Zhong Lingxiu had practiced lightness skill for three months, catching twenty to thirty sparrows a day.
Unfortunately, one day it rained, the branches were slippery, and she lost her footing, taking a nasty fall.
Her bones were fine, but her ankle was twisted, so she had no choice but to halt her lightness skill training.
Resolutely, she decided to switch to sword practice, training while seated.
This wasn’t suitable for sparring with her fellow disciples, so she walked around the mountain with a cane.
When she saw the peach blossoms blooming perfectly, an idea came to her—she placed a meditation cushion under the tree, practicing swordsmanship while seated when there was no wind, and when the wind blew, she would slash at the drifting peach blossoms.
Gradually, she sensed something out of the ordinary.
The Hengshan Swordplay was truly remarkable!
She had always known that the Mount Heng Sect was one of the Five Mountains Sword Sect, one of the five great orthodox sects of the Jianghu, but she’d never truly experienced it.
Her fondness for the sect came more from its tranquil, drama-free atmosphere than from the profundity of its martial arts.
The sword techniques were complicated, but with hard work and diligent practice, anyone could master them—there was nothing extraordinary about it.
But as she tried to stab at the petals, she began to realize something.
The wind’s direction and shape were ever-changing, and the petals, carried by the wind, fell in unpredictable positions, speeds, and angles.
Yet, as long as she chose a target, there would always be a move in the Hengshan Swordplay that could reach it.
What did this mean?
It was as if, no matter what random question appeared from a question bank, there was always a Hengshan formula that could solve it.
A top-tier textbook!
She grew more and more delighted, pondering how to fully unleash its power.
Chop peach blossoms.
Chop leaves.
Chop peach blossoms.
For the three months she spent with her sprained ankle, Zhong Lingxiu practiced swordsmanship under the tree every day.
The first two days, she brought her own rations, using hot water and steamed buns to fill her belly.
Later, Yizhen discovered her and brought her vegetarian meals at noon every day, holding them in her arms all the way, still warm when they reached her.
Every time Zhong Lingxiu saw this, she felt a lump in her heart.
Zhao Zhen’er was blessed to have loving parents; it was said her betrothed cousin was her childhood sweetheart, her aunt treated her as a daughter, and she herself was so gentle and considerate.
If not for Tian Boguang, she would have had a smooth life.
But because of that lecher, everything was destroyed.
Damn him!
One day, she would send him to the eighteenth level of hell!
Zhong Lingxiu made up her mind, but never spoke a word of it.
Zhao Zhen’er was already dead; Yizhen was reborn.
Why keep bringing up the past in front of her, making it impossible for her to forget, even for a day?
“Thank you, Senior Sister.” She hid all her thoughts deep in her heart. “I’m full now.”
Yizhen helped tidy her scattered hair, speaking softly, “I’ll save you some food for tonight. Come back early.”
“Mm.”
The peach blossoms fell day by day, spring passed and summer came again.
Zhong Lingxiu’s Hengshan Swordplay improved, but she still hadn’t fully mastered it.
Unwilling to stop there, she noticed the heavy summer rains and simply started practicing sword in the rain.
The Hengshan Swordplay was dense and precise, excelling at defense, leaving almost no openings—perfect for dealing with fierce wind and rain.
Sink your breath—this was to steady her stance.
Tighten the core—this kept her muscles ready to exert force, making every move crisp and efficient.
Eyes must be clear, ears open, catching every sound of the rain curtain.
Swing the sword.
Half a day later, soaked to the skin, Zhong Lingxiu returned to her room under Yizhen’s worried gaze, gulping down a pot of brown sugar ginger tea.
The brown sugar was Yizhen’s own; every three months, Zhao Zhanggui’s family would come up the mountain with supplies—brown sugar, cotton cloth, salt, tea—allowing Zhong Lingxiu, who was used to a frugal life, to enjoy a bit more flavor beyond plain meals.
The mountain summer was cool, and the rainy season passed in a blink.
