Xiuyuan, Year 436 of the Withered Heaven.
The sky above Qingwu Sect was pale and windless. A dull breath of winter lingered beneath the spring sun — not cold enough to sting, but cold enough to remind.
The bell rang three times. Morning drills had ended.
At the far edge of the outer courtyard, where the stone path cracked beneath unpruned roots, Lián Kaifeng stood alone. His sleeves were clean. His hair was tied simply. And in his right hand was nothing.
No sword. No staff. No weapon.
Just callused fingers — the kind that spent ten thousand days gripping the same form.
He stood at ease, watching the young disciples spar. No emotion crossed his face.
"Oi! Blade-Less again?"
A voice — thick with mockery — rang out. A few boys turned, snickering.
Xu Minhao, son of a sect elder, strutted toward Kaifeng, spinning a bronze training saber in his hand.
"How long are you going to watch like some withered tree, Kaifeng? Lost your spine or just never had one?"
Kaifeng blinked. Slowly. He didn't speak.
Minhao laughed, circling him. "Still pretending your 'form' is too sacred to show, huh? One technique — and no one's even seen it. Maybe it doesn't exist."
"Maybe," Kaifeng said.
His voice was soft, like water left sitting in a bowl.
The others were gathering now. New disciples, bored of drills. Their curious eyes made the courtyard feel tighter. One by one, they took sides — not because they cared, but because Minhao was loud and Kaifeng was quiet.
"Let's test it," Minhao said, stepping onto the dueling circle.
"One strike. Show us this legendary form. Or walk away like always."
Still, Kaifeng didn't move.
High on the balcony, the sect instructor Elder Han stopped mid-step. His eyes narrowed.
"Again? That boy's patience will kill him one day…"
Or worse — it wouldn't.
Back in the ring, Minhao was already pacing, tapping the blunt side of his blade on his shoulder.
"Too scared?"
"Or do you need someone to die first like last time?"
That last sentence silenced the crowd. Whispers stirred like dry leaves.
But Kaifeng… blinked again. And breathed in.
One breath. Inhaled deep into the belly.
The kind of breath only trained men took.
Then he stepped forward — not fast, not slow. Just one step.
The moment his foot touched the dueling circle, everything changed.
Not visibly. Not to most.
But Elder Han felt it. The birds quieted. The wind paused.
Kaifeng raised his right hand. Still empty.
And then, with no warning, his body moved.
A single cut.
No blade. Just fingers.
No speed. Just precision.
Minhao's saber was disarmed in one breath — it clanged to the stones, spun twice, and slid to rest at Kaifeng's feet.
Kaifeng didn't pick it up.
He simply turned, bowed slightly, and walked off the circle.
"You blinked," he said, so quietly only Minhao heard.
The crowd didn't cheer. They didn't even speak.
Because no one understood what had happened.
Not even Minhao.
All they knew was that for a brief moment, Kaifeng had moved like the world wasn't real — and now it felt different.
Up on the balcony, Elder Han exhaled.
"He's ready," the old man whispered to himself.
"It begins again."