CHAPTER 19

  “Again.”

  Yang Feng paused for the briefest fraction of a breath. Only then did he realize that Leng Wuqing had already stepped to his side at some unknown moment.

  For three days he had swung until he forgot hunger, forgot sleep, forgot even the slow migration of light across stone. He had not heard footsteps approaching. He had not noticed when the distance between them disappeared. His awareness had narrowed to a single axis and the line of his blade.

  Leng Wuqing spoke, her voice even and low.

  “One thousand straight slashes.”

  “Complete them, and you may remain at One-Sword Peak tonight.”

  He did not answer immediately. Instinctively, he glanced around, as if confirming he still stood within the same courtyard. Dusk had fallen. The mountain’s shadow stretched long, and the last light stained the stone edges in muted dark hues.

  He turned slightly toward her.

  He did not dare meet her eyes.

  His gaze stopped only at the hem of her white robes shifting faintly in the wind before he gave a small nod.

  “Yes, Peak Master.”

  The wooden sword rose again.

  This time, he did not concern himself with numbers. Three days beneath fourfold gravity, his spiritual power sealed, had pushed his body past some unseen threshold. Breath, muscle, spine, wrist—everything seemed to have found a single shared balance.

  He stopped counting. There was no need.

  He did not rush to finish.

  Each slash descended straight and even, without deviation of force, without loss of center.

  At some point, the movement ceased to be directed by conscious thought.

  It became reflex, tempered by blood and time. A motion carved into muscle rather than into mind.

  His body remembered what his mind no longer counted.

  The sword rose.

  Fell.

  No thought.

  No hesitation.

  A thousand slashes passed like a single long breath. When his awareness slowly surfaced again, he only knew that he had gone far beyond that number.

  One thousand seven hundred, perhaps more. Enough that even he could no longer distinguish where the count had been left behind.

  Until a voice cut cleanly through the dense stillness of his focus.

  “Enough.”

  It was not loud, yet the space itself seemed to shift.

  “Well done.”

  Yang Feng lifted his head almost by reflex. He had not realized when Leng Wuqing had stepped directly before him, close enough that half a step more would have closed the distance between them.

  For the first time since entering the Heavenly Sword Sect, he heard words of praise directed at him.

  And they came from her.

  He looked up. This time, he did not avert his gaze in time.

  In the fading light of dusk, he caught the faintest curve at the corner of her lips. It was neither clear nor prolonged, yet enough to fracture the cold image he had long engraved in his mind.

  His heartbeat faltered. Just once.

  Then he pressed the feeling down, refusing to let that brief disturbance shake the axis he had only just stabilized.

  “Thank you, Peak Master.”

  The hint of a smile vanished as swiftly as it had appeared. The familiar chill returned to Leng Wuqing’s eyes, and her voice lowered with it.

  “In three weeks, the peaks will hold their inner sect selections.”

  She paused for a breath.

  “Until then, you may remain here and continue refining your Sword Dao.”

  A short silence followed, giving weight to what came next.

  “As a registered disciple.”

  The status was unofficial. It guaranteed nothing.

  It was not a promise of entry into the inner sect.

  Only an opportunity. An opportunity to make up for what he had squandered during his year at the Heavenly Sword Sect.

  Mountain wind moved across the courtyard as darkness slowly gathered. The stone steps leading toward the summit stretched upward in silence.

  Yang Feng tightened his grip slightly on the wooden sword.

  Three weeks.

  Not to prove himself to others.

  But to prove to himself that he was worthy of continuing on the path of the sword.

  Leng Wuqing ascended the next steps without turning back. Her figure gradually separated from the courtyard below, where fourfold gravity continued to operate in quiet constancy, a fixed law of this peak.

  Yang Feng followed behind.

  He said nothing.

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  Neither did she.

  Only the sound of footsteps striking stone, dry and even.

  The moment he stepped onto the first stair beyond the range of the formation that sealed his spiritual power, Spiritual Qi surged into him like a tide breaking against shore. It was not a gentle current seeping inward, but wave after wave crashing directly into his meridians, into the smallest capillaries, pouring down into his dantian and condensing instantly into dense Liquid Qi.

