Chapter 2: All Things Come to an End

 

"It's raining—time to harvest the wheat!"

After weeks of cloudless skies, the heavens finally split open. Bean-sized raindrops cascaded from roiling clouds, drumming against earth and stone.

Hurried footsteps echoed through the streets as villagers scattered in all directions, abandoning thoughts of shelter in their urgency.

The sharp autumn wind whipped up withered yellow dust, sending it spiraling through the air. The gale caught the tattered green curtain hanging outside the village inn, making it ripple and snap like a battle standard.

Inside, a young waiter stirred from his afternoon nap, yawning as he glanced toward the entrance. His expression soured instantly. Snatching up a nearby stick, he strode outside and began violently driving away a young beggar huddled beneath the eaves.

"Get out! Move along, you worthless wretch! Beg somewhere else!"

His demeanor transformed the moment he turned toward several burly travelers approaching. Plastering on an ingratiating smile, he bowed slightly. "Gentlemen, please—come inside and shelter from the storm! A cup of hot tea to warm yourselves, compliments of the house."

The lead traveler, a young man with a sword strapped to his back, nodded curtly. He pivoted and led his companions across the threshold without a word.

The scrawny beggar, too slow to dodge, took a glancing blow from the stick. Clutching her bruised arm, she stood silently in the downpour as the group filed inside. Only after the door closed did she raise her head and spit venomously at the ground.

"Bastard! Who do you think you are?"

She kicked the door in impotent fury before turning and running deeper into the storm.

---

The long river cutting through the village at the road's end swelled rapidly with rainfall, its muddy waters churning northward.

Yellow leaves weighted down by rain tumbled from the old trees lining the riverbank, leaving branches stark and bare.

Buried beneath the carpet of fallen foliage, the injured woman finally woke. Rain drummed against her face, drawing her back to consciousness. She extended a trembling hand, brushing aside the leaves, and struggled to rise.

Her long hair hung in disheveled curtains, half-obscuring a face gone deathly pale. Blue-tinged skin bore streaks of dried blood. The simple act of standing required multiple attempts, each movement visibly agonizing.

When she finally managed to stand, her legs buckled and swayed beneath her. The frail figure rocked precariously in the wind and rain, appearing more specter than human.

She lowered her gaze to examine her hands, then swept her eyes across the surroundings inch by methodical inch. Her expression carried nothing but profound confusion—panic and disorientation warring behind her eyes.

In her daze, she stumbled and collapsed heavily.

She slowly raised her arms, bracing herself on trembling hands as she knelt. Only then did she notice the black iron sword lying in the mud beside her.

Fumbling, she retrieved the weapon. Rain blurred her vision, forcing her to rely solely on touch as her fingertips traced the characters engraved on the scabbard. She whispered them aloud, each syllable emerging broken and cold.

"Song... Hui... Ya..."

The words felt strangely familiar despite the tremor in her voice. As they left her lips, memories crashed through her mind like a tsunami—voices roaring in accusation:

"Song Huiya—! Die!"

"Song Huiya, the souls you've slaughtered are waiting in the underworld!"

"This world is vast, yet it cannot shelter someone as evil as Song Huiya! Today, we purge this poison from the martial world—!"

Searing pain lanced through her skull.

Song Huiya groaned, curling in on herself. Chaotic internal energy rippled through her wounds, forcing blood from her lips. Consciousness wavered, threatening to abandon her entirely.

Was this death approaching?

Song Huiya gripped the sword fiercely, wrestling her scattered thoughts into submission as she pressed against the ruptured wound in her abdomen.

The intense pain and icy rain against her back briefly anchored her fading awareness. Her left hand fumbled along her waist until her fingers closed around an unmarked white porcelain bottle.

She had no idea what medicine it contained. But reasoning that someone who bothered engraving their name on a sword and had accumulated over a dozen wounds likely carried healing remedies, she made her choice.

