Simultaneously traversing: traversing countless heavens

Chapter 31 Ambition Higher Than the Sky, Boundless Ambition

Chapter 31 Ambition Higher Than the Sky, Boundless Ambition

Wang Quanbaye stood atop a rusted sword, his golden mask gleaming with a dark luster under the cold moonlight. The mountain wind whipped up the mist from the waterfall, condensing it into fine droplets on his blue and white robes before sliding down the cold, metallic lines.

He looked down at the figure sitting cross-legged below, unable to reconcile the person before him with the legendary swordsman. Three years ago, a dashing figure in a blue robe, with spirited eyes and a gleaming "Lone Peak" sword in his hand, fought tirelessly for seven days on the dueling platform, his sword energy soaring into the sky and tearing through half the sea of ​​clouds—where has that person gone?

It's hard to imagine what could have happened to turn a brilliant swordsman, who once commanded the respect of his peers, into this state: leaning dejectedly against the edge of the pool, his aura as dim as dying embers, with only his empty sleeve telling tales of past tragedies in the night wind.

Wang Quanba's gaze swept over Zhou Yi's empty left sleeve, over the stagnant aura surrounding him, and finally landed on the rock wall covered with palm prints. The palm prints were messy, varying in depth, some even bearing bloodstains—dark marks left from the repeated tearing and healing of the skin and flesh of the palms. He was anxious and forceful, yet had lost the sharp, focused edge characteristic of swordsmanship.

"You've switched to palm techniques?" he asked, his voice coming through the mask, revealing no emotion.

"It's none of your business." Zhou Yi remained seated cross-legged, not even raising his eyes, as if the person who had come was not the young master of a world-renowned royal family, but a wisp of insignificant wind.

Wang Quanba was silent for a moment. For a fleeting instant, he wanted to remove his mask and let this once worthy opponent see the disappointment in his eyes. The sword in his arms seemed to sense its master's disappointment, emitting a barely audible hum.

"Yes, you no longer practice swordsmanship." He repeated, his tone unreadable, whether it was regret or something else. "It has nothing to do with me."

He came with high hopes, but left disappointed. He shook his head, said no more, and his figure, as if pulled by an invisible thread, suddenly rose higher, about to merge into the cold moonlight.

"Wait." A hoarse voice came from behind.

Wang Quanbaye hovered in mid-air, his back to the desolate figure by the pool below: "Is there anything else?"

In the distance, on the churning sea of ​​clouds, the clouds appeared a dark, iron-gray under the moonlight, slowly piling up towards the southern border.

"If you don't want to regret it later," Zhou Yi finally raised his head, his gaze passing through his damp hair to look directly at him. His eyes were complex and unfathomable, filled with weariness, warning, and even a hint of—sympathy? "Then don't do what you've got in mind."

Wang Quanba turned around, his eyes narrowing slightly beneath the mask: "Do you know what I want to do?"

Zhou Yi fell silent and closed his eyes again, as if the words he had just spoken were merely a hallucination brought about by the mountain wind.

Wang Quanba stared at him for a long time. Under the moonlight, the profile of the one-armed man was as hard as a stone sculpture, expressionless, calm, and without even a trace of the sharpness a swordsman should have.

In the end, he transformed into a golden sword light, tearing through the night and disappearing into the southern horizon.

Shenhuo Mountain Villa, Huai River Bamboo Pavilion.

This is a secluded corner behind the mountain villa. In the distance, you can see the mighty Huai River flowing eastward, and nearby are lush green mountains and continuous bamboo groves.

A simple bamboo pavilion is built by the water. A gentle breeze passes through the pavilion, bringing the fresh scent of river water and bamboo leaves, and also fluttering the clothes of the people in the pavilion.