The trees faded to shallow and deep yellows, and autumn arrived quietly.
Zhong Lingxiu paused her sword practice and returned to catching birds.
It was like going back to square one overnight…
Her body had grown much heavier since the beginning of the year.
Though her hearing and sight had improved greatly, her sparrow-catching skills had regressed to only eight or nine a day, and they were all clumsy ones—the nimble ones she couldn’t even touch.
Zhong Lingxiu was terribly frustrated, but it was Yihe, after exchanging a few moves with her and asking some questions, who solved the mystery: “Junior Sister, you’re growing.”
At thirteen, she was in her growth spurt—taller, heavier, naturally more sluggish, no longer as light as a child.
It was a necessary stage of human life, nothing to worry about.
Zhong Lingxiu was reassured, treating it as starting over.
She went out early and came back late, chasing sparrows and chickens, occasionally finding a bird’s egg to cook into a sweet egg custard at night.
Whether her lightness skill had improved or not was hard to tell in the autumn months, but the daily eggs weren’t wasted—she’d grown taller, and last year’s cotton clothes and pants were now too short, not covering her ankles.
Yizhen offered to alter her clothes, but she refused and asked to be taught needlework instead.
Needlework was an essential skill in ancient times—making your own clothes from bought cloth was far cheaper than buying ready-made, and back then, you didn’t just throw away clothes that didn’t fit.
If they were too short, you’d sew on an extra section; if they were worn out, you’d patch or replace the outer layer—save wherever you could.
The Mount Heng Sect had taken in some elderly, helpless women, who helped chop wood, tend fires, mend and wash clothes.
Previously, Ding Yan Shitai and Zhong Lingxiu’s monastic robes were all made by them—the stitches were rough, barely wearable.
Now with Yizhen, whose family ran a cloth shop, and who’d learned needlework since childhood, she’d long taken on the task of making clothes for Baiyun Nunnery Abbess Dingyi and others, earning everyone’s praise.
Zhong Lingxiu didn’t want to take up her time, determined to be self-reliant, even if it meant learning slowly.
Yizhen never refused.
She had once lost the will to live, but Ding Yan Shitai had saved her at great risk, even giving her life.
So this life was not hers alone, but belonged to the Mount Heng Sect as well.
After becoming a nun and coming to the mountain, learning that Dingyan Shitai had a young disciple, she resolved to look after her well.
Strangely enough, with a goal in life and something to care about, the despair that had haunted her faded day by day.
She hadn’t woken from a nightmare in three or four days, nor was she constantly trapped in the pain of that night.
“This is the overcast stitch, mostly used for hemming, to keep the fabric flat and sturdy… This is the basting stitch, with wider spacing, for temporary holding…”
By the dim candlelight, Yizhen taught her to mend clothes, one stitch at a time, setting aside all other worries, her delicate brows relaxed in peace.
Not long after the cotton clothes were altered, winter arrived as expected.
The birds in the mountains suddenly dwindled, leaves rustled down from the branches, and one morning, when Zhong Lingxiu opened her door, the mountains were dotted with white—it had snowed a little sometime during the night.
Winter had its own way of training.
She returned to her room, wrapped the sandbags she’d made around her ankles and wrists, adding a ten-pound load.
She walked familiarly to the backyard, saw only a thin layer of water left in the vat, frozen over, so she picked up a wooden bucket beside it and went up the mountain to fetch water.
***
Before the end of the year, she was still only thirteen.
Carrying sandbags and fetching water was no easy task.
Her shoulders hurt and blistered, her legs trembled, her back bent under the weight—all this hardship, just to cultivate internal strength.
Yihe had once told her fellow disciples about the Jianghu, mentioning the Huashan Sect’s split between the Qi School and Sword School, and that the Huashan Sect leader, Yue Buqun, practiced the Purple Mist Technique, a top-tier internal method.
At this point, someone always asked: “So, is the Purple Mist Technique better than our Hengshan Internal Method?”
