By the time the disciples of Jingshou Sect reached City, the sun had climbed high over tiled roofs and the streets buzzed with voices. Smiths called from their forges, incense smoke curled from talismans stalls, and every few steps the air shimmered with the faint spiritual hum of unsheathed swords.
They walked in pairs, their clay flowers now tied around their wrists as proof of partnership.
Roulan gasped the moment she saw a stall glittering with blades. "Shijie, look at that one! It's glowing!"
Zhou Qingrong gave the sword a glance. "That's just a minor fire-spirit reacting to the sun."
"Oh," Roulan said, disappointed. "I thought it was destiny."
"Destiny doesn't usually come with a price tag," Qingrong replied dryly, but there was a smile in her voice.
A few stalls away, Han Yuejian stood with Nie Xiaohuan before a long table of silver-handled swords. Han Yuejian spoke quietly, his tone deep and steady.
"A sword chooses its master, but it also tests the heart. If your heart is restless, even the finest blade will dull."
Nie Xiaohuan nodded, tracing his fingers along the sheath. "So one must not seek brilliance, but resonance."
Han Yuejian's lips curved. "Exactly. You've learned well."
Further down the lane, Wei Jingyan and Lin Wuyue paused before a forge draped with talismans. The heat shimmered between them.
"Do you feel it?" Wei Jingyan asked softly.
Lin Wuyue tilted her head. "The spirit energy?"
"Yes. The sword spirits here are half-awake. Each has a temper — some sharp, some patient. Yours will need to be calm enough to listen, yet firm enough to protect."
She hesitated, then nodded earnestly. "Then I'll listen first before I choose."
Wei Jingyan's smile was approving. "Good. That's the Jingshou way."
He let her wander between the stalls while he stayed nearby, arms folded, quietly watching her learn by observation — like a teacher's patience.
And at the far end of the market, under the shade of a tall camphor tree, Ling Xiuyuan and Shen Lianxiu walked side by side.
Ling Xiuyuan stood before a line of long swords displayed on black lacquered racks. His expression was as still as the blades themselves.
Beside him, Shen Lianxiu leaned with both hands behind his back, looking utterly uninterested in the swords — his attention fixed entirely on Xiuyuan.
"The sword," Xiuyuan was saying, "is not a tool. It's an echo of one's own spirit. The stronger your heart, the clearer its song. If your will falters, so will the blade."
Lianxiu nodded solemnly, though not a word of it had reached his ears. He was too busy memorizing the way the afternoon light fell across Xiuyuan's face — the faint shadow beneath his lashes, the composed line of his mouth.
Xiuyuan turned another sword slightly to the side, the reflection of light catching on its edge. "When a cultivator draws his sword, it should never be for vanity, or for pride. Only for purpose. Do you understand?"
"Mn," Lianxiu said immediately.
Xiuyuan looked up at him. "Repeat what I just said."
Lianxiu froze. His grin faltered. "…Something about vanity?"
Xiuyuan exhaled softly through his nose, expression unreadable — a faint crease between his brows that somehow carried more disappointment than anger. His tone remained perfectly calm.
"Shen Lianxiu. If you spent half your attention on learning as you do on staring, your sword would already be legendary."
Lianxiu's ears turned red instantly. "I— I wasn't staring!"
"Then you were asleep?"
Lianxiu pressed his lips together, unable to answer.
Xiuyuan turned away, the edge of his sleeve brushing past as he examined another blade. "Focus. The sword doesn't need your admiration. It needs your discipline."
Behind him, Lianxiu sighed dramatically, then smiled to himself.
For the rest of the market trip, Lianxiu followed a step behind, pretending to study the swords, but his eyes kept straying toward his Shixiong — calm, distant, untouchably graceful.
And if Xiuyuan noticed, he gave no sign.Only when the light began to fade did he finally speak again, voice low, as though addressing both the disciple beside him and the sword spirits that listened in silence.
"Remember this, Shen Lianxiu. A true sword never shouts for attention — but when it sings, the world will listen."
Lianxiu's smile softened."Yes, Shixiong," he said, and meant it — though the song he heard wasn't from any sword at all.
Roulan's fingers absentmindedly traced the carvings on the rail as Zhou Qingrong's voice carried over the quiet of the courtyard. "The art of the sword is not merely in the swing, but in the stillness before it. One must feel the rhythm of one's own breath, the subtle currents in the air… and only then can the sword become an extension of the soul."
Roulan nodded politely.
And then Roulan saw her.
Yunhe, the musician from the festival, was passing through the courtyard. Even from a distance, her presence was impossible to ignore. Tall, graceful, with a calm smile that seemed to quiet the world around her, she moved as if gliding rather than walking. Her robes flowed like water, catching the sunlight in gentle folds.
Roulan's heart stuttered. She barely remembered to breathe.
"Qingrong…" she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "Excuse me for a moment."
Before Qingrong could respond, Roulan was already moving, her steps quick and urgent across the stone paths. Yunhe had not noticed her yet, lost in her own serene rhythm, but to Roulan, it felt as though the world had narrowed to this one figure.
"Yunhe!" Roulan called softly, careful not to startle her. Yunhe's head turned slowly, her calm smile widening just a fraction, eyes meeting Roulan's. In that instant, Roulan felt a dizzying pull, as if time had slowed, and everything else—the poeple, the swords, the distant sounds—faded.
Yunhe's gaze was steady, her presence warm yet distant, and Roulan's feet faltered, caught between awe and the need to close the distance.