Inside the bamboo pavilion, Dongfang Huaizhu knelt on a futon, a tea set neatly arranged on a low table before her. Today, she wore a light blue, wide-sleeved long dress, the fabric of which was a soft, gauze-like material from Jiangnan, shimmering like water under the lamplight. A single plain white jade hairpin adorned her hair, its tip carved into the shape of a small fire lotus—the emblem of Shenhuo Mountain Manor.

She was preparing tea. Her movements were slow and gentle, as if each step was a ritual: rinsing the teapot, placing the tea leaves, warming the cups, and so on.

High pour, low steeping, then divide the tea. The aroma of the tea rises with the steam, it's this year's newly picked Yunwujian tea, carrying the crisp scent of the mountains.

When Wang Quanbaye landed outside the bamboo pavilion, this was the scene he saw.

He paused for a moment before taking off his mask and walking into the pavilion.

"You're back." Dongfang Huaizhu looked up at him, a faint smile playing on her lips. She pushed a cup of tea toward him. "The temperature is just right."

The tea was emerald green, with wisps of steam rising from it, reflecting her serene and beautiful face.

"Hmm." Wang Quanba sat down opposite her, picked up his teacup and took a sip. The tea was clear, slightly bitter at first, but with a lingering sweet aftertaste.

He finished his drink before speaking, "I went to see a sword I'd long wanted to see. Unfortunately..."

""

"A swordsman who deserves such respect from you..." Dongfang Huaizhu's eyes flickered slightly, the teapot in her hand hovering in mid-air. "Could it be that one from my Southern Territory? Lone Peak Sword, he's not dead?"

""

Wang Quanba nodded and placed the empty cup back on the table.

"He's still alive, but not much different from dead." His voice was somewhat low. "He lost his sword spirit, lost his left arm, and is living in seclusion in a small mountain village. He makes a living by hunting, and even—has switched to practicing palm techniques." At the end, there was still a hint of disbelief and bitterness in his tone.

Dongfang Huaizhu remained silent for a moment before slowly refilling his tea. The sound of flowing water was delicate and clear, especially in the quiet night.

He downed the tea in one gulp. The tea was warm, but it couldn't dispel the inexplicable knot in his chest—not disappointment, but more like a poignant sense of loss for one's kind. What is left of a swordsman who has lost his sword?

"It's been many years." She gazed at the mist floating on the river outside the pavilion, her voice as distant as if telling a dream from a past life. "Back then, I was as young as Qin Lan, and I've forgotten many things. But now I hear from the old folks in the village that my senior brother and my father were close friends despite their age difference, and he used to visit my father in the village often."

"Father was also happy to guide him, amazed by his swordsmanship talent, saying that given time, he would surely carve out a new path for himself in swordsmanship, one that transcends your royal authority. He even said more than once that he wanted to take him as his disciple..."

""

She paused, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the rim of the cup. The white jade cup was warm and smooth to the touch, cool to the touch.

The bamboo pavilion fell silent, with only the sounds of the wind and water.

"I just don't know why," Dongfang Huaizhu frowned slightly, as if trying to recall that blurry scene, "once, the two of them seemed to have a fierce argument in the manor over something. I've never seen my father get so angry at that senior brother, I only remember a sharp and incomparable sword light shooting up from the hall, the sword energy surging and startling the entire manor. Since then, Senior Brother Zhou has never come again. My father also kept quiet about it, only occasionally letting out a long sigh when he leaned against the railing alone."

Wang Quanba listened quietly. He knew Dongfang Guyue's standing among the cultivators of the Southern Territory—not only because of his unparalleled cultivation, but also because of his magnanimity, which showed no prejudice against any particular social class. What kind of person could inspire such admiration and such heartache for a junior?