Her entire body felt frozen, as though her blood had turned to ice. She sensed that releasing her final breath of warm air would mean complete surrender to death. She couldn't afford deliberation. Steeling herself, she bit open the bottle with her teeth and swallowed its contents in one desperate gulp.

If the medicine killed her, then at least death would come by her own hand.

Song Huiya closed her eyes and slumped against a nearby tree trunk, allowing herself brief respite. Fearing unconsciousness would claim her permanently, she forced herself upright after only moments. Without knowing direction or destination, she staggered forward along the mountain's slope.

Wind and rain assailed her relentlessly—an endless gauntlet of invisible blades.

The solitary traveler dragged her broken body like drifting clouds, slowly merging into the overlapping shadows of mountains, rocks, and forest.

In the desolate distance, a dilapidated small temple stood visible on the mountainside.

---

After an immeasurable passage of time, the rain's intensity diminished.

A short figure scrambled down the moss-slicked path, dodging thorny branches and dense undergrowth, only to trip hard before the temple steps.

The skinny beggar cried out sharply. Looking back, she discovered an unexpected obstacle—a person sprawled across her usual route.

She clutched her bruised knees, glaring at the motionless form. Thinking of the day's accumulated grievances, fury bubbled up. "You son of a bitch! How dare you block my path!"

The beggar wiped rain from her face, crouched low, and extended her arm to check the stranger's breathing.

Perhaps due to the cold, the faint breath proved nearly undetectable. She carefully pressed the back of her hand against the person's face—cold as a corpse.

Encountering a wanderer's body lying in the wilderness inspired no fear in the child. Instead, she boldly stepped forward and kicked the figure. Then, pinching her throat to mimic the innkeeper's grating tone, she shrieked, "Look at you, short-lived, filthy scoundrel! You dare lie down and play dead when you see me? Do you believe I'll kick you to death right now?"

She planted her hands on her hips, warming to her performance. "You're an eyesore, always trying to get underfoot of proper people! Even dogs know to wag their tails and read the room. You unlucky, money-losing wretch—doing things that make everyone hate you! Why don't you disappear already?"

After venting her accumulated rage, the beggar sneezed violently several times from the cold. She glared at the corpse once more, pouting as she delivered her final assessment: "Bad luck!"

The instant she finished speaking, the "dead" hand shot up and clamped around her ankle.

The beggar's heart stopped. Her soul nearly fled her body. Instinct drove her to her knees as she kowtowed frantically, pleading loudly: "Hero! I didn't kill you! Don't seek revenge on me, whether you're human or ghost!"

The "corpse" on the ground remained motionless, eyes closed, breathing more out than in. The back of the hand bore multiple knife wounds, knuckles protruding as the iron grip crushed painfully against her ankle.

The beggar begged several more times without response. Trembling violently, she attempted to pry the fingers loose.

But despite having one foot in the grave, the hand holding her remained unyielding as cold iron. The beggar genuinely began suspecting she'd encountered a vengeful spirit. Voice quavering with terror, she negotiated: "Lady, if you're not dead, I'll drag you to the temple and find a doctor! Please don't take me with you! I'm annoying—people feel disgusted looking at me for even a second! We have an agreement, yes?"

The beggar babbled nonsense continuously, suppressing her fear as she half-dragged, half-pulled the injured person into the temple's shelter.

Once inside, safely away from the bone-chilling rain, the swordswoman's hand immediately slipped free—evidence she possessed only the barest thread of consciousness, clinging desperately to survival.

---

The beggar scrambled several feet away before collapsing. She didn't dare move for a considerable time.

Light filtering through the window gradually brightened as the dark clouds obscuring the sun slowly dispersed. Yet the cold wind continued its assault, pouring through every gap and crevice.

After her nerves settled somewhat, the beggar moved to secure the door, then blocked the useless window with straw.

Wet clothes clung to her skin, the cold penetrating like frost. The child paced back and forth with folded arms until she could bear it no longer. She hauled firewood from the corner, piled it together, and struggled to coax flames to life, buttocks raised high as she worked.

