According to custom, inner disciples were paired in twos to instruct outer disciples. Gu Er had originally planned to pair up with Zhao Yao, but just then, a young man stepped forward quickly and blocked her path.
“Senior Sister, I’d like to be in your group.” The young man’s gaze was calm and unruffled, his voice clear and bright, like a mountain spring.
Gu Er looked up and found it was the purple-robed youth who had been in her team at Lingyou Valley. She was momentarily taken aback, then the corners of her mouth curved upward as she nodded happily. “Sure.”
Gu Er walked patiently over to a disciple. The disciple was diligently practicing his sword technique, but his movements were somewhat stiff.
Gu Er reached out and gently took hold of the disciple’s wrist, saying softly, “You see, the point of force should be here. That way, your strike will be more powerful and your movements more fluid.” As she spoke, she guided the disciple through a slow demonstration, her movements light and graceful. The disciple watched her every move intently, earnestly mimicking her.
On the other side, during a pause in his instruction, Mu Ci’s gaze inadvertently swept toward Gu Er. Seeing her teaching the disciple, his memories were instantly pulled back to the past.
Back then, on Lingyun Peak, the Senior Sister always liked to lazily recline in the trees to rest, sunlight spilling across her face, tracing soft contours.
And he would practice his sword beneath the tree, fully focused.
Whenever he got a move wrong, the Senior Sister would casually pluck a leaf, flick it with her finger, and hit his arm with perfect precision: “Xiao Ci, your posture is wrong here, you need to correct it.”
Mu Ci would always stop immediately, carefully ponder his mistake, then quickly adjust his stance and start practicing again.
When he finished his sword practice and looked up at Senior Sister in the tree, he’d see her fast asleep with a leaf covering her face, peaceful and sweet, a gentle breeze stirring her hair, a scene of quiet beauty.
“Senior Brother, is my form correct like this?” A disciple’s voice cut through, crisp and clear, interrupting Mu Ci’s reverie.
Mu Ci snapped back to the present, a faint smile crossing his face. He apologized and patiently began guiding the disciple.
…
Time was like wind chimes under the eaves, pushed along by the mountain breeze, jingling away several cycles of cold and heat.
The peach blossoms atop Lingxiao Peak bloomed and withered; the sea of clouds gathered and dispersed. Gu Er, too, silently grew taller and stronger as the blossoms fell. The demonic scar on her face had long since vanished without a trace, nurtured by the pure spiritual energy of Lingxiao Peak and the rare medicinal ointments Mu Ci had procured from who-knows-where, leaving behind skin as smooth as jade.
Only occasionally, in the dead of night before a thunderstorm, would she dream vague, fragmented scenes that faded upon waking.
Three years passed in the blink of an eye. Apart from studying at Yingzhao Peak, the rest of her time was spent learning under Mu Ci, from the most basic Lingyun Body-Tempering Art to the qi-guiding meditation methods, and then to Lingxiao Peak’s sword technique, the Nineteen Forms of Flowing Clouds. He taught with tremendous patience, breaking down each move and stance with crystal clarity.
Gu Er studied earnestly, even making astonishingly rapid progress. During one ordinary sparring session, Mu Ci’s bamboo sword thrust diagonally at a clever angle. Before Gu Er’s mind could react, her body moved ahead of her consciousness, her wrist twisted and sank, the blade angled to deflect, dissolving most of the fierce attack with ease.
Mu Ci’s bamboo sword halted abruptly mid-air.
Gu Er was stunned as well. She stared at her own sword hand, utterly bewildered. “Senior Brother, I…”
“It’s nothing.” Mu Ci sheathed his sword quickly, turning away with a slightly larger arc than usual, his tone as flat as ever. “Your footwork was off just now. Sink your center of gravity three more degrees. Continue.” But the knuckles gripping the bamboo sword had, in that instant of turning, tightened until they went white.
Occasionally, Mu Ci would tell her “Old tales”, not sect history, but fragmented pieces, fragments that seemed to belong to some distant afternoon.