Many had asked this question before.
Yihe calmly replied, “The Purple Mist Technique is indeed good, but the Mount Heng Sect’s internal method is no less. If you can master our sect’s method, it’s not inferior to Huashan’s.”
Zhong Lingxiu immediately understood: when it came to profundity, the Purple Mist Technique was probably superior, but no matter how good a martial art was, it depended on who practiced it.
Thus, she made her winter training plan.
Winter was bitterly cold, especially in the north.
The wind was like knives, stinging the skin even after applying sheep fat.
Her hands and feet felt heavy, the buckets wobbled, the carrying pole chafed her shoulders, soaked with sweat and stinging until her eyes filled with tears.
Only by enduring the hardest hardships could one rise above others.
Zhong Lingxiu gritted her teeth, circulating her internal energy again and again, lessening the pain and giving her limbs more strength.
By the time she brought water down the mountain, it was already afternoon.
An elderly woman who carried water took the pole from her, shaking her head and sighing, “Little Xiu’er, why put yourself through this?”
“I’m young. If I fall, I’ll recover quickly. If you elders slip, what then?” Zhong Lingxiu panted. “I’ll do it again tomorrow.”
Exhausted, she planned to rest in her room, but as soon as she lay down, her stomach churned, and she scrambled up to clutch the chamber pot.
Urgh—she actually vomited, all stomach acid.
Zhong Lingxiu was both retching and puzzled—so people really could throw up from exhaustion??
Urgh.
Urgh.
When she was done, she slumped to the floor, too tired to get up, almost wanting to just lie there for a whole day.
But as soon as she lay down, she remembered the days she’d spent bedridden, day after day, anxious and fearful.
No, she had to get up.
Zhong Lingxiu stubbornly sat up, dragging her stiff, aching legs into a cross-legged position.
Cultivation, cultivation.
The Mount Heng Sect’s internal method might not be as profound as the Purple Mist Technique, but it had miraculous healing effects, and as a Buddhist internal art, it was excellent for relieving fatigue and calming the mind.
Zhong Lingxiu focused on her practice all afternoon, slowly recovering.
She ate a big bowl of vegetarian rice, then at night learned to sew shoe soles with Yizhen.
In the Jianghu, nothing was more important than a good pair of shoes.
She fell asleep halfway through pasting the soles.
Yizhen blew out the candle, carefully tucked her in with the cotton quilt, and sat by the window herself, sewing by the light of the moon and snow.
The northwest wind howled, growing even colder.
The next morning, Zhong Lingxiu woke up on time, spent five minutes preparing herself mentally in her room, then charged into the wind and snow as if going to her death.
The mountain paths were icy and treacherous, requiring her to keep her breath steady the whole way—it was no easier than sword practice.
The buckets quickly froze in the cold air, so she had to constantly circulate her internal energy to keep her balance.
But Zhong Lingxiu keenly sensed that she was in much better shape than yesterday.
Training worked, though she didn’t know exactly how, but the body never lied—she was growing stronger.
What people feared most wasn’t hardship, but hardship with no reward.
After a year of hard work, Zhong Lingxiu’s skills improved visibly, strengthening her resolve to train diligently.
She didn’t slack off for a single day all winter, rising early and training late.
When spring arrived the next year, she did something major—she went to see Baiyun Nunnery Abbess Dingyi and earnestly requested to return to secular life.
There were two reasons.
First, she was in her growth period.
Relying on rice and vegetarian food alone couldn’t sustain her needs.
She had to eat meat to grow stronger and withstand the demands of daily training.
Second, she was thinking ahead—Tian Boguang was a notorious rapist, always preying on women.
Dealing with him as a nun would be too inconvenient, and if discovered, it would damage the Mount Heng Sect’s reputation.
Dingyi Shitai had a fiery temper, but she cared for the younger generation.
She knew Zhong Lingxiu had trained hard all year, never slacking, wholeheartedly seeking justice for her master.
So she agreed without much fuss.