The moonlight was so cold.
Simon slowly lowered Mo Yun to the ground, then released his grip.
The swordsman stumbled back a few steps, cold sweat pouring from his forehead and back, soaking his robes, but he was oblivious, his mind still immersed in that fleeting moment.
If his swordsmanship was like a latent dragon emerging from the East Sea's Guixu, then Simon's hand was like the long wind and flowing clouds covering the nine heavens.
The flying dragon, hidden in the mist, was ultimately bound by it.
Profound sword qi surged out, completely unresisted, not even grazing a single hair on his opponent.
Mo Yun probably knew this was because Simon's protective true qi was too thick and solid, completely neutralizing the force of that sword strike.
But when did his palm appear in front of his shoulder?
The swordsman slowly recalled the scene from that instant.
The tip of the sword pressed against the outer garment, the interwoven threads of the fabric forming a small, smooth indentation, on the verge of being torn by the sharp edge.
Then, the palm arrived.
When was it raised?
Was it when he drew his sword? Or when the sword tip became visible?
If the speed of raising his hand was truly so swift, it shouldn't have failed to stir even the slightest breeze.
Could he have kept his hand on his shoulder the entire time? Was this just waiting for a rabbit by a stump?
Memories surged, and a previously overlooked scene gradually emerged in his mind.
It was Simon raising his hand—it was indeed fast, but not to the point of instantaneous arrival.
At that moment, the long sword was still some distance from him, and the perspective was very clear.
But why did he overlook that part of the scene?
He pondered deeply.
Simon smiled and offered an explanation.
"Do you know what you lack?"
"What do I lack?"
"What you lack is a lively spirit. Your sword, like you yourself, though a convergence of essence, qi, and spirit, like a golden bean, is too solitary and direct, only concerned with your inner feelings, neglecting external changes."
Mo Yun remained silent. He hadn't even grasped the true meaning of these words, still trying to understand why his previous sword strike had failed.
"At the last moment, you fell into your old habit again, didn't you? Were you still thinking I was a fool who doesn't understand sword forms?"
Silence was his reply.
"Wielding your sword, you're like a child, dazzled by chaotic sword techniques. The battle situation changes in an instant, but you only focus on your own sword. Against mediocre opponents, it's more than enough, but against a master, even escape is a luxury."
"You're the child!" Mo Yun exclaimed loudly, sounding very unconvinced, "I'll know how to break your grab in no time!"
A tranquil smile appeared on Simon's youthful face, "Alright then, I'll wait for you. Attack when you're ready."
A long silence ensued.
On the hazy white snow, bamboo shadows swayed gently, slender branches intertwining endlessly, tapping against each other, a rhythmic 'thump-thump,' while sparse bamboo leaves shivered slightly in the cold wind, stirring up a gentle, low murmur like waves.
Thin clouds, like a light mist, covered the crescent moon in the sky, and this dim glimmer spread a halo on the veil-like fine clouds, like a half-closed eye, reflecting the myriad lights of human homes below.
Mo Yun lightly drew his sword.
The sword light was clearer than the moonlight.
Between heaven and earth, there was no swordsman, only that sword, like a blooming flower.
The moon was like a jade mirror, the sword like an ice platter.
Illuminating the sun, moon, and stars across the land, defying the cold of the nine provinces beneath the sky.
His swordsmanship, deeply imbued with emotion and scene, was already close to the Dao.
Simon looked at the night sky and smiled freely.
"That's something to see." He didn't know if he was referring to the moonlight or Mo Yun's sword.
Don't think about anything.
Don't think.
Turn the sword, strike the sword, just be fast, faster!
"A thought arises, and one enters the acquired. No thought is thought, no method is method."
He spread his five fingers, and the winds from all directions converged into his palm. Each stream of air was like a spiritual rope, spontaneously binding a wisp of sword light.
Woven strand by strand, forming a net piece by piece.
He pressed down with his palm, and the sword qi was deeply suppressed into the ground.
