Chapter 4: Zhou Man’s Vow

 

“Jiang Ge,” Zhou Man repeated, her tone calm but deliberate. “Tell me, is it truly that difficult to handle?”

——Difficult? It’s nearly impossible!

Elder Wei Xuan’s brows furrowed. He studied her in silence for a long time, unable to form words.

Kong Wulu stood frozen in disbelief.

The young man in close-fitting black attire, who had remained silent since entering, finally spoke up. His voice was sharp and restrained.
“Miss, do you even know what Jian Ge is?”

Zhou Man tilted her head thoughtfully. “Not much,” she admitted with composure. “I’d like to hear more about it.”

The young man’s expression hardened. “Jian Ge was built upon the five-thousand-foot sword wall of Jianmen. For centuries, every great sword master has come here to seek the Way. Three hundred years ago, Emperor Wu Yingzhao unified the land and founded the Jianmen Academy at the foot of that wall. Only twenty disciples are chosen each year, and the rules have never changed.

The four major sects of Shuzhou each hold two quotas. The six states and one empire share the remaining ones. Those who enter are one in a hundred thousand—pure geniuses. Tell me, Miss Zhou, what makes you believe you can gain entry?”

Zhou Man’s lips curved slightly. “Those who enter Jian Ge are one in a hundred thousand,” she echoed softly. “But those born with a sword bone—how many among that hundred thousand? What sort of talent do you call that?”

The room fell utterly silent.

Without glancing at their faces, Zhou Man turned to clear the teacups. Her voice was casual but edged with wit.
“Besides, I’ve heard that aside from the sects of Shuzhou and the six states, even the three great families have their own quotas. The Wang clan of Shendu, for instance, can recommend two people, can they not?”

The young man’s composure faltered. His jaw tightened as he retorted, “Didn’t you just claim you didn’t know much?”

Zhou Man smiled faintly. “I said I know a little.”

He bristled, ready to argue, but Wei Xuan cut in sharply, “Shang Lu.”

The young man bit back his words and withdrew behind the elder.

Wei Xuan’s tone was grave. “The Wang clan does possess a recommendation right. But one thing confuses me. Earlier, the young lady said she had lost half a finger, suggesting she’d be unable to properly wield a sword. Why, then, ask to join the Sword Pavilion for a whole year?”

Zhou Man’s gaze sharpened. “What are you implying, Elder?”

Wei Xuan clasped his hands behind his back. “Your words and actions contradict each other. How do I know you’re not simply buying time—or hiding an ulterior motive?”

Zhou Man laughed softly. “Elder Wei, you worry too much. Anyone born with a sword bone would long to experience swordsmanship for themselves. Even if the sword bone must eventually be lent out, shouldn’t I at least taste that path before letting go? Or does the dignified Elder of the Wang clan fear I’ll grow wings and fly away in a year’s time?”

Her eyes gleamed with quiet defiance.

Wei Xuan hesitated, realizing his caution bordered on absurdity. Even if she truly possessed a sword bone, she had no foundation in cultivation. And even if she were Emperor Yingzhao reborn, what could she achieve in a single year?

In the end, she was just a determined girl unwilling to yield.

After a long pause, he sighed. “It isn’t impossible to grant you a year. But recommending you to Jianmen Academy or the Imperial Academy will be difficult.”

Zhou Man leaned forward slightly. “So… there’s a chance?”

Wei Xuan nodded. “The matter is complex. The quotas close in half a month. I can make no promises, but I will try.”

Zhou Man knew how precious those quotas were. Even within the Wang clan of Shendu, gaining one was a formidable challenge. The four sects of Shu claimed theirs by right of proximity to Jianmen, while the six states and one empire held fierce competitions for a single slot. The three noble clans chose among their most gifted heirs.

Demanding such a place was no small thing—yet that was exactly her intent.

If she was to lend out her sword bone, the price must be steep.
If the Wang clan would profit from her gift, they must suffer first.

So, without hesitation, Zhou Man agreed.

An accord was struck: if Wei Xuan succeeded in securing her a place at Jianmen Academy, she would lend him the sword bone after one year and accompany him from Mount Shu to Shendu.

In recognition of her request, Wei Xuan presented her a scroll. “This is the Shen Zhao Jing, one of our clan’s three great cultivation scriptures. Though only the first volume, it covers four realms—from Acquired and Innate, to Golden Core and Nascent Soul. It should suffice for your early training.”

He hesitated, then added, “As for your other condition…”

Zhou Man’s smile deepened. “Elder Wei, offering me this scripture before we’ve even begun proves your sincerity. The rest, naturally, can wait until the sword bone matter is fulfilled.”

Wei Xuan bowed. “I’m grateful for your understanding. In half a month, success or failure, you will have my answer.”

For a moment, his courtesy seemed genuine—but Zhou Man wasn’t swayed.

The negotiation was complete; there was no reason to linger.

Wei Xuan gathered his men and departed, leaving the faint echo of sword intent behind.

As they stepped outside, Shang Lu couldn’t hold his tongue any longer.
“Elder, how could you agree to her terms—and even give her the Shen Zhao Jing! If you grant her another year, who knows what trouble she might cause?”

Wei Xuan’s expression remained grave, his voice low.
“She doesn’t realize that before the bone exchange, both sides must establish a heart contract—a vow made willingly. To take, one must first give. If she refuses, what better method do we have? Must we resort to…”

He stopped abruptly, swallowing the rest of his words, his chest tight with frustration.

Shang Lu blinked, a thought dawning upon him, and fell silent.

Wei Xuan sighed heavily. “Besides, the young master’s condition is still fragile. For now, the bone exchange must wait until Mr. Yiming finishes his recovery.”

