Year 658 of the Stable Era,
Twentieth day of the tenth month
A bit before Noon
“Again.”
Gao Oma sucked in another breath of qi as she forced her arms up for what felt like the thousandth time. Her lungs burned with exertion, dantian straining from overuse. She repositioned her feet as her sword swiveled into place, taking a quick step back before lunging forwards for another strike.
Shoulders forwards. Eyes ahead. Waist low. Front knee bent. Back leg straight, but not too straight. Grip firm, but not too tight. Wrists flexible with minimal rigidity. Blade curving to the side during the last thirteen twenty-fourths of the swing. Putting her strength into the blow, but at the same time allowing the sword to guide her.
“Hyaah!” she cried, qi bursting as she committed everything to the swing. Her blade carved a glistening arc of silver, carrying all of her seniors’ advice with it. She halted her blade at the end of its swing, holding it in the position for four long breaths before her form collapsed and she fell to her knees.
“Is… is that good enough…senior?” Oma asked, turning towards her senior, taking deep breaths as she steadied herself.
Senior Baikun Feng stood firm, dark eyes unwavering behind his glasses as he took a long moment to consider his answer. His jian rose and fell in another repetition of the strike, before he arrived at his answer.
It was a beautiful weapon. A simple steel blade and a narrow copper hilt, bereft of all ornamentation, but well maintained with a level of care born from centuries of diligence. As sharp and austere as its wielder.
“It demonstrated sufficient progress,” he finally said, in a voice as even as a teahouse server discussing the weather. If you hadn’t spent the last four hours with him, you would have never been able to tell that he had been the one leading her through this grueling routine, as he looked no different now than when he started.
“It was better than your 363rd swing, although your 452nd swing better captured the downwards pressure of the strike. You are making good progress. In another few strikes you will have it.”
“I-I thought that you said that we- would-would stop after we reached 500,” she said panting.
“I see,” Senior Feng replied, taking a long blink. As ever, Gao Oma waited in the hopes that he would say something else, but his only continuance was with his routine.
“I… just need a bit of a break first,” she eventually said, taking in a calming breath of the mountain’s qi. Her hair had come loose again, and as she brushed strands of long, straw-colored hair to the side, she glanced over at her senior again. Not a single short black hair out of place. Everything exactly the way it had been when they had started.
She was jealous of his control. She’d already snapped three ribbons with imprecise releases of her qi, and she was about to run out of spares.
“I see,” Senior Feng replied again, timing his reply with the exhalation of the fifth step of his form. Oma admired his focus. It was as well-honed as his blade, straight and unwaveringly forwards, bereft of even the slightest deviation.
It reminded her of Shifu Yeung Lin, in a way, even though the two couldn’t be more different in almost every other regard.
Sure, Shifu sometimes had that same intense focus to him, like whenever an inspiration struck him. In those moments he’d just stare into the middle distance with a smoldering intensity, before rapidly recording his thoughts into his ever-present notebook.
But when he wasn’t being struck by revelations, he was normal. Willing to listen to a student’s troubles and offer words of advice when necessary. Her seniors in the Sword Intent Club on the other hand? Well, normal had been the furthest thing from her mind when she thought about them.
They certainly hadn’t been what she’d expected when Shifu Yeung Lin had recommended that she give the club a try.
“You have a talent for the blade,” he had said, as if manifesting sword intent once qualified as talent.
And sure, Oma liked swords. Who didn’t?
The way their blades shone, the way they cut through the air, their subtle elegance of form… When one thought about cultivation, who could do so without swords coming to mind? She’d grown up on tales of swords and cultivators, listening to the tales of their adventures told by every trader and traveler to pass through her tiny village. But her knowledge of the subject paled in comparison to her six Seniors.
To compare her passion to theirs was to compare a spark to an inferno. Their knowledge, a teacup to the ocean.
Every waking moment they sought to study the blade, driven by dedication and passion that she felt unworthy of even being in the presence of.
At first she’d tried to match them, to prove that she could walk the path of the sword with them, but like chipped edge against a grindstone, she had soon been corrected of her error.