"Then came the Southern Border Sword Tournament," Dongfang Huaizhu continued, her voice regaining its calm. "Senior Brother Zhou descended the mountain with his sword, overwhelming all rivals with his 'Thirteen Swords of Lone Peak.' Even Senior Brother Jin and several senior masters invited to witness the event admitted they were no match for him. His fame reached its peak, but it was not long before the demonic calamity struck—someone witnessed him fighting to the very end to defend the Lone City, his sword breaking and him dying. After receiving the news, Father," Dongfang Huaizhu's voice lowered, "seemed to have aged considerably overnight, often blaming himself, saying if only he had arrived a moment earlier—"

"This is no fault of the old master," Wang Quanba said in a deep voice. He could imagine how swift and fierce the battle was, and how difficult it was to get reinforcements. "I also heard that after receiving the news, the old master immediately ignited his natal divine fire and spared no effort to rush there, even at the cost of sacrificing his cultivation."

"From Shenhuo Mountain Manor to the Southern Frontier, it's a distance of ten thousand miles, which would take me a whole day even if I traveled at top speed on my sword."

"It was Senior Brother Jin who brought the news after risking his life to break through the encirclement," Dongfang Huaizhu said in a low voice, a complex and unfathomable emotion flashing in her eyes. "At that time, the manor was going through a lot of trouble. Father was in seclusion... Senior Brother Jin was on behalf of our master and was stationed at the front line, but he was ambushed. He fought his way out of the encirclement despite being seriously injured and rushed back to the manor to report the news."

"My father immediately broke through the barrier and headed south without even having time to heal his injuries. But it was too late... By the time he arrived, the twelve cities had been reduced to ashes, and corpses littered the ground. Even though my father fought an earth-shattering battle with the Poison Emperor afterward, the dead could never be brought back."

"Shenhuo Mountain Manor, guarding the southern border, is worthy of the world's respect," Wang Quanba said solemnly. Whether it was the old manor lord Dongfang Guyue, or Jin Renfeng who originally disliked him but risked his life to send a message, or even Zhou Yi who was mistakenly reported to have died in battle, they all deserved this respect.

Dongfang Huaizhu shook her head and said nothing more. She looked up at the pavilion; the outlines of the mountains across the river were blurry and gentle. Further away, in the direction of Shenhuo Mountain Manor, the main peak, "Sunset Peak," stood majestically—that was where her father had secluded himself, and also a forbidden area within the manor; no one except her and her senior brother Jin were allowed to approach.

Silence fell for a moment, the aroma of tea mingling with the twilight.

"After this—are you going to leave again?" Dongfang Huaizhu raised her eyes and looked at him. She knew that he had lofty ambitions and was plotting something with his friends that could shake the entire Dao Alliance.

"The appointed time has arrived, and this time I may be gone for a while." Wang Quanba took her hand. The woman's hand was delicate and slightly cool, with thin calluses on her fingertips from years of playing the zither. He gently stroked the calluses and whispered, "But I will definitely return on the seventh day of the seventh month."

That was the day they became engaged.

"Alright." Dongfang Huaizhu didn't say much, only nodded slightly. "The journey is long and the dangers are unknown. If there's an opportunity—"

Then send me a message, just a few words, to let me know you are well.

"Yes." Wang Quanba nodded again, his promise as weighty as a mountain. "Definitely."

Neither of them spoke again. Wang Quanba pulled her into his arms, and Dongfang Huaizhu leaned quietly on his shoulder, savoring the brief tranquility before their parting. A gentle evening breeze rustled the bamboo shadows, and time flowed slowly amidst the warm aroma of tea. He reached out and gently placed his hand on the back of her hand, which rested on the table, the warmth passing through their skin.

After a long while, Wang Quanba put his mask back on, got up and walked out of the bamboo pavilion.

"Take care of yourself."

He pointed his fingers like a sword, and a dazzling sword light shot up from behind him, transforming into a broad, sharp sword. He stepped onto it, glanced back at the woman in white standing in the pavilion one last time, nodded, and then the sword light whistled, tearing through the twilight and heading straight for the southern horizon, quickly turning into a faint star and disappearing from sight.

