Falling into the clouds, falling into the sea.
A long life, like a river flowing backward.
Mist drifted through the mountain valley, soft and pale like a lingering dream. Beneath the star-speckled sky, the village slept in silence.
In a lonely courtyard, a woman in a straw hat and rough cloth skirt pressed a young girl’s right hand against a cold stone millstone. The rusty hatchet in her grip gleamed dully under the moonlight. Her face, marked by time, carried both sorrow and relief—like one teetering between madness and mercy.
Her trembling lips murmured, “Don’t be afraid, Aman. It will only hurt once... just once.”
“Mother, don’t! Please—don’t!” The girl struggled, her voice breaking into sobs.
But the frail woman suddenly found terrifying strength, her eyes shining with wild, desperate light—as if she had poured her entire life’s will into that single moment.
The girl could not break free.
The blunt edge of the hatchet came down.
The rusted blade turned scarlet.
Pain tore through her body—
Zhou Man jolted awake, drenched in sweat. The nightmare dissolved into the dim glow of an oil lamp. The shabby thatched cottage around her was silent except for the faint hiss of rain. On a rickety wooden table sat a chipped clay cup, and a few mud-stained paper coins lay scattered on the floor.
She was leaning against a broken doorframe, and a sharp pain throbbed in her right hand.
Still dazed, Zhou Man raised her trembling fingers. Her wrist was thin, her palm pale, and her slender fingers elegant—except for the little finger, wrapped tightly in white cloth soaked through with blood.
So that was the source of the pain.
Zhou Man stared at the oozing red and then at the desolate hut before her. For a long time, she could not tell if she was awake or still trapped inside the dream.
Was she Zhuangzi dreaming of a butterfly—or a butterfly dreaming of Zhuangzi?
If what was written on the Martial Emperor’s Golden Tablet was true, then…
“Yi Shen Jue” consisted of nine arrows and nine realms. The final arrow, “A Regretful Life,” was said to hold the power of heaven and earth itself—to command time, to change dusk into dawn, spring into autumn, and even to reverse fate’s flow.
“I practiced this art for decades,” Zhou Man murmured bitterly. “Trapped on the eighth arrow, never able to pierce the ninth. Who would have thought—only upon death would I glimpse its true meaning?”
She laughed softly, though the sound carried no joy. “But if enlightenment demands a severed finger… what a cruel jest that is.”
Her body had stiffened from sitting too long. Bracing herself against the door, she stood and walked slowly through the narrow hut. Her injured fingers brushed over the rough wood of the table, the chipped ceramic cup, and finally a slender ebony hairpin resting inside a small box by the window.
A relic left by her mother.
If memory served, Zhou’s mother had been buried only yesterday.
The funeral had been simple. A few villagers carried the body up the hill, rolled her in a straw mat, covered her with loess, and placed a wooden marker by the grave.
Zhou Man gazed at the hairpin for a long moment, then gently returned it to its box.
A faint blue light seeped through the cracked window.
She pushed open the door.
The courtyard, enclosed by a crooked bamboo fence, was quiet except for the drizzle that had lingered for days. There were still faint traces of blood on the stone mill in the corner, and the hatchet lay nearby—its rust now darkened and washed clean by the endless rain.
She sat beneath the eaves, the soft patter of rain filling her ears. She remembered that night—the night her mother had severed her finger—how she had sat under these same eaves, clutching her hand and listening to the rain until dawn.
The heavy downpour had turned to drizzle… and it had never stopped.
Had it truly rained all this time?
Zhou Man did not move. She listened until the sky in the east turned pale and the cock crowed in the distance. Only then did she rise and make her way toward the gate.
In the distance, the laughter of children broke the stillness. A group of village boys came running down the muddy road, chasing one another. She had taken only a few steps when she saw three of them pinning another child to the ground, punching and kicking him as they shouted cruel taunts.
The ringleader was the butcher’s son, a tall and heavy boy with rough hands.
The one being beaten was small and delicate, no more than seven or eight, his face pale, his lips red, and his eyes wide with fear.
Cheng Fangzhai—the schoolteacher’s son.
