The practice had grown more intense. Each day, Wenli found herself using more strength—and oddly enough, gaining even more power from it. It was a strange contradiction: the more she poured herself out, the more she was filled.
She was drenched in sweat after one exhausting meditation when she asked eagerly, "So, what's next? I've spent weeks learning how to control my energy, how to walk soundlessly like a shadow. There must be something more... right?"
Wu Jian gave her a long, unreadable look. "You're getting ahead of yourself."
Wenli pouted, shoulders falling a little. "But I've learnt a lot already."
And she had.
She could now walk without making a sound, sneaking up behind even the sharpest-eared disciples. She could form fireballs from her palm with a flick of her wrist, detect a presence within a ten-meter radius, and even sense lies by reading the pulse and energy fluctuations of others. That one, she found most useful—especially since her master said sly foxes usually smiled the widest.
At first, Wenli had found those lessons odd. Wasn't cultivation all about glowing swords, flying through clouds, and fighting off demon beasts? But Master Wu insisted on these "less flashy" disciplines—emotional control, reading intent, strategic silence.
"If your father had trained himself this way," Wu Jian once said, "he would've seen through that 'best friend' of his long before the betrayal."
That shut Wenli up.
Wu Jian didn't want Wenli to display power yet. She wanted the world to believe her disciple was fragile—unthreatening, forgettable. "You'll rise when they least expect it," she had said. "That's how queens are born. That's how flames consume palaces."
And today... today was the day she would hold a sword.
"We're learning swordsmanship," Master Wu announced.
"What?!" Wenli blinked, then squealed before catching herself. "I mean—yes, Master." She coughed, forcing calm over her delight.
"Don't get too excited," Wu Jian warned. "You're about to learn the most difficult swordsmanship in all twelve clans of Xiamù."
"Wait—Xiamù?" Wenli muttered. "So that's the name of this place..." She'd lived in this world for weeks now and still hadn't figured out what land or century she was in. She only knew that she was a Chinese psychologist who'd transmigrated into a bizarre Xianxia world because… well, maybe Heaven thought it was hilarious.
And yet, even here, she didn't know who killed her or why. Only that he was young. Powerful. A prodigy. And that his name sounded more like a broken password than a person's name.
"So," she muttered, "I transmigrated from modern stress to magical stress. Figures."
But she couldn't complain—not too much. If Heaven helped those who helped themselves, then she had better get to helping. Her nanny always said, "When in Rome, behave like the Romans." And even though this place was definitely not Rome, the philosophy applied.
"What do you mean 'most difficult'? Are there... levels?" Wenli asked, straightening.
"Seven levels," Wu Jian said calmly. "Only a few warriors in the twelve clans can even grasp one or two. Judging from your pace, you're qualified to learn the three lesser swords."
Wenli frowned. "How's that progress? That just means I'm average."
Wu Jian didn't respond to the sarcasm. Instead, she raised her hand—and in a flicker of light, a gleaming sword appeared in her palm.
Wenli's breath caught.
It was unlike anything she'd ever seen. The hilt was wrapped in deep sapphire silk, the blade long and glowing faintly with a pale light. The edges pulsed gently, like they were breathing. When Master Wu unsheathed it, the spiritual pressure in the clearing spiked. Even the leaves on the trees paused mid-sway, as if afraid.
"This is Zudan," Wu Jian said simply.
Wenli blinked. Why Zudan? Why not Susan or Shirley or even Bladey McSwordface? The naming convention in this world was something else.
As if Wu Jian could hear her inner sarcasm, she sheathed the sword with an audible snap. "You're not touching her until you prove you're worth it."
Wenli gulped.
"The first sword art is called Shiãchi," Wu Jian said. "It's the foundation. All about aiming and focus—how to strike without wasting energy, how to kill with precision and not chaos."
Then, without warning, she moved.
Her stance was fluid, yet sharp. Every slash cut through the air with a sharp whistle, each step calculated like choreography, as if even her heartbeat was timed to the blade. She twisted her grip mid-spin, the blade reversing to face inward—a style that disarmed without killing, but could shift to lethal if needed.
When she stopped, Wenli forgot to breathe.
"Did you get all that?" Wu Jian asked, her face untouched by sweat, eyes glinting with quiet power.
"I... um... I was admiring," Wenli said sheepishly.
"Admiration is for lovers who want nothing but dreams," Wu Jian said coldly. "Love and learn—so you can defend both."
"I apologize," Wenli began, but was instantly cut off.
"Apologies are for those who expect mercy. Learn first. Regret later."
Wenli blinked. What kind of temper is this? she thought—and then yelped as a firm hand yanked her hair.
"Ouch! Master!" she cried, grabbing both her scalp and chest.
"You're drifting again," Wu Jian snapped. "Should I leave you to master Shiãchi alone? It only took you three days to summon your spirit beast—I can imagine you'll need three years for this."
"That hurts," Wenli muttered, gently patting her tangled hair. "You always manage to defeat me before I even start."
Wu Jian shot her a look that said Pick up that sword or I'll make you eat it.
"Okay, okay! No need to murder me with your eyes!" Wenli groaned.
She walked to where her own training sword lay, picked it up, and swung it through the air, mimicking the speed and angle she remembered. But her form wobbled. Her stance wasn't grounded. And her grip was too tight.
Still, she tried again. And again.
"Loosen your wrist," Wu Jian said from the side. "Let the blade breathe. You don't control the sword. You guide it."
Wenli closed her eyes, taking in her master's words. She swung again—this time smoother. The sword whispered through the air, and she felt something shift inside her.
A warmth.
A flicker.
A tiny bloom of flame at her fingertips.
They trained until stars scattered across the sky.
When Wenli finally dropped to her knees, exhausted but smiling, Wu Jian stood still, watching her silently.
"You've barely begun," she said.
"I know," Wenli panted. "But this... this I like. I feel like... I'm becoming someone new."
Wu Jian didn't respond right away. Then she said, "You're becoming who you were always meant to be."
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Wenli didn't want to leave just yet.
Not until she could wield a sword that made empires tremble.
Not until she could find the Purple Phoenix.
Not until she could reclaim her destiny—in this life or the next.