Dongfang Huaizhu stood by the bamboo pavilion, gazing in the direction he had left, motionless for a long time. The night breeze ruffled her pale blue robes and stray hairs at her temples. She raised a hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingertips touching the fiery lotus jade hairpin. She wasn't overly worried, for she knew that now, with the sharpness of his sword and the strength of his will, few in the world, human or demon, could threaten his life. However, the concern in her heart wouldn't diminish in the slightest. She lowered her head, her fingertips lightly touching the teacup he had just used, its warmth still lingering.

Spring goes and autumn comes, and the seasons change.

Life in the small mountain village is like the old waterwheel at the village entrance, turning slowly and steadily with a creaking sound. The leaves on the mountain turn yellow and green again, the mountain stream rises and falls, and the villagers work at sunrise and rest at sunset, as if all the changes in the outside world have nothing to do with this place.

Mu Mie has been studying swordsmanship under his master for more than half a year.

His life is now very regular: he gets up before dawn every day, first meditates in the courtyard for an hour according to the cultivation method taught by Yang Yitan, and then, as soon as the east turns white, he carries his bamboo sword and food box up the mountain. The food box was newly made by his mother, made of fine bamboo strips woven tightly, divided into three layers, with a cotton lining at the bottom to keep it warm.

Upon reaching the waterfall, he would first concentrate on contemplating the rusty sword. Initially, it took the time it takes for an incense stick to burn to "see" the illusory figure, but now, with just a moment's rest of his eyes, the figure would clearly appear as a blurry outline of a man. His face was indistinct, but his posture was as upright as a pine tree, and the sword in his hand shone with a certain aloof charm in every move.

Mu Mie then followed along and practiced. Starting from the most basic starting stance, he can now perform three complete sword moves. Although he only resembles them in form and has not yet grasped their essence, the bamboo sword can already create a sharp whistling sound when it cuts through the air, and occasionally the tip of the sword can cleanly slice off a patch of wild grass by the pool.

In the afternoon, he would rest for a while and eat lunch prepared by Uncle Zhou. The meals were always plentiful: sometimes it was braised pork with rice and stir-fried seasonal vegetables, sometimes it was braised wild rabbit with mushroom soup, and occasionally there were wild fruits picked from the deep mountains, sweet and sour and refreshing. Uncle Zhou's cooking skills were excellent; he could make extraordinary flavors from simple ingredients.

After lunch, he would continue practicing his sword until the sun began to set, at which point he would sheathe his sword and descend the mountain. Back home, he would first study and practice calligraphy. Although his mother never interfered with his cultivation, she was very strict about his studies, ensuring he had daily lessons in the Four Books and Five Classics, poetry, and prose. Mu Mie was exceptionally intelligent, possessing a photographic memory, and always managed to finish his lessons early.

After finishing his studies, if it was still early, he would sneak off to the old locust tree at the village entrance to listen to the wandering Taoist priests tell stories.

This was one of his few pastimes. The Taoist's banner, proclaiming "One Bite of the World," still stood under the tree, exposed to sun and rain, its edges worn and frayed. He wasn't the only storyteller; sometimes it was an elderly man with white hair and beard, sometimes a middle-aged man with a weathered face. The stories were varied: legends of Taoist heroes slaying demons, secrets of grudges and feuds among powerful families, and strange tales from the streets and alleys.

Mu Mie loved listening to stories about cultivators. He longed for the supernatural powers of flying through the air and traveling thousands of miles on a sword, and for the chivalrous life of wandering the world with a sword, experiencing both joy and sorrow. But whenever he listened so intently that he casually mentioned it to his mother after returning home, she would fall silent, her eyes lowered, and remain speechless for a long time.

Mu Mie dared not mention it again. He only listened secretly, suppressing those longings deep in his heart, like hiding a burning ember.

But since when did the faces of the heroes in the stories seem to become increasingly blurred? Those once-shining names have gradually been covered in dust.

until that day.