  Full.

  Pressing against its limits.

  The Spiritual Qi here was so concentrated it could almost be felt against the skin.

  His Spiritual Power stirred back to life. The heaviness imposed by the gravity formation below vanished at once, replaced by a strange lightness—not because the pressure had lessened, but because his body had changed.

  Three days beneath four times gravity had altered his foundation.

  Muscle, bone, and Spiritual Power no longer functioned separately. They supported one another, locked along a single axis.

  For the first time, he understood how much he had advanced in only three short days.

  Leng Wuqing stopped midway up the steps, without turning.

  “Yang Feng.”

  Her voice was low, no louder than the wind.

  “The gravity below is fourfold.”

  She paused for a moment.

  “But at the summit of One-Sword Peak.”

  “It is tenfold.”

  No explanation.

  No emphasis.

  She spoke as if stating a fact that had always existed.

  “…Do not be careless.”

  Yang Feng nodded.

  “Yes.”

  He did not add anything further. There was no need.

  Leng Wuqing never exaggerated. Her words were always reality.

  Under tenfold gravity, abundant Spiritual Qi would not necessarily be a blessing. The Origin Qi within him would not grant comfort. It would no longer be training.

  It would be daily life.

  Ahead of him lay another thousand stone steps.

  He once believed these steps were a trial, set to test those who sought entry into the Inner Sect.

  But as he placed each footstep in rhythm with Leng Wuqing’s calm, unhurried pace before him, he finally understood he had been wrong.

  This was not a test.

  It was the daily path of One-Sword Peak, the ordinary rhythm of life within an Inner Sect peak.

  Foundation Realm was merely the qualification to pass through its gate. Once inside, what stood a tier above cultivation was not Spiritual Power, but Martial discipline, the Sword, and the Dao itself.

  Each step was not meant to weed out the weak.

  It was meant to sharpen those qualified to remain.

  After six hundred steps, Yang Feng’s breathing began to change.

  Not from exhaustion, but from the mounting weight as he climbed higher.

  The gravity had not yet reached tenfold, yet it had already surpassed the sensation below the courtyard. Every step demanded tighter control over his body axis. Every lift of his foot required precise coordination between muscle and Spiritual Power.

  He no longer walked like someone climbing.

  He walked like someone recalibrating his entire body to a new law.

  Eight hundred steps.

  The pressure was unmistakable.

  The air felt denser. Spiritual Qi was abundant, yet heavily compressed, forcing the circulation of Spiritual Power to become far more refined. Any crude manipulation would immediately cause backlash within the meridians.

  Nine hundred steps.

  Leng Wuqing continued forward at a steady pace. Not fast. Not slow. She did not turn back. She did not wait.

  Yet neither did she leave him behind. She simply maintained a fixed distance.

  As if the slightest deviation from his axis would cause that distance to stretch beyond reach.

  The final step came into view. The gravity reached the peak’s limit.

  Tenfold.

  The moment his foot touched the flat stone surface of the summit, Yang Feng felt his entire body pressed downward, as if the sky itself had lowered another layer and placed its full weight upon his shoulders.

  It was not sharp pain, but pure mass pressing down on him, heavy, dense, absolute, forcing every muscle fiber to adjust.

  It was not enough to drive him to his knees, yet more than enough to demand that he stand straight. But it was enough to demand that he straighten his spine, lock his axis, and stabilize his breathing if he wished to remain standing.

  He pressed his feet firmly into the stone, aligned his spine with his center of gravity, held his axis, held his rhythm, held straight.

  And he stood firm beneath tenfold gravity.

  Ahead of him, the summit of One-Sword Peak stood clearly beneath the late-night moon. Cold silver light spread across the stone ground, casting the entire space in a tone of stillness and restraint.

  A wide courtyard opened before him.

  Not lavish.

  No grand halls.

  No long corridors lined with lanterns like those in the Outer Sect.

