Early the next morning, Chu Xiyue was once again summoned to the training grounds by Fei Yue, the spirit of her blade.
Though the training was merciless and she was often knocked to the ground, her resolve never wavered. Each time she stood again—bruised, bloodied, but unbroken—Fei Yue's cold gaze softened just a little more.
"Before we begin again," Fei Yue said, her voice light as she floated midair, "how about a story? An important one."
Chu Xiyue, panting but curious, nodded.
"I am Fei Yue, a demon blade," she began. "Over the centuries, I have had many wielders. But you…" She paused, her tone growing thoughtful. "You remind me of my very first master."
She spun in the air, a shimmer of violet light trailing her form.
"Right now, I'm only in my first form. That means I exist solely within the blade—and only you can see me." She grinned. "Pretty cool, huh?"
Despite her exhaustion, Chu Xiyue chuckled softly.
"If you can keep up with me—and prove your strength and will—I might just show you what I'm truly capable of."
Though teasing, her words carried weight: a test, a vow.
Chu Xiyue looked at her earnestly. "Can you tell me more about your first master? I'm curious about her."
Fei Yue smirked, eyes gleaming playfully. "Oh? Are you feeling insecure, Master? Hehe~"
Chu Xiyue rolled her eyes but smiled. "I just think she must have been amazing."
Fei Yue's smile faded, her tone turning nostalgic.
"Yes… she was."
"Her name was Wan Ruo," she said, eyes gazing into a distant mist only she could see."She wasn't the strongest. But she was the kindest. Unshakable. Born of royal demon blood—yet rejected by her kin. She chose the blade over the throne."
"Why?" Chu Xiyue whispered.
"Because she believed power shouldn't rule. Heart should."
A faint ripple of violet mist shimmered behind Fei Yue, as if memories stirred in response.
"She died young—betrayed by the one she trusted most. But until her final breath, she protected what she believed in. She left me with one wish…"
Fei Yue looked straight into Chu Xiyue's eyes, her voice solemn now.
"To only reveal my final form to someone who shares her will."
"Master… do you think you can become that person?"
"Fei Yue, I swear I will," Chu Xiyue replied, her voice trembling with sincerity. "I may not be ready yet. But please—train me harder. Lead me, just as you once led your first master. If she truly is my ancestor, then I want to be worthy of that legacy."
Fei Yue studied her, then nodded with a soft smile. "Very well. From now on, your training will intensify. You'll face trials that demand everything from you. Are you prepared?"
As her words echoed through the air, a faint glow pulsed from Chu Xiyue's hand. A mark began to form—a sigil of the demon blade. Power surged through her, shifting her aura, transforming her essence. The bond had deepened. Fei Yue had awakened her second form—she could now manifest outside the blade's confines.
"Let's fight together, Fei Yue. But… I'm really tired today. Can we start again tomorrow?" Chu Xiyue said with a sheepish smile.
Fei Yue burst out laughing. "Such a hardworking master~ Fine. Rest for now." She floated down and patted her head teasingly. In that quiet moment, there was only warmth and peace between them.
Elsewhere, Ye Mingzhi arrived at the training ground at dawn, right on time. There, waiting with arms folded and a crooked grin, stood Ye Tianze—his great-great-grandfather.
Without warning, Ye Tianze drew his sword and launched a flurry of strikes at Ye Mingzhi, each aimed with cunning precision toward vital points. Though the movements seemed simple, their subtle danger was overwhelming.
Ye Mingzhi staggered, caught completely off guard.
"You look like a clown," Ye Tianze laughed. "Enjoy the next few days while you still can."
And with that, he vanished, leaving Ye Mingzhi standing on shaking legs.
Left alone, Ye Mingzhi sank into thought. Why had he attacked that way? How could it be blocked? The patterns were deceptively simple—but held depths he hadn't grasped.
The following days continued in the same fashion. Ye Tianze never held back. Each morning, Ye Mingzhi managed to last just one round before being defeated.
By the fifth day, he realized the core problem.
"I've just been mimicking others," he muttered. "Their sword techniques… their styles. None of them are truly mine."
That night, beneath the moonlight, Ye Mingzhi stood alone. He raised his sword and began to move—not with form or technique, but with instinct. He watched the curve of the moon, the ripple of water, listened to the sigh of wind.
And from those elements, something began to take shape.
A style of his own.
Moonwind Style—born of moonlight, water, and the sound of wind. His first original sword technique.