The night in Qingyang City was gentler than that of the Demon Beast Mountain Range.
Moonlight filtered through scattered clouds, transforming into a soft silver ribbon that spread across the stone steps of a secluded courtyard in the west of the city.
This was a place Ye Chen had temporarily rented, far from the eyes of both Ye Xiao’s families, so quiet that only the sound of the breeze rustling the old tree by the wall could be heard.
The blind girl stood in the courtyard, her figure still thin, as if a slightly stronger wind could topple her.
But she stood straight.
The Sword, more important to her than her own life, was carefully wrapped with cloth and carried on her back.
She had been standing there for two hours, from dusk until the moon rose high, motionless, like a stubborn stone statue.
When Ye Chen pushed open the courtyard door, there was no sound.
He seemed to step out from the shadows—or as if he had always been standing there.
The girl’s ears moved slightly, and for the first time, her small face stained with hardship and blood showed a hint of something close to “relief.”
She did not speak.
Instead, she bowed deeply and slowly in Ye Chen’s direction.
This motion, she repeated many times, each more reverent than the last.
“The trial is over.”
Ye Chen’s voice was calm, as if stating a fact unrelated to himself.
“You did well.”
He did not ask about her hardships along the way, nor mention the fresh wounds covering her body.
For the possessor of the “Innate Sword Heart,” such things were merely the collisions a piece of jade must endure before it is polished.
He led her into a prepared side room.
The furnishings inside were simple: a table, a chair, a bed, and a large wooden barrel filled with dark green medicinal liquid that steamed gently, releasing a strange herbal fragrance.
“Go in,” Ye Chen pointed to the barrel.
“External wounds need treatment, and the Sword energy within your body must be guided and calmed.”
She could not see, but the warm, life-laden scent of the medicine made her body, tense for days, tremble uncontrollably.
She hesitated, standing in place.
It was the instinctive wariness and confusion of a creature long trapped in despair, faced with unexpected kindness.
Ye Chen did not rush her.
He turned and walked outside, closing the door behind him.
Before long, the girl shook her head, her hesitation fading.
She reached out, fingertips cautiously searching ahead.
When she touched the warm water, she shivered, like a startled butterfly.
Then, she unwrapped the cloth from the Iron Sword on her back, carefully placed the Sword against the wall, and removed her tattered clothing before slowly lowering herself into the wooden barrel.
The warm medicine enveloped her instantly.
The wounds sent tingles of pain, but more than that, a soothing heat flowed through her limbs and bones.
The exhaustion, pain, and the hatred and despair nearly crushing her soul began to melt away, bit by bit, in the rising steam.
The mist blurred her outline, and also the traces of dried blood tears at the corners of her eyes.
She rested her head on the edge of the barrel for a long, long time before a faint sigh escaped her lips.
Outside the door, Ye Chen waited until her breathing steadied before speaking.
“Your name.”
Her body trembled.
She woke from that near-collapse comfort.
She sat up straight, hands folded on the surface of the water, head lowered, and answered clearly:
“Reporting to sir… My name is Ling Qingshuang.”
“Ling, as in the ‘spirit’ of spiritual energy.”
“Qing, as in the ‘clear’ of clear water.”
“Shuang, as in the ‘frost’ of ice.”
After speaking, she paused, as if gathering all her strength.
Then she lifted her steam-reddened face toward Ye Chen’s direction and spoke quietly.
“Ling Qingshuang, thanks sir for granting me new life.”
“In this life and the next, this life belongs to sir. Where the Sword points, my heart follows, and I shall never betray, even unto death.”
Her voice held no excitement or passion, only the purity and resolve of someone who had severed all retreat.
Ye Chen listened quietly.
There was no ripple in his eyes.
He cared nothing for loyalty, nor needed anyone’s life.
What mattered was the resonance of the “Innate Sword Heart” within Ling Qingshuang as she spoke.
Pure, resolute, untouched by dust.
Good.
This was how a fine Sword should be—a Sword that knows only how to advance, recognizing a single direction.
Moonlight spilled through the window lattice, casting mottled shadows across the water’s surface.
The herbal fragrance drifted, and the room was silent, save for the girl’s breathing, gradually calming and deepening.
It seemed, she had fallen asleep.
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