"This is my house, understand?" the child shouted gruffly. "This is firewood I gathered. You're warming yourself with my fire—you're getting a bargain! You'll have to pay me back later, got it?"

Sparks flew upward. Outside, the rain had nearly ceased its pattering.

The beggar fell silent, stripping off her outer garment and spreading it on the ground. Even curled tightly, she found precious little warmth. She wished desperately she could crawl directly into the flames.

The meager dry wood burned down quickly, yet the room's chill remained undiminished. The beggar tore her numbing gaze from the flickering firelight, shifted her position, grabbed a thin stick, and crept toward the injured person on tiptoe.

"Lady hero?"

Silence.

She prodded with the stick.

"Little beast?"

Confirming complete unconsciousness, the child immediately began rifling through the stranger's belongings.

Silver proved disappointingly scarce—just a few copper coins.

An object wrapped in oilcloth rested against the chest. The beggar unwrapped it eagerly, only to discover nothing more than an old book.

The only potentially valuable item appeared to be the longsword, though its actual worth remained uncertain.

Thoroughly disappointed, the beggar searched again without finding anything worthwhile. Fury welled up in her chest. She pinched the wound on the woman's side viciously, hissing, "You bastard! Not a hair of value on your entire body, yet you pretend to be some great hero?!"

Her nature ran cold—oblivious to her own cruelty, and even less concerned with the pitiable state of the person before her.

The child concealed the sword in a hidden crevice, then cradled the book before the fire. She flipped through it hastily before unfolding the pages and holding them to her nose, sniffing carefully.

No scholarly scent of ink existed—only a cold, damp odor.

As expected, not a single truth ever emerged from those poor scholars' mouths.

The beggar tore half a page free, intending to feed it to the flames. After a moment's hesitation, she smoothed it back, closed the book, tucked it against her chest, and lay on her side. She stared wide-eyed at the green moss carpeting the wall.

Moments later, she sat up again. Tracing the characters on the title page, she began scratching corresponding marks into the dirt floor.

After several attempts, she stood suspiciously and walked behind the stone marker. Drawing the sword, she repeatedly compared the characters on the page with those engraved on the scabbard, concluding the confusing patterns must be identical.

Could this be a sword manual?

The child studied the distant figure, brow furrowing deeply.

It couldn't be a particularly powerful manual if its owner had been beaten this badly.

Yet she'd survived the beating—not entirely useless, then.

If selling it could buy her a few meat buns and two bowls of hot soup, that wouldn't be bad at all.

The beggar licked her lips, grinning foolishly.

She wiped her nose, then deliberately smeared it across the swordswoman's clothing. Lifting the woman's hair, she examined the unconscious figure properly for the first time.

The appearance wasn't immediately striking. Delicate features, simple lines—nothing as fierce as she'd imagined. However, an old scar tracking close to the jawline added unexpected sharpness, reminding observers this was indeed a wanderer who'd traveled thousands of miles through danger.

The beggar studied her, and suddenly resentment flickered in her eyes. She pressed her palm against the woman's wound until the woman's brow contracted with unbearable pain. Only then did she smile and withdraw her hand.

"Hey, lady—they all say a life-saving debt should be repaid with your body. You look halfway decent, so you should follow proper etiquette, right? If you survive, this life belongs to me. I'm not asking much—ten taels of silver... Well, forget it. A poor wretch like you can't afford ten taels. I'll show mercy and make it five taels. Not a copper less."

The beggar continued her one-sided conversation, lowering her head to roll up her trouser leg and rub the bruise darkening her knee. "See? You tripped me and caused this injury. You don't blame me for being cruel, do you? If you listen to me, I'll sell you to a decent family—you might live more comfortably than you do now. If you refuse to cooperate, I'll sell you to that fat old pig of a man. He'll break your hands and feet, lock you up, and then you'll be completely worthless!"

She patted the woman's face as she spoke, receiving no response. Stretching lazily, she wandered away out of boredom.

When her clothes had dried halfway and the rain outside had finally ceased, the beggar casually buried the book in soil against the wall and skipped outside.

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