The Emei senior sister finally left, reassured at last.
Jin Buhuan and Wang Shu accompanied Zhou Man all the way to her door.
Just as she took out her sword token to unlock it, Wang Shu’s gaze caught on her fingers—reddened at the tips—and the faint pallor on her face. He hesitated, then gently reminded her:
“Cultivation should be steady and gradual. Junior Sister Zhou, you fought nine people in succession today. Your internal qi must be heavily depleted… you should rest for a few days.”
Zhou Man paused, lifted her head, and unexpectedly laughed.
“Mud Bodhisattva, you’ve been holding those words in for quite a while, haven’t you?”
She remembered pulling Wang Shu along the bird path earlier, and how his hand accidentally brushed her wrist. He must have taken her pulse then—realizing her condition—but chose to hold his tongue. Only Jin Buhuan remained clueless.
“What are you two talking about?” he asked blankly.
Zhou Man didn’t bother to explain. She opened the door and said simply, “I know my own limits. You’ve seen me home—no need to go further.”
She nodded in farewell and stepped inside. Even after closing the door, she could faintly hear the two of them talking outside.
Jin Buhuan finally caught on.
“You mean she might have internal injuries and needs to recuperate? Honestly! Drinking is bad enough, and you knew—yet you didn’t stop me dragging her along?”
Wang Shu replied calmly, “Junior Sister Zhou’s cultivation surpasses both yours and mine. She understands her own qi better than we do. If she chose to drink, she naturally judged she could.”
He paused, then added quietly, “Besides… sometimes a bit of indulgence is also a medicine.”
Standing inside, Zhou Man couldn’t help but smile.
“So indulgence is a medicine…?”
Her room was still in disarray from her thirteen days of harsh sword practice. She didn’t think about it further. Taking this “medicine” with her lingering tipsiness, she lay down atop the sword manuals she had been using as a bed. Listening to the sudden downpour outside, she closed her eyes and drifted into a deep sleep.
The rain arrived swiftly and heavily, soon veiling all of Jianmen Academy in a soft grey haze.
The trees soaked in the herbal fragrance garden were lush and greener than ever.
The peonies near the water pavilion trembled lightly beneath the rain curtain, delicate enough to stir pity.
Inside another hall, Song Lanzhen gazed at the rain as she listened to her steward’s report.
“So,” she said, “when Qingshuang learned Zhou Man couldn’t even enter the Sword Hall, they sent the news directly to the Divine Capital?”
The steward bowed.
“Yes. Qingshuang manages the Wang household, but has two stewards: Liu Chang, who serves Wei Xuan, and Xu Xing, who serves Wang Hao. Over ten days ago, Xu Xing sent word that Zhou Man’s finger was injured and she failed to enter the Sword Hall. The eldest son Wang seized the chance to accuse Wei Xuan of recommending a useless disciple. The family has been in uproar. But unexpectedly—today Zhou Man suddenly became head of the Sword Hall. I fear that…”
He trailed off. A stranger had seemingly intervened, and Wang Hao already bore a grudge. How could he resist using this to crush Wei Xuan completely?
Song Lanzhen understood Wang Hao’s nature well.
She chuckled softly.
“He must be feeling trapped now. Thought he’d embarrass Wei Xuan, but forgot who Wei Xuan used to be. In the end, he only humiliates himself.”
The steward couldn’t help gloating.
“Xu Xing didn’t look pleased today.”
“Continue watching Qingshuang Hall,” Song Lanzhen said. “Wang Hao won’t give up so easily.”
She then asked, “And Zhao Nishang—how is she?”
“She tended her father’s funeral for a few days. Now she’s back in Qiluo Hall making clothes. Everything seems normal.”
“That’s good,” Song Lanzhen replied. “She’s an orphan now. Her father served the Song family for many years. Make sure others don’t gossip. Look after her a little more.”
The steward sighed gratefully.
“Miss, you are truly kind.”
“I only gave a few words,” Song Lanzhen said mildly. “You are the ones putting in the effort.”
Zhao Zhiyi had been punished earlier, and though the staff sympathized, they feared harsher judgment. But Song Lanzhen had quietly reduced the punishment from fifty lashes to forty. Instead of reprimanding them, she was now showing compassion again.
With such a master… how could one not be loyal?
“It is my honor to serve the Song family,” the steward said adamantly.
After the report, both stewards prepared to leave—but Song Lanzhen stopped Chen Si.
She signaled Thorn Tong to bring a wooden box, handed it to Chen Si, and said:
“If the female cultivator in Jiajin Valley truly cannot be found, then let it go. My brother only said those words in anger. There’s no need to pursue the matter endlessly. His temper has cooled these past two days—I'll speak on your behalf.”