She was a mere sword enthusiast. The Sword Intent Club were true swordsmen.
If there was an extra second to be found in a day, they would find a way to use it to better their understanding of the blade. Her fascination with swords just couldn’t compare, as everything they did revolved around the study of the blade. They practically ate and breathed swords. And she knew for a fact that if there was even the slightest chance that a technique would allow them to actually do either of those things they would try it in a heartbeat. She was positive that some of them lived in the building, neglecting any form of lesson or instruction in favor of continued self-study.
As Senior Feng continued his exercise, Oma dragged herself over the well-worn stone of the training ground to the bench where she’d left her spatial pouch. Anywhere else this would have been an utterly inconceivable idea, as such an action was inviting theft, but she was confident that none of her fellow seniors cared enough to bother robbing her.
They’d all inspected her sword the day that she’d joined the club, and that was the only possession she owned that they were even remotely interested in.
Senior Li Zhan had taken a seat on the bench sometime between the start and end of her training with Senior Feng. The tall cultivator sat there in silence, sharpening his sword of the day, eyes unwavering as he moved his whetstone in smooth, even motions. The blade gleamed a dull silver in the light of the courtyard, nebulous patterns shifting beneath the slurry of whetstone paste from the alloy of cloudsteel and Thunder Mountain silver that he used in his blades.
His routine would never cease to amaze Oma. While Senior Feng was dedicated to mastering his current sword, refusing to even entertain a joke that he might change it up every once in a while for variety’s sake, Senior Zhan was dedicated to the creation of the perfect blade.
As regularly as the sun followed the moon, Senior Li Zhan would arrive at the clubroom for the Sword Intent Club each morning with a newly forged blade, identical to the last in nearly every aspect. He would spend the morning sharpening it on a series of whetstones, the afternoon practicing forms with it, and the evening sparring with the other members before retiring it to his room forever.
Oma had never been able to get a look inside, but she imagined that it must resemble a warehouse, stacked to the brim with identical swords that would never again see the light of day.
“The new blade looks nice,” she said, producing a gourd of water from her pouch before opening it with her teeth. After a long, refreshing drink and sheathing her sword, she risked another comment. “Did you make this one thicker? I noticed that there’s less space between the edge of the blade and the hilt compared to the last one.”
Li Zhan brightened at her words, looking up from his work with a spark of excitement in his eye.
“You are correct. I widened the blade a hair’s breadth from yesterday’s design. I wanted to test the way that the changes to the center of gravity would effect its balance, and the length has only changed by two hairs’ lengths as a result, so while the reach has indeed suffered a bit for it, I believe that the increase in the conservation of momentum will more than makes up for it. The angle of the blade is also wider as a result, but I believe that that will only further increase the–”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“I see,” Oma said, taking another sip as Senior Zhan went into an increasingly detail about how his newest composition would provide invaluable insights into perfecting his next sword, his short black ponytail bobbing excitedly as he brought up things like relative swing velocity and the trade-offs of power and reach. He had so many reasons for why his sword was exactly the way it was, unlike Oma who simply used hers because it felt right to her.
She liked Willow’s Branch, as she’d taken to calling it, because of the way its length felt in her grip. Sure, it was a full palms length longer than most other jians, but its handle was the perfect fit for use with either one or both hands, and there was just something right about the way it felt in motion. It was almost as if the blade had been made for her, despite it being a discounted ware that she had purchased with what little money she had managed to save up in her first year as a disciple. It was good quality for its price, the alloy a decent enough mix, and it held her qi well.
But it still felt foolish to compare such reasonings to Senior Zhan’s detailed explanation of his blade, her mere feelings to his centuries of experience. He knew exactly why his sword was suited for him, and the enlightenments she gleaned from his words only burned that point further into Oma’s mind.
Eventually, after five sticks of explanation, Oma mustered up the courage to ask a question when Zhan eventually stopped take a breath. A question whose weight had only been growing inside her heart for months.
“Senior, do you think that I have what it takes to be part of the Sword Intent Club? That I can learn to use sword intent like the rest of you?”