For instance, a certain moss at the bottom of the cold pool behind the mountain that only glowed on moonlit nights; or how tea brewed with water from melted first snow tasted best; or how, long ago, a brilliant senior had combined thunder arts with sword intent to forge a unique path…
When he spoke of these things, he often faced the sea of clouds or the moonlight, his tone drifting and distant. At first, Gu Er found it novel, but gradually she began to sense that beneath that icy veil lay a hint of cautious probing and expectation. Yet each time he finished recounting a story from the past, a trace of ineffable loneliness seemed to seep into the cool tea fragrance around him.
What Gu Er didn’t know was that when she practiced her sword alone in the peach grove clearing, or sat in the rocking chair staring blankly at the drifting clouds, a water mirror shimmering with spiritual light in Mu Ci’s quiet chamber often reflected her image. He watched her clumsily repeat her sword forms, and he watched the pure joy that lit up her eyes and brows whenever she happened to catch a butterfly.
…
That day was the unified lecture for new disciples. The instructor, Senior Brother Song Juefei, was a disciple of Fang Zhiran from Chuyun Peak, and his swordsmanship was exceptional.
He demonstrated an advanced sword technique called Wind-Returning Snow Dance. The sword light was a dazzling blur like swirling snowflakes, the footwork intricate as willow catkins in the wind. Many disciples watched, dizzy and furrowing their brows.
“Are there any disciples willing to come forward and demonstrate the first twelve forms?” Song Juefei sheathed his sword and swept his gaze across the crowd, but the field remained silent, no one dared to respond.
Gu Er had been quietly studying the forms as well. Though the sword techniques seemed intricate, their trajectories were unusually clear to her eyes. Suddenly, someone shouted, “Gu Er knows them! Let Gu Er go up!”
Gu Er turned to look and found it was the same person who had called her a waste before. The other party rolled their eyes at her and continued egging her on to go up.
Gu Er stared at them in shock. “Wait, I’ve never wronged this person. Are they insane? Targeting me once, twice…”
Song Juefei glanced over everyone and said, “Then Gu Er, come up.”
Under the gaze of the crowd, she had no choice but to steel herself and walk to the center, taking the ironwood sword. She calmed her mind, steadied her breath, raised the sword in the opening stance, twisted her wrist, shifted her footwork, and let the blade follow her body.
The first three forms were still somewhat stiff and halting, but from the fourth form onward, it was as if a blockage had been cleared, her movements grew increasingly fluid and natural. As the blade cut through the air, a faint, low rumble like wind and thunder began to emanate from it.
It was no longer simple imitation. The sword intent carried a unique, electric sharpness and agility. She stopped, sword lowered, breathing slightly ragged. The entire field fell dead silent, then erupted in a low murmur of disbelief. Even Song Juefei’s eyes showed astonishment.
“It’s just flashy swordplay relying on a thunder spiritual root,” came a voice tinged with sourness, one of the wealthier disciples who usually looked down on others. “Cultivation is the foundation. Junior Sister Gu has been in the sect for three years, and I hear she’s still stuck at mid Qi Refining? That pace, tsk, tsk.”
Gu Er turned around, the flush from sword practice still on her cheeks. She said nothing, merely placed the ironwood sword gently back on the weapon rack. Then, before anyone could react, her figure suddenly moved!
The crowd only saw a flash of red, followed by a dull “thump” and a pained cry. When they looked again, the disciple who had mocked her was doubled over, clutching his stomach, face pale as death.
Gu Er stood three steps in front of him, dusting off her sleeve, which bore no dust at all, her peach-blossom eyes curving into a smile that inexplicably sent a chill down everyone’s spine. “Senior Brother is right, cultivation is the foundation. So during sparring, one should focus on the ‘foundation,’ not the mouth.”
Her movement had been too fast, too clean, barely using any spiritual power, pure combat instinct overwhelming the opponent. The disciple was both humiliated and furious, but too pained to speak.