Song Lanzhen’s smile was warm and unhurried.
“You’re repairing your bow and arrows,” she said. “I heard you lost your old set, so I had someone forge a new pair for you. And a few days ago, Elder Chen sent someone from the Divine Capital to deliver a Huiyuan Pill. It arrived today, so I’m giving it to you together.”
Chen Si opened the wooden box.
Inside, a small jade case held the pill.
But the center of the box shone brightest—
a new bow, flawless, elegant, lethal.
The bow was crafted from the heart of boxwood, its body wrapped in fine golden casting patterns. Two pieces of Dushan divine jade were inlaid along the bow arm, empowering every arrow with a layer of razor-sharp force—enough to break even profound defenses.
The twelve golden arrows beside it had been reforged as well.
The familiar flaming bird feathers were gone, replaced by Vermilion Bird fire feathers, their power doubled in an instant.
Chen Si’s breath hitched.
Of course he knew the difference between ordinary generosity and genuine care.
His eyes reddened. Lowering his head, he choked,
“Jiajin Valley slipped through my hands—I am already incompetent. My failure to investigate further is an even greater fault. How could someone like me be worthy of…”
“Enough.”
Song Lanzhen’s gaze softened.
“You don’t need to punish yourself so harshly. Elder Chen sent a letter asking after you. If you were unwell, how would I ever explain it to him? I’ve seen how anxious you’ve been lately. Take care of yourself first.”
But Chen Si only stiffened.
“That female cultivator from Jiajin Valley—if I cannot uncover her identity, I will never be at ease. Please, my lady… don’t persuade me otherwise.”
Song Lanzhen frowned slightly.
Seeing his resolve, she let the matter rest.
Chen Si took the bow, collected the elixir, and left with the attendants to descend the mountain. But as soon as they reached the foot, he halted.
“You,” he said to the senior executive, “go to the East House. Find Jin Bu-chang and tell him to come see me.”
The executive paused in surprise.
Chen Si’s eyes darkened.
“I’m unfamiliar with the land of Shu. Tracking down that woman is difficult for me. But someone like him… he’ll have his own methods.”
The executive understood and hurried off.
Zhou Man slept deeply until noon.
The moment she woke, she used the Qingguang Ring to pack away the sword manuals scattered across the room. She pushed open the window—outside, the rain had just stopped.
She poured out the pouch of spirit stones Wei Xuan had given her.
A thousand in total—enough for daily needs, but far from enough to buy her own residence.
After a moment of calculation, she sighed.
“What in this world doesn’t cost money?”
But she had no safe way to earn more immediately.
Robbing houses was out of the question, so she muttered,
“Forget it. Do what I can first.”
The setting sun spilled over the academy as Zhou Man made her way to Qiluo Hall, sleeves still torn from yesterday’s sword battle. She didn't bother changing. After asking Huo for directions, she walked straight toward the weaving courtyard.
Qiluo Hall was designed like a mortal compound. The signboard hung plainly above the gate, jars of vibrant dye lined the courtyard, and bolts of newly washed silk fluttered in the breeze. Raw silk and embroidery thread piled neatly in the corners.
The maid who welcomed her froze when she recognized the sword order at Zhou Man’s waist.
“Senior Sister Zhou? Why have you come in person?”
“I’m here to ask Zhao Nishang for a reward,” Zhou Man said bluntly.
The maid blinked—reward?
But she led her inside.
At that same moment, Zhao Nishang was standing before her loom, holding a shuttle and frowning at the silver-red brocade she’d woven. Her dissatisfaction was obvious.
She turned in surprise when the maid announced Zhou Man.
“Senior Sister… you came yourself?”
Zhou Man didn’t waste words.
“I want something from you.”
Zhao Nishang stiffened.
“You want to practice swordsmanship,” Zhou Man continued coldly. “You want to cultivate. You know how to ask for help—that means you’re smart. But you’re just a mortal. Before you beg, you should consider: what do you have that others would want in return?”
Zhao Nishang’s fingers tightened on her sleeves.
She understood.
And she did not hesitate.
“I’ll fetch it at once,” she said, bowing deeply. “Please wait.”
She rushed to her room, retrieved the snow-white cloud brocade given by Song Lanzhen days ago, and placed it carefully before Zhou Man.
The fabric glowed like drifting mist.
“This brocade…” Zhou Man touched it with her fingertips.
“Woven from cloud thread?”
Zhao Nishang nodded.
“Yes. It uses the highest-grade cloud thread, spun from flawless snow silk.”
Perfect.
With this, she could refine two bowstrings—enough to shoot the third arrow of the Yi Shen Jue, ‘Meteor Fall’.
It was time.
Zhou Man looked up.
“So,” she asked softly, “you want me to teach you?”
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