No matter how unrestrained the sword, it could not escape the torrent of fate, and this palm was destiny.
Mo Yun slumped to the ground, his face almost devoid of color.
"Why?"
"Your sword is completely controlled by your thoughts, and you still have too many distracting thoughts. Such a sword stance is inherently full of flaws, not to mention your deep obsession, making your sword qi chaotic and disordered, unable to advance or retreat properly."
A brilliant sword strike, worthy of being called a classic in a swordsman's life, appeared showy and pale under Simon's sharp critique.
Mo Yun rubbed his face, gathered his spirits, stood up, and bowed deeply, "Please, Master, teach me true swordsmanship."
Swordsmanship.
Simon pondered for a moment.
In his previous life, as an insect, he used a sword-like Nail. His swordsmanship then was honed through countless trials in dreams, and his sword techniques focused on the soul; these were not uncommon in the world of Taiwu martial arts.
Mo Yun did not lack an understanding of swordsmanship.
What he lacked was a victorious heart and an understanding of natural laws.
Every move of Simon's was as natural as the flow of superior affinity, conforming to creation, with heaven and earth as his heart.
Mo Yun's swordsmanship, however, followed the path of the heart replacing the universe, severing thoughts and emotions, but he clearly hadn't reached that level.
"You shouldn't have practiced the Xin Jian Jing (Heart Sword Sutra). It restricts the spiritual energy that has yet to be nurtured within you, like putting a cover over a sapling, forcibly fixing its form. Coupled with the divine will in that broken sword, you are now repeating the path of that swordsman. In the future, you might become another him." Simon walked across the snowy ground, leaving not a single footprint.
"However, there is always a way out. Fortunately, it's a fragmented text and a broken sword. His imprint is shattered, so you might have a chance in the future to break free from the cage."
Simon circled Mo Yun, every word like a knife stabbing into the swordsman's chest.
"Please... teach me."
"Do you want quick success, or slow work?"
"How about quick success?"
"Quick success means going to kill people, treating these people as your distracting thoughts. When your heart is calm, your swordsmanship will be complete."
"And slow work?"
"Admire flowers, play with the moon, compose poems, play the zither. In short, do things you like and forget about the sword."
Mo Yun interrupted, "Forget about the sword? Then how do I kill enemies?"
Simon didn't answer, simply finished his thought, "Either indulge completely, or forget completely. The choice is yours. I'm going back to sleep."
He leisurely returned to Junxian Residence, sat on the couch, and immersed his mind in the Pure Land Pearl.
Three days ago, Shaolin was in an uproar after discovering the Bodhisattva was missing.
Of course, they weren't worried about the Bodhisattva being abducted by human traffickers; they were afraid Simon had been abducted by the Bald Donkeys from another temple.
Those bald monks, with their kind faces and dark hearts, thought only of how to invite the Bodhisattva to their own temple for worship. How sinister!
Zen Master Zixing was so worried he could barely eat.
With Simon nowhere to be found and no news from the Pure Land Pearl, the old monk felt his precious darling had already been tricked away.
"Amitabha! Within five days, this old monk demands news of the Buddha's son! Otherwise, none of you need to return!" The abbot stomped his foot, and the entire Mount Song trembled three times. Several pilgrims lost their balance, falling with a loud thud, shouting, "The earth dragon is turning over!"
"Abbot, please don't let it upset your health," several head monks came to mediate, though what constituted 'upsetting one's health' was unclear. "The Buddha's son's journey is surely to save all sentient beings. We just need to wait peacefully in the temple. As for running errands, we can leave that to the lay disciples."
All the monks nodded in agreement and praise.
The old monk's face brightened upon hearing this, and just as he was about to agree, a voice in his ear said, "If your heart is not pure, how can you comprehend Zen? Stay put, don't come looking for me."
Zen Master Zixing's face suddenly collapsed, like a steamed potato that had been heavily pounded.
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