  There was only a flat stone ground for sword practice, its surface worn smooth by countless footsteps and blade arcs over the years.

  Wooden posts were driven deep into the earth, their surfaces darkened by layers of overlapping sword marks. Not one remained unscarred.

  Further beyond lay a small garden. No flowers were planted there, only low pines and scattered bamboo. Their trunks bent slightly before the mountain wind, yet never broke.

  Along the cliffside, Cave Abodes were carved into the mountain face like clean cuts in stone. No wooden doors. No name plaques. Only dark, quiet entrances leading inward.

  The wind atop the peak did not howl, but it was cold enough to make one straighten their back while standing beneath it.

  This place was nothing like the Outer Sect. It was not noisy. It was not ostentatious.

  There was only the sword, and those who lived with it.

  Leng Wuqing stopped.

  “Su Xueni will lead you to your Cave Abode.”

  She tilted her head slightly.

  “From here, you walk on your own.”

  With that, she turned and left toward the Peak Master’s Cave Abode, offering no further instructions, no parting words.

  A figure descended lightly beside him.

  Su Xueni.

  She landed without a sound.

  “Follow me.”

  “I have arranged a Cave Abode for you.”

  Yang Feng bowed slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “Please lead the way, Senior Sister.”

  The two walked along the edge of the practice ground. On the summit, every step carried the weight of tenfold gravity, yet Su Xueni walked as naturally as if upon level ground. Yang Feng asked nothing. He simply maintained his body axis and regulated his Spiritual Power so that each step would not fall out of rhythm.

  The Cave Abodes were spaced along the cliffside, none built too close to another. A measured distance separated each one, preserving the quiet that belonged to its occupant.

  “There are no complicated rules here,” Su Xueni said as she stopped before a simple cave entrance.

  “Keep quiet. Do not disturb others. And if you hear swords in the middle of the night, ignore it.”

  She glanced at him.

  “If you can sleep, sleep. If not, practice your sword.”

  With that, she turned and left, leaving him before the dark entrance.

  Yang Feng finally stepped into his Cave Abode.

  Inside, it was almost empty.

  A stone bed set against the wall. A small wooden table with worn edges. A lone sword rack standing in one corner.

  Nothing else.

  No decorations. No bedding. No warmth that one would associate with rest.

  Only cold, clean air, so still that he could hear the wind slipping faintly through cracks in the stone deep within the mountain.

  He placed the wooden sword on the rack, removed his shoes, and took a long breath.

  Then he slowly lowered himself onto the stone bed.

  He did not dare move quickly. Under tenfold gravity, even a slight misalignment could cause muscular backlash. His body had grown accustomed to the pressure while standing and moving, but lying down was an entirely different state.

  After three days and three nights without sleep, he had finally reached rest.

  At least, that was what he thought.

  Reality was different.

  The moment he shifted and let his back settle against the stone, just one instant of fully relaxing his muscles, his body was forced sharply downward.

  “Ah—”

  It was not pain, but the compression was sudden.

  Tenfold gravity made every part of his body feel pressed into the stone. His chest was compressed, his breathing shortened and heavy. Lying down, which should have been the most natural posture of rest, had become another trial.

  He inhaled.

  Difficult.

  He exhaled.

  Heavy.

  Sleep in this environment?

  Live in this environment?

  A thought passed through his mind.

  This was not a place for rest.

  It was a place to adapt.

  Yang Feng opened his eyes and stared at the cold stone ceiling above. Moonlight filtered through a crack in the rock, casting a faint line of light that divided the darkness in two.

  He did not sit up. He slowly adjusted his breathing instead, not resisting the pressure, not tensing his muscles, but allowing his body to gradually learn how to exist beneath tenfold gravity.

  One breath. Two. Three.

  His breathing grew deeper. Slower. More stable.

  The first night at One-Sword Peak did not begin with sleep.

  It began with learning how to endure.

  And from that night onward, Yang Feng understood that stepping up here did not mean overcoming a trial.

  It only meant beginning a different rhythm of life.

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