It was a gloomy afternoon, with a mountain rain looming. There were far fewer villagers gathered under the ancient locust tree than usual; everyone was in a hurry to collect the drying grain and close the doors and windows. Mu Mie, however, was still squatting at the front, head tilted back, waiting for the gavel to sound under the tattered flag.

The Taoist priest who arrived was a stranger, about forty years old, with a gaunt face and deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He didn't start with auspicious words as usual, but silently glanced at the sparse audience, and then slammed his gavel down heavily.

The sound was dull, like a blow to the heart.

"Today..." the Taoist priest began, his voice hoarse, "I will not speak of heroes, but of a sudden turn of events."

"The former master of Shenhuo Mountain Manor, Dongfang Guyue..." The Taoist paused, his throat bobbing, "...died three months ago."

A murmur rippled through the surrounding villagers. Several elderly people dropped their palm-leaf fans, but no one bothered to pick them up. The old master of Shenhuo Mountain Manor was the pillar of strength that had protected the southern border for decades, a god in the hearts of countless people. How could he be dead? How could he possibly be dead?

Mu Mie listened intently, feeling a buzzing in his ears.

This distant and revered name suddenly crashed into his world in a cruel way.

The Taoist continued, his voice dry as if grinding sandpaper: "The old master died during his seclusion... when he suffered a qi deviation, his meridians were severed, and he passed on the position of master to his eldest disciple, Jin Renfeng.

The murmurs among the crowd grew louder. Some questioned, some sighed, and some looked worried. Although Jin Renfeng was the old master's first disciple and possessed profound cultivation, he was arrogant and far less kind and gentle than the old master.

After the Taoist priest and the others had quieted down for a while, he slowly uttered his last sentence, his voice so soft it was almost carried away by the wind: "There is also news that... the eldest son of the Wangquan family has married Jin Renfeng's cousin, Chu Ri Huaizhu... as his concubine."

Mu Mie listened, stunned. He felt the events were somewhat sudden. A hero's twilight.

The raindrops finally began to fall, first a drop or two, then quickly forming fine lines. The villagers scattered and fled, seeking refuge in their homes. The Taoist priest put away his flag, silently turned and left, his figure appearing particularly desolate in the rain.

Mu Mie remained squatting in the same spot, letting the rain soak his hair and clothes. Until a hand gently pressed on his shoulder.

He looked up and saw that his mother had arrived at some point, holding an oil-paper umbrella and standing quietly behind him. The umbrella was tilted, completely shielding him from the rain, which trickled down the ribs and left dark watermarks on her shoulders.

"Let's go home," Yang Yan said softly, her face expressionless, but something heavy weighed on her eyes, like a thousand-pound burden. She felt sorry for the Dongfang family.

When I got home, my mother sat by the window, her back to the door, motionless. Dusk seeped in from outside, casting her silhouette in a hazy gray, as thin as a fragile piece of paper, as if it would shatter at the slightest touch.

"Mother?" Mu Mie called softly.

There was no response. The rain outside the window pattered softly, hitting the eaves and leaves with a dense yet hollow sound.

Mu Mie stood there for a while, then silently turned around and went to the other side.

A strong smell of alcohol wafted from Uncle Zhou's room; I had never seen Uncle Zhou drink before. The pungent aroma permeated the entire room, mixed with an indescribable bitterness.

The table was empty; there was no dinner. Uncle Zhou sat at the table, holding a rough earthenware wine jar, which was already half empty. Without a penny to his name, he sat in the deep darkness, his eyes fixed on the dark mountain shadows outside the window. Rain dripped through the torn window paper, wetting the corner of the table and forming a small puddle.

Yi drank very slowly, sip by sip, not as if he were savoring wine, but as if he were swallowing something difficult to swallow. With each swallow, his Adam's apple would bob violently, and his jawline would be taut.

