lighthearted response, Mu Zhiming’s brows smoothed out, and a faint, subtle smile appeared on her perpetually frosty face.
“This is my first time…” she paused, then added stiffly, “…teaching someone swordsmanship.”
No worries, this is also my first time pretending to be a childhood friend, Ji Wangshu quipped inwardly.
Mu Zhiming, seeing that he was basically fine, picked up her ceremonial sword, exchanged a few pleasantries, and walked out of the room.
A “click” came from the wooden door as it closed.
…
Another “click” as the wooden door opened.
Mu Zhiming carried two wooden swords and walked outside, her gray-white pupils fixed on Ji Wangshu who had been waiting. She tossed him a sword.
A week had passed since the day he was treated. Most of Ji Wangshu’s Hidden Injuries had healed, and today was the first agreed-upon day of sword practice.
He reached out with his right hand, catching the wooden sword flying through the air. He held it horizontally in front of him, ran two fingers lightly along the blade, and the sword trembled slightly.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he dipped it downward and let it hang naturally at his side.
“Huh?” Mu Zhiming watched the scene with blurry vision, her vermilion lips parting slightly in a soft, puzzled sound.
Her childhood friend’s movements were far too practiced—especially that light touch along the blade, which was a Blade Opening Move that only experienced swordsmen would have.
Ji Wangshu didn’t realize anything was wrong, not until he met Mu Zhiming’s questioning gaze.
He cursed inwardly. Years of sword practice at Yixiu Sect had made it a habit, and he’d forgotten that the childhood friend he was playing wouldn’t know any of this.
He tilted his head up slightly, looking at the sky, and said with feigned composure, “Oh, after you left, I taught myself with a wooden sword.”
“You know, I always talked about riding the wind on a sword, vanquishing demons across the world.”
“…Oh, alright.” Mu Zhiming gave a slight nod and let it go, the confusion fading from her face.
But her fingers on the wooden sword tightened on the hilt twice more.
Ji Wangshu let out a sigh of relief while complaining inwardly: Man, asking him—a cultivator who trained with a sword every day—to play a complete novice was way too hard.
The blazing sun melted the snow on the mountains. The air was filled with the scent of clear weather after snowfall, mingled with the fragrance of Plum Blossoms. Sunlight filtered through the plum tree branches, fell onto the wooden sword, and refracted into a curve of light.
“Swish, swish.”
Mu Zhiming traced a circle in the air with her sword, then lowered it and turned to look at Ji Wangshu beside her.
“Did… you understand?” Mu Zhiming’s stiff voice carried a hint of nervousness.
Though she was the Sect Master’s only Direct Disciple, she had never taught anyone before, given her quiet and reserved nature.
She wondered if he could follow along.
If he couldn’t, it would mean she wasn’t teaching well.
Her mind churned with thoughts, and it showed on her face—like an ice surface that had been frozen all year, now trembling slightly.
“I understood.” Ji Wangshu nodded beside her.
Most people teaching sword techniques would demonstrate three times at most before stopping.
But this Mu Zhiming had demonstrated nearly ten times. She started extremely fast, finishing in a few breaths, then gradually slowed down—so slow that he could see every afterimage the blade left in the air.
With such considerate care, even if Ji Wangshu really were a beginner, he would have understood by now.
Besides, he wasn’t actually a novice. For an experienced sword cultivator, an entry-level sword move like this only needed to be seen once to be replicated perfectly.
He collected himself, raised the wooden sword with his right hand, and performed the moves at a normal speed.
About half an incense stick later, he finished the last move and turned to Mu Zhiming beside him:
“Well? Did I get it right?”
His voice carried a note of pride, just like the childhood friend in his memories.
Mu Zhiming was silent for a moment, then said stiffly, “I… can’t see clearly.”
Ji Wangshu froze, the pride on his face solidifying instantly.
Great, he forgot she was blind. She couldn’t possibly see a Sword Light moving that fast from that far away.
What was he supposed to do now?