His father, Cheng Fuzi, was known for his strictness, and often punished his students harshly. When children failed to memorize their lessons, they’d complain to their parents—and resentment brewed quietly.
Unable to face the teacher, they took revenge on the child instead.
Cheng Fangzhai, young and timid, endured it all in silence. He didn’t dare tell Master Cheng, afraid it would only lead to more trouble.
Though Zhou Man had never attended the school, she had often listened to lessons through the walls. She had seen such scenes before — messy, loud, and always difficult to stop.
But today was different.
Her mother, Zhou, had been buried just yesterday. The noise outside felt unbearable, breaking the peace that should have surrounded the grave. Zhou Man stepped out and said calmly, “Don’t fight here.”
The children ignored her.
Though older and taller, she was pale and thin, her missing fingertip a cruel reminder of weakness in their eyes.
The butcher’s son sneered. “What’s a cripple meddling in other people’s business for?” He kicked Cheng Fangzhai again.
Zhou Man lowered her gaze and went back inside. The boys smirked, thinking she had given up.
But moments later, the door creaked open again. Zhou Man stepped out — a hatchet in hand.
She said nothing.
The curved blade gleamed faintly, its dried blood still visible. Her expression was blank, her silence colder than words. Even the butcher’s son — who had seen pigs slaughtered countless times — felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Without a sound, the children fled.
Only Cheng Fangzhai remained, trembling, his face smeared with mud. He had endured so much before, but now, rescued and shaken, tears stung his eyes. He bowed stiffly. “Thank you, Sister Man…”
Her gaze was unreadable. Tossing the hatchet against the bamboo fence, she said coldly, “Go before you cry.”
He paled and ran.
Zhou Man turned—and froze. Under the old apricot tree stood a group of ten men in dark robes. They carried no swords, yet their presence was sharp as blades. At their center stood an elderly man with white hair and a rattan staff, frowning deeply at her.
She recognized him instantly.
Still, she looked away and walked toward the mountain path, overgrown with weeds.
The old man’s frown deepened. “Is it her?”
A richly dressed man behind him nodded. “Yes, Master Xiao Jian Gucheng. I saw it myself — she’s born with a sword bone. There’s no mistake.”
The elder’s hand tightened on his cane. “So young… yet so cold-blooded.”
The mountain road was muddy from rain, but Zhou Man’s steps were steady. Apricot blossoms still bloomed faintly along the higher slopes. Halfway up, she broke off a branch — her mother’s favorite flower — and carried it with her to the grave.
Her skirt was soaked in mud when she arrived. Kneeling before the mound of fresh earth, she whispered, “Mother… I’ve finally come back to see you.”
It had taken a lifetime.
Tears blurred her vision. “You don’t know, do you? For you, it was only yesterday. For me, it feels like an eternity.”
The wind stirred dead leaves across the tombstone. Zhou Man brushed them away, voice trembling. “You always told me to be gentle, to avoid fights, to never draw a sword. I obeyed… but the world isn’t kind to those who stay kind.”
Her eyes fell on her bandaged little finger. She smiled faintly. “You said the pain would pass quickly, but it lasted so long… even now, it still wakes me in the night.”
After losing her sword bone, she had wandered through countless dangers, hunted like prey, until she discovered the Twelve Golden Scrolls of the Martial Emperor — a glimmer of hope amidst despair.
Meanwhile, the Wang family’s young heir, born under a lucky star, had taken her sword bone and risen to greatness. With divine aid, he unified the sects and cornered her beneath Mount Tai.
She closed her eyes, voice breaking. “If I hadn’t given in… if I had fought harder… would I have found another way?”
Straightening her clothes, Zhou Man knelt. Her mother’s gentle voice echoed in memory:
Aman swears to Mother — in this life, I will never learn swordsmanship.
Her lips trembled. “You wrote my fate, Mother. You cut off my finger, took my blade. I accepted it then. But this life… this life, I will not.”
She pressed her forehead to the wet ground. “Forgive me, Mother. I am an unfilial daughter. But I will break my oath. Even if it costs my life — I will not regret it.”
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