Mu Mie stood at the doorway, rain dripping from his soaked clothes, staining the ground with a small, dark patch. Yi didn't know whether to go in or back, and just stared blankly at the man who was usually as silent as a mountain, but now seemed unusually vulnerable.

"Let's go in," Zhou Yi finally spoke, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper were grinding against iron.

Mu Mie moved in and sat down opposite Yi. Uncle Zhou pushed over an oil paper package containing several cold buns, the skin of which had hardened.

Mu Mie took a steamed bun and nibbled on it slowly. The bun was made by her mother, filled with cabbage and pork, and was so salty it tasted bitter, mixed with the smell of rainwater and dust, making it hard to swallow. But Yi still ate slowly, her eyes fixed on Uncle Zhou.

Uncle Zhou took a swig of wine. The liquid dripped from the corner of his mouth, and several empty wine jars lay scattered around his bow. Yi was drunk, terribly drunk, his body hunched over, the empty arm hanging limply from its severed position. He lowered his head, his throat beginning to murmur a few names, broken, indistinct, like a dream, like a curse.

Mu Mie strained his ears and could only vaguely make out a few words: "Brother Dongfang," "Jin Renfeng," "Zong Yi," "Linbu," "I should stay"... and a suppressed sob, like a wounded beast whimpering from deep in its throat, short and painful, which was quickly drowned out by the wine.

His voice was filled with pain and regret that Mu Mie had never heard before, as well as a deep-seated helplessness.

Mu Mieyang chewed on his food, staring blankly at Yi.

Do we know each other? What is the relationship between Uncle Zhou, who is always taciturn and solitary, and those people in those distant stories? Why is he so sad?

Mu Mie suddenly understood. Uncle Zhou, like his mother, carried a very heavy burden in his heart, so heavy that he could only keep it to himself in silence. Only in a corner where no one could see, would it shatter like this. Just like how his mother would sometimes secretly go up the mountain in the middle of the night and sit in front of his father's grave all night long. Sometimes, he would secretly follow her, hiding behind a tree, and see his mother kneeling in front of the grave, her shoulders trembling, but without making a sound—she was silently grieving. Before dawn, she would wipe away her tears, straighten her clothes, and calmly descend the mountain, as if nothing had happened.

The moonlight was cold that night. Mu Mie kept Zhou Yi company until very late. The rain stopped, and moonlight peeked through the clouds, shining into the broken window and casting pale patches of light on the ground. Uncle Zhou finally passed out drunk, slumped over the table, still clutching an empty wine jar in his hand. Mu Mie struggled to help Qi to bed, covered him with a thin blanket, and then tidied up the mess on the table.

As she left, Yi glanced back. In the moonlight, Uncle Zhou lay on his side on the bed, his brows furrowed, his empty right arm drooping over the edge of the bed, swaying gently with his breath, like a shattered dream.

After that day, Uncle Zhou seemed to return to his usual self. Yi still prepared breakfast and lunch for Mu Mie, and the meals were still plentiful and delicious. When Mu Mie went up the mountain, Yi would lie on the bamboo chair in the yard, close her eyes to rest, or gaze at the distant mountains in a daze.

Mu Mie noticed, however, that a lingering shadow had appeared in Uncle Zhou's eyes, like a perpetual fog. Qi had also stopped cultivating—at least Mu Mie hadn't seen Qi meditate again. Most of the day, Yi lay on a bamboo chair, a wine jar always beside him; he didn't drink much, but he was constantly drinking.

He never looked at the rusty sword stuck by the waterfall again.

Mu Mie continued to practice his swordsmanship on the mountain every day as usual. Qi vaguely felt that Uncle Zhou's changes were related to the changes in those stories, and to the names he uttered when drunk. But Qi dared not ask, and could only suppress his doubts in his heart, focusing more on his swordsmanship.

Perhaps when I am strong enough, I will understand these things and be able to help. With this thought in mind, Yi wielded her bamboo sword even more diligently.