Mu Ci had somehow appeared at the edge of the field, standing silently beneath an old pine tree, “watching.” In the instant Gu Er moved like a startled hare and struck down her foe in one blow, his brow beneath the ice-white silk lifted almost imperceptibly. Then he turned, his snow-white robes brushing over the scattered pine needles on the ground, and left without a sound, as if he had never been there.
Another spring deepened, and the stream waters warmed. Gu Er was mysteriously dragged by Shen Xun’an and Zhong Daoxue to a remote cold pool at the back of the mountain.
“Gu Er, I heard the silver-scaled spirit whisker fish in this pool, roasted, they’re so fragrant you could swallow your own tongue! The dining hall sells them for a fortune. Let’s grab a couple for a treat, how about it?” Zhong Daoxue blinked, egging her on. Shen Xun’an said nothing but quietly handed over two small fish baskets.
The three girls snuck to the pool’s edge like thieves, slipped off their shoes and socks, rolled up their trousers and sleeves, and stepped into the icy water. At first they were clumsy, splashing everywhere, the silver-scaled fish slipping through their fingers, drawing shrieks and laughter. Gradually they got the hang of it, and clear, crisp laughter rang out, sect rules long forgotten.
Just as Zhong Daoxue nearly pounced on a fat fish, a stern, cold shout came down like a thunderbolt: “Who dares to frolic here and poach spirit fish?!”
The three froze, then slowly turned. Several disciples from the Discipline Hall stood on the bank with stern faces, holding recording jade slips.
All three had only one thought in their minds: “We’re done for.”
When they were “escorted” to the side hall of the Discipline Hall, the three girls were soaking wet, hair plastered to their cheeks, clutching empty fish baskets, looking utterly bedraggled. Shen Xun’an’s small face was pale, Zhong Daoxue’s lips were pressed tight, and Gu Er kept her head down, filled with regret.
The discipline disciple was about to begin questioning them by the rules when the light at the hall’s entrance dimmed, a familiar figure stepped in slowly, his cold, aloof aura seeming to lower the temperature of the room by several degrees.
“Elder Mu Ci!” The discipline disciple hastily bowed.
Mu Ci’s gaze swept indifferently over the three quail-like girls, lingering for a moment on Gu Er’s dripping sleeves and the waterweed clinging to her hair.
“They… they violated sect rules by privately entering the pool to catch fish…” the discipline disciple reported reluctantly.
Mu Ci listened, then said calmly, “Since they are under my Lingxiao Peak, any mistakes they make are mine to discipline. The Discipline Hall need not record this matter.”
The discipline disciple was taken aback, but upon meeting Mu Ci’s gaze, though sightless, it carried a tangible pressure, he could only clasp his hands and say, “Yes, as Elder Mu commands.”
Only then did Mu Ci look at Gu Er and the other two. The girls’ hearts leapt into their throats.
But Mu Ci merely paused for a moment, then withdrew a plain cloth pouch from his sleeve and held it out to Gu Er.
Gu Er took it in confusion. It was slightly heavy in her hand, emitting a faint fragrance of grain.
“Spirit-whisker fish are fond of eating the ground water-jade moss from the bottom of the cold pool.” Mu Ci’s voice remained as unreadable as ever. “Since you like them, using this bait will be far more convenient than catching them by hand.”
With that, he turned and left without another glance at their stunned expressions, leaving only one parting remark: “Don’t let it happen again.”
Only after that white figure had vanished did Zhong Daoxue finally let out a huge breath, clutching her chest. “Martial Uncle Mu Ci actually… didn’t punish us? And he even gave us fish bait?”
Gu Er clutched the pouch of bait, feeling the fine powder’s texture beneath her fingertips, a swirl of mixed emotions churning in her heart.
She suddenly recalled that once, when Mu Ci was recounting “old tales,” he seemed to have mentioned that someone in the past also loved sneaking off to the cold pool behind the mountain, yet always failed to catch any fish due to clumsy technique. It was only later that they learned special bait was needed.
A coincidence?