Qingyang City grew dark unusually early.
When the last sliver of dusky sunlight vanished from the battlements, a blade-like cold wind began to seize the small city.
In a secluded courtyard in the west of the city, the chill was even more biting.
Ling Qingshuang’s sword practice had continued for three hours.
[Return to Origin Three Forms]—Thrust, Lift, Slash.
This was the only sword technique her teacher had taught her, and for the past half year, it was the movement she repeated at least ten thousand times a day.
Her world was pure darkness, so her mind reached the pinnacle of focus.
She could clearly “hear” the faint, almost non-existent “hiss” of the sword edge slicing through the air; she could “feel” the coordination of muscle and bone with every exertion; she could “remember” the trajectory of every move, striving to make each one more precise, faster, and…more powerful the next time.
But she did not understand.
This sword technique was too simple.
So simple as to be almost crude, like a child’s beginner move.
It had no intricate variations, no killing techniques—only the most basic application of strength.
She bore a blood-deep grudge, the image of her enemy haunting her mind day and night like a nightmare.
What she needed was a blade that could kill in a single strike, a sword of vengeance that could tear through all obstacles.
Yet what her teacher gave her was this monotonous repetition, as dull as polishing a stone.
“The teacher’s level is beyond my grasp. Perhaps this is a test of my temperament.”
Whenever the restless fire in her heart surged, she could only admonish herself again and again in this way.
She suppressed this “lack of understanding” with all her might, turning it into even more frenzied practice.
She believed that everything her teacher did must hold deep meaning. She only needed to carry it out—not to understand it.
But the things she could not comprehend extended far beyond just this sword technique.
There was also the…“leisure” her teacher spoke of—those seemingly meaningless wastes of time.
About every ten days to half a month, her teacher would take her out of the quiet, world-removed courtyard into the bustling Qingyang City.
The first time she was brought outside, Ling Qingshuang resisted.
Losing her sight had amplified all her other senses countless times.
Noisy human voices, the clatter of horse hooves, hawkers’ shouts, children’s laughter…a boiling stew of sounds surged into her ears, making her dizzy.
In the air, the aroma of food, the sweat of passersby, the bitterness of herbs, and the sweet, cloying scent of cheap cosmetics all mingled into an invisible web, trapping her, suffocating.
“Teacher, why did we come here?”
She couldn’t help but grip the bamboo staff in her hand, a trace of wariness in her voice.
“Listen.”
Her teacher’s voice was as calm as ever, betraying no emotion.
Listen? Listen to what? The clamor of these mundane people?
She didn’t understand.
But she still followed silently behind her teacher.
Her teacher’s steps were steady, always guiding her to avoid crowds and obstacles at just the right moment.
They would pause for a long time in front of a storyteller’s tea stall.
The storyteller spoke passionately of the legend of the , drawing waves of applause from the onlookers.
To Ling Qingshuang, however, it was tasteless.
In her eyes, if a so-called Sword Immortal could not protect their own sect, then no amount of fame was anything but empty.
They would also pass a bun shop, where her teacher would buy a steaming meat bun and place it in her hand.
The bun was fragrant and hot.
She bit into it mechanically, thinking she could have used that time to practice three hundred more thrusts.
Her teacher would even take her to listen to old women gossiping on street corners, their talk nothing but trivial domestic matters.
Ling Qingshuang shut herself off, letting those meaningless syllables flow past her ears, her mind silently reciting the force methods of the 《Return to Origin Three Forms》.
She thought, perhaps this too was a kind of cultivation.
Her teacher was using these mundane affairs to test whether her resolve remained firm—whether she would be seduced by the world’s distractions and forget her deep hatred.
So each time, she walked with an emotionless face and listened with an unruffled heart.
She wanted to prove to her teacher that her heart, soaked in hatred, was already a stubborn stone—unshakable by anything external.
But her teacher seemed indifferent to her “steadfastness.”
He still took her out every few days, still bought her those useless little trinkets, still made her listen to boring stories.
This only deepened her confusion.
Yet what she found most incomprehensible were her teacher’s…sudden, illogical actions.
Just like now.
The winter night wind was piercing.
The Iron Sword’s hilt in her hand was frozen as if pulled from an icy river.
Each swing sent a biting chill burrowing into her meridians.
Her hands were red and stiff with cold, barely able to grip the sword.
Yet her will burned like heated iron, still searing.
She even enjoyed this pain somewhat—as if only through it could she constantly remember the heat of her hatred.
As she completed another mechanical “slash,” a thick outer robe was gently draped over her shoulders from behind.
The garment carried a distinct warmth—her teacher’s body heat—and a faint scent of herbs.
Ling Qingshuang’s body stiffened, her movement halting.
Why?
The thought sprang up uncontrollably.
Was it because…he thought I was cold?
The idea appeared and was instantly dismissed.
A cultivator did not fear mere cold or heat.
If such suffering could not be endured, how could one speak of vengeance? Her teacher couldn’t possibly misunderstand this.
Then, was he worried that her body would be damaged, affecting her sword practice?
That seemed a more reasonable explanation.
She silently accepted the hypothesis, preparing to resume practice.
However, her teacher stepped in front of her.
She could feel that calm, non-oppressive presence.
Then, he reached out and grasped her wrist.
His palm was warm and dry, a stark contrast to her frozen, stiff skin.
“Teacher?”
She was a little unsure.
Ye Chen did not answer.
He only used an unquestionable strength to gently pry open her fingers one by one and pulled the Iron Sword from her grasp.
In that instant, Ling Qingshuang’s heart sank.
The sword was her everything—her hope for vengeance, her only pillar for living.
Her teacher took her sword away!
A great wave of fear and unease surged over her.
She stood motionless, only able to feel her teacher in front of her, holding her sword.
She had no idea what he intended, and the unknown tormented her.
Time seemed to stretch.
She heard nothing.
Until…the sword was placed back into her hand.
She instinctively gripped it.
Then she froze.
The Iron Sword’s hilt, once ice-cold, was now…warm.
It wasn’t the scorching heat of flame, but a gentle warmth that seemed to seep into her skin.
She could clearly feel the lingering imprint and aura of her teacher’s palm upon it.
He…had used his own hand to warm the icy sword hilt for her.
Why?!
This time, the thought exploded in her mind like thunder.
She could not understand at all.
This action had no meaning!
It could not increase her cultivation, improve her swordsmanship, or help her avenge anything! It was an utterly “useless,” time-wasting, illogical act!
A test? What kind of test was this?
For efficiency? The act itself was the greatest inefficiency!
Gripping the sword that still held his warmth, standing in the cutting wind, for the first time, her heart was thrown into chaos.
All the “lack of understanding” accumulated over the past half year surged up at once.
The monotonous sword forms, the pointless walks, and now…the persistent warmth on the sword hilt.
All of it was like a vast riddle binding her tightly.
She realized that perhaps she had never truly understood the teacher who had brought her out of hell.
His world followed a set of mysterious laws she could never comprehend.
And the warmth on the sword hilt was the most core, most unanswerable, and most unsettling part of that mystery.
Premium Chapter
Login to buy access to this Chapter.