That morning, the mountain mist had not yet dissipated.

Carrying a bamboo sword and carrying a food box, Mu Mie walked along the familiar path towards the waterfall. Dew dampened his trousers, and a chill seeped into his clothes through the fabric. The forest was quiet, save for the birdsong and the sound of his own footsteps.

When they reached the halfway point of the mountain, they suddenly smelled a burnt smell.

It wasn't the pleasant scent of burning grass and trees, but rather the bitter smell of burnt food, mixed with the dampness of earth and rain. He frowned and followed the smell.

In a sheltered mountain hollow, Yi spotted a small campfire.

The fire was almost out, with only a few wisps of smoke rising. A child squatted beside the fire, frantically rummaging through something with a twig. She was about the same age as the boy, her clothes tattered and covered in mud and bits of grass. Her face was so dirty that her original skin color was almost unrecognizable, except for her strikingly bright eyes. She was squatting in front of a small stove hastily built with a few stones, frantically trying to roast two sweet potatoes that were clearly freshly dug and still covered in mud. The smoke and flames made her eyes water, and her face was streaked with black ash.

Mu Mie had never seen her before and thought she was a lost child from the village who had wandered here.

"Whose child are you?" Mu Mieyang asked from a distance.

The woman was startled, and the twig she was holding, skewering roasted sweet potatoes, fell into the fire with a "thud," scattering a few sparks. She lurched like a startled rabbit, turning and darting into the nearby bushes, her movements so swift that only a blur remained. All that remained was the half-extinguished fire and two half-cooked sweet potatoes.

Mu Mie stood there for a while. The mountain wind blew by, carrying an even stronger smell of burning. Yi walked closer to the fire and poked at the sweet potato with a branch; it had been roasted to a crisp and was completely inedible.

After a while, there was a rustling sound in the grass nearby. A small head covered with grass and dirt poked out, watching Yi warily.

"Who are you?" she asked in a soft voice, her voice trembling noticeably with defensiveness.

"My name is Mu Mie." Mu Yi pointed to the way they came. "Follow this path and you'll get back to the village. Did you get lost while playing in the mountains?"

Seeing that the other party didn't speak, but just stared intently at Yi, his body tense, ready to escape again at any moment.

Seeing that she could run and jump, and didn't seem injured or sick, Mu Mie shook his head and said no more to her. Occasionally, children from neighboring villages would run into the mountains to play, and it wasn't uncommon for them to get lost; most of the time, they could find their way back on their own.

Yi continued walking towards the waterfall.

She hadn't gone far when she noticed the careful, persistent footsteps behind her, the faint sound of the strings being plucked from the bushes. She had been following them.

The sound followed the sound as the boat sailed down the ocean. As the boat moved, the sound followed.

He simply turned around and faced the empty mountain path: "I'm going to practice my sword. What are you doing following me?"

The grass was silent, offering no response. Only when the mountain wind blew did the blades of grass rustle and sway.

Mu Mie pursed his lips, ignoring it and letting the little "tail" trail behind. When they reached the waterfall, Yi put down the food box, drew his bamboo sword, and, as usual, focused his mind on the rusty sword.

Soon, Xu Ren's figure appeared. Today's figure seemed somewhat different; his swordplay was faster and more urgent than usual, the sword light carrying a suppressed sharpness, like a caged beast charging in its cage. Mu Mie sensed this and followed suit, wielding his bamboo sword with each move, his footwork perfect, unknowingly immersing himself in the sword's intent.

After an unknown amount of time, a feeling of hunger arose in his stomach, so Yi Muyang rested down.

Sitting on a rock by the water, I opened the food box. It was a three-tiered box; the top layer contained glistening white rice, the middle layer contained glistening pork ribs and tender green vegetables, and the bottom layer contained warm chicken soup wrapped in a cotton cover. When I lifted the lid, steam rushed out and the aroma filled the air.