“But what about the quota?” Shang Lu pressed. “The eldest young master has already spoken—”

“I’ll handle it,” Wei Xuan cut him off, his tone brooking no argument.

Shang Lu hesitated before voicing one last concern. “But… the young master is also in Jian Ge.”

Wei Xuan froze, his eyes flickering with unease. For a long while, he said nothing.

---

Once the uninvited guests were gone, silence settled over the humble dwelling.

Zhou Man stood by the window, watching the figures recede down the path. A faint smile curved her lips—quiet, sharp, and dangerous.
“We may not have met in our past lives,” she murmured, “but this time, Wang Sha of Zhongzhou’s Divine Capital, I will see which of us is truly human… and which is the ghost.”

She remembered all too well. In her previous life, Wang Shi had taken her to the Divine Capital but delayed the bone exchange for a year and three months. During that time, she learned that Wang Sha was not in Shendu at all—he was cultivating at Jian Ge under the pretext of training.

That was why, in this life, Zhou Man demanded one year.
To buy time.
To strike first.

She picked up the Shen Zhao Jing left by Wei Xuan. As she opened it, silver light shimmered from the pages, characters floating like stars.

It was authentic.

This scripture, one of the Wang clan’s top three techniques, ranked among the top ten cultivation arts in the entire world. Any other cultivator would have bowed in awe at Wei Xuan’s generosity.

If she were still the naïve girl who once mourned her mother, she might have been moved to tears.

But Zhou Man no longer trusted kindness. Her heart was cold iron.

In her past life, Wei Xuan had been just as gracious—patient, respectful, caring. She’d truly believed he meant well. But when her sword bone was finally removed, she was hunted to the ends of the earth, cornered like prey.

Only then did she understand—

His “benevolence” had only been a trap.

The heart contract was no mere ritual.
It was a vow signed in blood. The sword bone—Heaven’s gift—had to be willingly offered. Once the heart contract was made, it bound the soul to obedience.

A lamb before the knife. No escape. No regrets.

Wei Xuan’s warmth and restraint were the same as before. Zhou Man would not fall for such hypocrisy again.

She flipped through the scripture, lips curling in irony.

Any ordinary cultivator would treasure it—
But for Zhou Man… it was a toy.

Her thoughts drifted to the Fengshan Ceremony of her past life, when a single arrow from Jade Emperor Peak split the sky and scattered ten thousand cultivators.

“Ask the heroes of the world—who dares invite the moon to watch the setting sun? Do you have regrets in this life?”

Her whisper turned to laughter. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the Shen Zhao Jing aside.

For she had once practiced the Yi Shen Jue, the martial scripture recorded in Emperor Wu’s Golden Tablet. With the unparalleled Juantian Bow, even missing half a finger and stripped of sword bones, she had terrified the martial world. Not even the three great clans dared face her head-on.

Compared to the Yi Shen Jue, what was the Shen Zhao Jing but child’s play?

Still, she dared not reveal her true cultivation. The Yi Shen Jue was too powerful, too distinct. If she advanced too fast, suspicion would rise.

So, she’d requested the Shen Zhao Jing as a smokescreen—to hide her real power behind an acceptable façade.

Yet even with her experience, the Yi Shen Jue required both inner strength and mastery of the bow.

Nine arrows. Nine levels. Nine paths of death.

Each required a weapon worthy of its name.
The Blood Seal Throat—the first arrow—could kill a newly advanced cultivator, requiring only a mortal bow with iron-tipped arrows.
The second, Piercing the Rainbow, could shatter armor and lightning alike—needing silver-inlaid weapons of precision.

And the ninth—Regretful Life.
The arrow that could turn rivers backward and make the sun and moon tremble.

But all those required the Juantian Bow—the legendary bow of Dayi, now resting in the distant Emperor Wu Dojo of Daiyue, Qizhou.

Tens of thousands of miles away.

She frowned. “Without that bow… I’ll have to make do.”

Opening her small chest, Zhou Man counted her savings—barely five taels of silver.

A bitter smile touched her lips. “Enough for a three-stone bow? I used to afford bows but not arrows. Now I can’t afford either.”

It was well-known that sword cultivators were poor and healers rich.
But few knew the truth—archers were poorer still.

Every arrow cost dearly; every battle meant loss. Some arrows, like the Time Arrow, could only be used once.

Even Emperor Wu himself must have hesitated to pursue such a costly path.

And now, reborn, Zhou Man’s first obstacle wasn’t fate—
It was poverty.

She could craft her own bow, yes—but it would take years. She didn’t have that kind of time.

Still, she refused to be defeated.

Stuffing her meager coins into her purse, Zhou Man also tucked the Shen Zhao Jing into her sleeve—just in case—and stepped outside.

The nearest city, Xiaojian Ancient City, lay southeast of Shu, not far from Jianmen Pass. It was a place where mortals and cultivators mingled freely.

She had been there once before to test her aptitude. The roads were familiar.

Upon entering, a broad Suzaku Avenue stretched before her, splitting the city into two halves.

To the left lay Cloud Road—lined with gilded pavilions and fragrant wine houses, the air thick with music and the scent of spirit blossoms. Only cultivators walked there, graceful as gods.

To the right sprawled Nipan Street—mud-smeared, noisy, alive with mortals, laughter, and sin.

Zhou Man paused at the crossroads. Her gaze lingered briefly on the elegant street of immortals. Then, with a faint sneer, she turned right.

Biting a straw wick between her lips, she disappeared into the noise and smoke like a fish returning to water.

The scent of wine, the chatter of merchants, the grit of the earth beneath her feet—
This chaos was her comfort.
This was home.

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