"The corporeal world, the self — both forgotten."
For those who have pursued the martial path and reached its heights, wandering alone with such knowledge is not always a blessing. When cultivation attains a certain realm, technique itself becomes akin to an external object — useful, yet not the decisive key to victory.
Yet this does not diminish the importance of technique. Words give voice to the heart; what is refined within must also find form without. To possess peerless inner strength yet lack the means to wield it would be no different from guarding a mountain of treasure with empty hands, unable to claim its worth.
Qi Fengge stood as the most brilliant master of his age. Those deeply versed in swordsmanship are often dazzled by the vast multitude of techniques, uncertain which to employ. Thus, the superior path lies in distilling complexity into simplicity. Qi Fengge gathered the sword arts of Xuandu Mountain and forged them into harmony, ultimately leaving behind two supreme inheritances. Among them was the renowned **Canglang Sword Technique**.
The sword methods of Xuandu Mountain embodied Daoist principles — tranquility, inaction, and the doctrine of ziran. They emphasized stillness within motion, striking only after the opponent had revealed intent, valuing agility, grace, and subtlety. Shen Qiao's temperament naturally aligned with such teachings; under his practice, the techniques yielded results beyond expectation.
However, once he began cultivating the true qi of the Zhuyang Ce, his former sword methods gradually lost their harmony with him. The Zhuyang Ce did not merely contain Daoist essence, but also the vigor of Confucian thought and the steadfast strength of Buddhist doctrine. Such forces could not be fully expressed through the yielding elegance of the Canglang Sword Technique alone.
Yet though all things beneath heaven differ, they inevitably share common threads.
Earlier, upon witnessing the performer who danced while practicing calligraphy, Shen Qiao perceived something profound. Amidst the clamor of the marketplace, the man did not perform for the crowd, nor for profit. He was wholly immersed, his mind untroubled, his movements guided by pure concentration and quiet joy.
The dances of the Western Regions were bold and unrestrained; calligraphy was measured and exact. Yet within his motions, strength and gentleness intertwined, forming a harmony both foreign and exquisite. While others saw only spectacle, Shen Qiao discerned principle — and from that fleeting insight, a new sword technique was born.
His body rose; the blade descended.
Sword light flowed freely as the winter sun sank behind the treetops. Though life had withered across the land, one man and his sword swept through the stillness like a cleansing wind. At times his movements resembled the supple grace of spring breeze and rain; at others, they carried the firm, transcendent authority of a vajra.
The warmth of spring sun, the clarity of summer moon — all seemed contained within him. The autumn wind whispered, the winter grass concealed, yet nothing beneath his blade was harmed without cause.
Mountains and rivers vast and pure, the surging Jianghan waters — their essence converged as though shaped by heaven itself.
Divine radiance flickered and vanished,
now light, now shadow.
He stood poised like a crane — lithe, composed, prepared for flight yet not departing.
His soul merged with the sword;
the sword became one with his being.
The corporeal world forgotten. The self forgotten.
And within that stillness — clarity.
Around him, trees collapsed one after another, stirred by the invisible sweep of jian qi. From the cold earth beneath his feet, narrow streams of sword energy emerged, shifting between depth and shallowness, length and brevity. Withered leaves drifted in trembling arcs, drawn into unseen currents before ever touching ground.
Then —
The sword tip quivered.
Leaves trembled in silent accord before suddenly shooting forth, piercing three zhang deep into distant trunks — neither exceeding nor falling short.
To infuse true qi into falling petals or drifting leaves to wound an enemy was no rare feat. Yet to wield the sword so that even the leaves themselves became both weapon and shield — this lay beyond ordinary mastery.
The **Shanhe Tongbei Sword** released a low hum, resonating faintly with its wielder's intent. Within that vibration seemed contained boundless landscapes — wind, thunder, and ocean waves. The blade's radiance no longer blazed with harsh brilliance, but glowed softly, restrained and obedient, rising and fading with Shen Qiao's will.
When the technique reached completion, Shen Qiao sheathed his sword and exhaled slowly.
The exhilaration within his chest had yet to settle, yet cold unease stirred deep in his abdomen, leaving him faintly unsteady. He understood the cause: he had glimpsed the realm of jian xin, yet his inner strength remained insufficient. The unleashed jian qi had rebounded against him.
Those who walk the martial path seek only ceaseless ascent. The untalented gaze upward in reverence, yet even the masters themselves see only further summits ahead. How could the dao of martial arts ever possess an end?
The sword dao comprised four realms: jian qi, jian yi, jian xin, and jian shen. To most, jian shen remained the stuff of legend. Aside from the ancient tale of Gan Jiang and Mo Ye, who gave their lives to their blades, few across history had approached such heights.
As for those who had reached jian xin — one need only look across the decades to find but two names: Tao Hongjing and Qi Fengge.
Both had long since passed into history.
Yet Shen Qiao still stood beneath the present heavens.
Gradually calming his breath, Shen Qiao allowed the lingering serenity to fade — and suddenly stiffened.
He had forgotten Yan Wushi at the restaurant.
Realization struck like lightning. Without hesitation, he turned and hastened back toward the city.
Yan Wushi possessed not even a single wen. Should the proprietor demand payment, who could say what might follow — even if the near-harmless Xie Ling disposition held sway?
In moments, Shen Qiao arrived.
Sure enough, several figures had gathered near the second-floor window — the owner among them. At the center sat Yan Wushi, silent and unmoving beneath his mi li. To an unknowing observer, he appeared like a chastened youth, quietly enduring rebuke.
Shen Qiao stepped forward at once.
"My apologies. I was delayed by an urgent matter. How much do I owe? I will settle it immediately."
Relief flooded the proprietor's face.
"Langjun, we are but a humble establishment…"
After resolving the matter, Shen Qiao turned to Yan Wushi with gentle reproach.
"I was careless. Do not be angry. If there is something you desire, I will purchase it for you."
Yan Wushi paused briefly.
"I want another tang ren."
…
What choice did Shen Qiao have but to comply?
Soon they stood once more before the sugar figurine vendor. Smiling knowingly, the man set to work, swiftly shaping delicate forms from molten sweetness. Yan Wushi accepted two without hesitation, biting into one with audible satisfaction.
At the inn, Shen Qiao began to speak of cultivation and healing — only to fall silent.
Yan Wushi had removed his mi li.
One tang ren was already gone. The second — sculpted unmistakably in Shen Qiao's likeness — rested in his hand. Yan Wushi leaned forward, leisurely licking its head, sugar glaze glistening under lamplight.
"…What are you doing?"
Yan Wushi answered without the slightest embarrassment.
"I am somewhat full. This one must be eaten slowly."