The aroma wafting from the opened food box seemed to have a magical quality.

Behind them, in the hidden patch of grass, the commotion grew noticeably louder. First came the faint sound of swallowing saliva, followed by a clear yet suppressed gurgling sound from a stomach.

Mu Mie paused, but without turning around, asked as if addressing thin air, "Do you want to eat?"

The grass remained silent, except for the louder rumbling of the stomach, which sounded embarrassed.

Mu Mie stopped talking, picked up his bowl and chopsticks, and quietly ate his half. He ate very slowly and carefully. After finishing, he left the remaining food in the food box, left the lid ajar, and placed it in a conspicuous spot on the rock. Then, as if nothing had happened, he picked up his bamboo sword, walked back to the waterfall, and continued practicing intently, deliberately leaving his back to the waterfall.

After a while, a very faint rustling sound came from the rocky area. A small, dirty figure, crouching low, darted to the rock with lightning speed, grabbed the food box, and quickly retreated to another nearby hiding place. Then, a series of almost wolfish, almost silent, rapid chewing sounds followed. She ate quickly and hurriedly, yet maintained a kind of animalistic vigilance, watching the figure practicing swordsmanship through the gaps in the grass as she ate.

With undivided attention, Mu Mie wielded his bamboo sword, the sound of it slicing through the air echoing like a chant, each move seemingly unnoticed.

As the sun dips westward, a warm, orange-red light spreads across the sky.

Mu Mie stopped his movements and exhaled a long breath. Qi walked back to the rock and tidied up the empty food box, which had been licked clean and was almost unwashable. Qi didn't look at the hiding place, but said as if to himself, "I'm going back. Tomorrow—I'll be in trouble again."

After saying this, Yi carried the bamboo sword and food box on his back, and went down the mountain along the way he came, never looking back.

Until Qi's figure completely disappeared at the end of the winding mountain road, and even the sound of his footsteps could no longer be heard, the quiet grass no longer swayed.

A small figure emerged, her steps unsteady. She slowly made her way to the edge of the pool, knelt on the pebbles, and stared blankly at her reflection in the water. A dirty little face—her hair was dry and tangled, covered with bits of grass and mud; her face was streaked with black ash and tear stains; her lips were cracked and chapped, with grease stains at the corners; her clothes were tattered, the cuffs and trousers worn into fringes, emitting the sour smell of sweat and dirt.

She reached out her trembling hand, wanting to scoop up water to wash her face, but stopped abruptly the moment her fingertips touched the water's surface. She just stared blankly at her reflection in the water for a very long time.

The water rippled, shattering the reflection.

Large teardrops rolled down the ground without warning, splashing into the pool and creating tiny ripples.

"Sister—" she finally uttered, her voice extremely hoarse, filled with suppressed emotion and a heavy nasal tone, "I'm an idiot—I'm so stupid—I can't even read a map—I've been looking for so long—I can't find it—I can't find Yi—"

Her sobs were soft and broken, like the whimpers of a wounded animal deep in a cave. Even in the depths of the mountains, with no one around, she dared only to weep softly, as if she didn't even have the right to cry out loud, as if raising her voice would attract something terrible.

After an unknown amount of time, she grew tired, curled up on the rock, and drifted off to sleep. Her small body was huddled together, trembling slightly in the night wind, her hands tightly clutching the tattered bag she carried—her belongings.

The mountain breeze of the autumn night carried a chill, and she subconsciously shrank back toward the silent, rusty sword stuck in the boulder not far away.

The cool moonlight spilled onto the deep pool beneath the waterfall, also enveloping the two objects, one large and one small. The silent, rusty sword, under the moonlight, seemed to shimmer with a faint glow, standing silently like a silent barrier, subtly separating the chill of the night wind and the solitude of the deep mountains, sheltering the lonely figure restless and sleepless on the rock.

Chapter 1, 8600 words.

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