Li Zhan thought about this question for a long moment, silent all but for the gentle sound of stone against sword.
“Are you asking me for advice?” he eventually asked, pausing for a moment to look at Oma.
“Well, yes, I guess,” she said. “You and the other seniors are so…so dedicated to the path of the blade. You’ve just so certain in it. I just… I just don’t know if I can ever be like you. If I can know that the path of the blade is the one meant for me.”
Li Zhan considered this for a while, carefully turning the question over in his mind.
“When I was younger, a senior of mine once told me that a cultivator is shaped by fire and hammer,” he eventually said, resuming his work on the edge of his sword.
Oma sat in silence trying to puzzle the cryptic advice out, before positing her interpretation.
“Do you mean that a cultivator is shaped by experience? That right now I’m still just an ingot, full of potential that just hasn’t been given form?”
Senior Zhan shrugged.
“I don’t know. My old mentor used to say it a lot, but he was mixing the words up. That’s how you forge swords, not people. And even if you could forge a person into a sword, it makes no sense for a sword to wield another sword. They just wouldn’t be swords anymore.”
Then why did you tell me all of this! Oma almost screamed, masking her frustration by furiously chugging water. As ever, her Senior wasn’t any help. Or perhaps being so deliberately obtuse was his way of helping. A test perhaps? One that required her to figure out the meaning of his words on her own.
It reminded her of Shifu Yeung Lin’s words: a scholar seeks answers, a fool expects to be handed them. But still, it was a greater fool that didn’t at least attempt to learn the direction they should be going before setting off in it. And so, after another moment to regain her composure, Oma ventured another question
“Senior, do you have any advice for how I can improve my swordsmanship?” Oma asked.
“You should study the blade more,” Zhan replied, wiping slurry off his blade before he started in on it with a finer stone.
“Yes, but what specifically?” she persisted.
“The things that you need to improve,” he said simply, as if the words contained all that she needed to know. As if there weren’t dozens of ways that her form was lacking.
“But what does that mean?”
“It means that if you are inadequate in an area, you should seek to improve it.”
“Yes, but how can I know what areas I am inadequate in if I am inadequate?”
“You are inadequate?”
“I—” The unexpected words hit Oma like a stab to the chest, expertly flicking past her guard and striking her in her dao heart. Her spirit ached, the sharpness of his words reverberating through her veins as she struggled to gather her qi.
Was she truly inadequate?
Did she truly deserve to be here, among such dedicated cultivators, as if she was one of them?
It was foolish, wasn’t it?
To dream that a poor hick like her could ever become a real cultivator?
With her messy hair?
Her ugly freckles?
Her inadequate skills?
That pathetic excuse for talent?
How could she ever hope to become anything other than a second-stage failure?
A cultivator in name only, doomed to inadequacy for centuries.
Her meridians felt like lead as her thoughts spiraled in on themselves, drawn by the vortex within her heart. Her breath caught in her throat, the barest wisps of qi returning with every inhalation. As it felt like it was reaching the breaking point, that the pressure was about to crush her whole, her Senior’s voice cut through her thoughts like a jian through the fog.
“Are you alright?” he asked, poking her cheek with a finger.
I’m…fine,” Oma said, struggling to gather her thoughts as she rightened her posture. She hadn’t noticed that she’d slipped. That her head had become buried in her hands around her knees. She took deep, clarifying breaths as she regained her composure, following the words of her first teacher as she did.
“Careful child, don’t try to bottle it up, like it’s something to hoard. Let it flow through you. Qi is the breath of all things, and it carries all of creation within it. When it flows through you, it carries everything that is with it as it enters, and everything that you give it as it leaves. So breath. Let it all flow through you, leaving nothing but yourself behind.”
By her third breath she felt well enough to speak, the pain in her heart nothing but a dull throb.
“I’m alright,” she lied, brushing herself off as she grabbed her spatial pouch. “I just think that I overexerted myself. Probably just need to get some food in me to fix it up!” She paused as she stood to leave, turning to Senior Li Zhan one more time.
“Would you like to join me for lunch Senior?” Oma asked, falling back onto her old failsafe, despite knowing his answer the moment the words left her lips.
“I am not hungry,” Li Zhan replied.
* * *
Li Zhan watched as his junior hurried off, clearly intent on satisfying her hunger quickly so that she could return with as little delay as possible. She must have been in dire need of food, as she been in such a hurry that she had left her sword behind.
Li Zhan couldn’t imagine being that hungry, but then again, the only thing that he left up to his imagination was the blade.
New forms, old forms, forms that he had tried, and forms that he had yet to make… There were just so many, and there were only so many moments in each day with which to try them.
As he thought about blades that were yet to come, he kept a firm focus on the blade at hand, carefully refining its edge until its hone matched his vision.
Eventually it was finished, and with the barest flicker of his will he cleaned it of water and stone, his intent neatly cleaving the two apart. The slurry fell towards the ground with barely a sound, landing in the bucket he’d set aside for that very purpose.
He noticed that it was starting to overflow as he rose, sheathing his blade. He would have to empty it soon.
But that was a concern for later. He had finished his sword, and that meant that it was time to practice with it. To get a feel for how this iteration performed compared to its predecessors.
He did, however, feel invigorated by his conversation with his junior. He always welcomed a chance to discuss his craft, and the others seldom asked. His passion had been further stoked—a phenomenon that most would find unbelievable—so much so that he felt like breaking from his routine. Stances could wait today. He craved a chance to test his new sword in combat.
Feng would be busy with his routine for another seventy-three minutes, so he made his way over to Weijian Mei, who was practicing in the corner with the orb.
Her sharp green eyes glinted as she watched her past movements, projected in detailed relief by their jade training artifact. She parried the light-formed mirror of herself, blade halting the barest distance from it as she recreated the recorded duel without disrupting the image.
Li Zhan patiently waited two sticks for her to finish, giving her three short claps as she did.
“Ah, Zhan,” she said, turning to face him, the thirty-six inches of her jian resting lightly in her hand. “Shouldn’t you be practicing your sword somewhere right now? I have the orb today.”
Li Zhan shook his head as Mei took a protective step between him and the artifact. She had been obsessed with it ever since they got it, and while he was willing to admit that the ability to observe one’s actions from any angle was immensely helpful for improving one’s technique, it was another thing entirely to spend hours using it to recreate duels.
No matter how keen the swordsmanship was, the past was only useful for the experiences it taught. Those thoughts fell aside, however, as he held up his sword, allowing his companion to inspect the blade in the light.
“It looks good,” Mei observed.
Unlike him, she was content to keep using the same sword; a thirty-eight-inch long blade with minimal hilt and a thick tip, its five-inch wide blade forged from Carp Scales—an alloy of lake copper, tin, and the crushed bones of its namesake fish. It was a sturdy sword with a long history, having once been wielded by some famous swordsman, and while Mei wielded it well, it was far from perfect.
“Thank you,” Li Zhan replied. “I was wondering if you would like to spar.”
“But you don’t spar until after the second Inner Hour,” Mei said, taken aback at her companion’s sudden break from his schedule.
“I had a productive conversation with our new member that has put me in the mood for a spar. The proper time to strike iron is when it is hot, and this is such a moment.”
“I see,” Mei replied, eyes shifting to the jade orb for a long moment as she considered his words. As with most days, she had claimed the orb until early evening, and she had just managed to bring herself two degrees closer to perfecting the sixteenth stroke of the second exchange from the Duel between the Onyx Blade and Chong the Shark Dao. It was good progress, and with only one more move to perfect before she mastered it, this unexpected change in her schedule presented the opportunity to test her new understanding.
“Very well,” she finally agreed, tapping the orb’s iris with the tip of her sword. Her recreation winked out of existence, and she took a stance as Zhan moved to stand across from her, his blade rising as he did.
With a shared nod, they rushed to meet each other, sweeping through the air as their swords collided.
Strike met parry, met counter, met counter, the sound of metal on metal rising in the air as their pace increased. Their blades blurred, the rhythm of their clash forming a symphony of steel as they met again and again, the faintest of smiles on each of their faces.
