Chapter 24: Price of a Promise

                              

“I can teach you,” Zhou Man said, voice flat and steady. “But what can you offer in return? Before you ask for help, think about what you can pay.”

Zhao Nishang stared at her, stunned into silence. The question hung between them like a blade: what could she possibly give? If she promised some future repayment, who could say what fate might bring? Promises in the tomorrow of this world were always fragile.

Zhou Man watched the girl’s confusion for a moment, then turned away. “Think it over. Tell me when you can answer,” she added, and walked out.

Zhao Nishang remained rooted in the weaving room, eyes fixed on Zhou Man’s departing back. Her brow furrowed; thought folded over thought. For a long time, she did not stir.

Zhou Man carried the cloud brocade back to the East House and set it aside. She did not rush to unweave it into threads or begin refining bowstrings — there were still days of hard practice ahead. The academy observed its fifteenth-of-the-month rest; she had practiced for thirteen straight days. The day of respite was nearly upon them. Tomorrow she could go into the old city of Xiaojian, search for Qingshen bamboo, and then, with the cloud threads in hand, begin to craft her bow.

The brocade could wait.

That night, she snapped a finger and lit the lamp. She drew out the booklet from Wang Shu’s sleeve and read by the lamplight. Each page showed a small figure with a drawn sword, meridians marked across the body. It was, as Jin Buhuan would have said, the same notebook he had once produced with a flourish.

Zhou Man had missed thirteen days of class. She had not absorbed Master Jian’s lecture that morning; she made up for it now.

She had to admit — the Mud Bodhisattva’s handwriting was neat and precise, every stroke tidy, the sort that matched his temperament. What at first glance looked like the most basic sword routines—the Master’s foundational forms and the meridian operations that should accompany them—contained notes that revealed a rare clarity of thought.

On one margin, the Mud Bodhisattva had written: “The Dao gives birth to one; one births two; two births three; three births all things. Swordsmanship springs from the single. Even a single form yields countless changes based on the practitioner’s inner method. Fierce hearts make swift blades; harmonious hearts render light strokes. The Master teaches ‘one’ so the student may cultivate a unique sword — not a thousand people wielding a single sword.”

Zhou Man smiled inwardly. Even if his meridians were blocked and his cultivation stunted, his comprehension ran deep. His “discourse on paper” alone was impressive.

But it was the speculation written across pages twenty-two and twenty-three — about injuries an opponent might suffer from certain strikes — that tightened her face.

She frowned without noticing the hour.

The next morning, Sword Master’s class was already in progress. Students filled the hall. Wang Shu had arrived early and sat outside the door, a medical book spread before him, absorbed and intent.

Zhou Man climbed the steps and dropped the notebook she’d read onto a desk beside him.

Wang Shu looked up, surprise flickering across his features. “You finished reading it?”

“Finished,” she said simply. “But your hypothesis on pages twenty-two and twenty-three about the ‘sword-wielding forms’ is wrong. The core is to force the opponent out of their form — expose the empty, dead points. Once a blade strikes those gaps, it is not merely a question of disarming; it becomes a blow to the vital point. If it does not kill, it will maim.”

Wang Shu’s face shifted. He turned the pages back to the diagram, eyes tracing each little figure, each meridian marked. Lines of thought tangled and rearranged themselves inside his mind; his brow tightened as Zhou Man’s words settled.

Zhou Man said quietly, “After all, your cultivation is limited. You can’t test the sword yourself, and some of the most subtle details can only be learned through experience. Mistakes are inevitable.”

Wang Shu closed his eyes for a long moment before replying with quiet gratitude, “Thank you, Junior Sister Zhou…”

She did not respond, merely lifted her steps and entered the door.

But Wang Shu hesitated, then spoke again. “I may never be able to practice swordsmanship fully… yet your skill is so exquisite, I wonder if I can even approach it one day…”

He paused, shook his head helplessly, and chuckled at himself, lost in thought.

At the far right of the last row sat Jin Buhuan, reclining lazily. Compared to his animated posture just two days ago, he now looked listless, propping his head with one hand as he yawned. When he saw Zhou Man approach, he murmured casually, “Morning.”

“Morning,” Zhou Man replied, her tone neutral.

Many who had arrived early had noticed her conversation with Wang Shu outside. Seeing her greet Jin Buhuan so calmly, so free of the coldness that had once kept strangers at bay, some could not help but feel moved.

As she stepped into the hall, students rushed to offer greetings they had missed yesterday, congratulating her on her new position as sword head. Even Zhou Guang, the young descendant of the Sword Sect, approached.

“I remember you,” Zhou Man said softly. “Your name is Zhou Guang, descendant of the Sword Sect?”

The young man’s eyes widened in surprise and a flicker of pride lit his face. “Ah… yes,” he stammered. Though young, he dared not claim seniority.

Zhou Man studied him briefly. “I heard your surname is Zhou, like your sect’s senior, Zhou Zixue. You…”

“I am without father or mother,” Zhou Guang interrupted quickly, bowing slightly. “I adopted the Zhou surname under instruction from the elders, to honor the kindness of my predecessors. I have no other relation.”

“Ah,” Zhou Man said, thoughtfully. “I see.” She smiled faintly. “Your swordsmanship is impressive. Perhaps another day we can meet to spar?”

Surprise and delight flashed across Zhou Guang’s eyes. “I would be honored. I live in the West House; I will await your call.”

Zhou Man nodded, and Zhou Guang bowed again before leaving, restrained excitement barely contained.

Song Lanzhen had arrived early and watched the exchange carefully. She approached Zhou Man after Zhou Guang departed.

Zhou Man turned, noting her calm demeanor. Song Lanzhen’s attire was simple, yet her presence carried an unspoken authority. She smiled warmly. “Junior Sister Zhou, Song Lanzhen. I wanted to thank you…”

“Thank me?” Zhou Man asked, raising an eyebrow.

Song Lanzhen explained, “During the punishment of Zhao Zhiyi, no one intervened, but thanks to you, he was sent to Chunfeng Hall safely. Though the misfortune did not come to pass, your righteous act is admirable. I wished to express my gratitude in person.”

Zhou Man’s expression remained neutral. “I do not wish to become entangled. I have no issues with Zhao Zhiyi, but I am a person recommended by the Wang family. It is inconvenient to forge closeness with other families. I hope you will understand.”

Song Lanzhen paused, slightly frowning, but Zhou Man had already bowed lightly and moved to her position in the upper-left corner.

Seated, she heard a quiet voice behind her.

“If I were you,” Miao Huanxi murmured, “I wouldn’t reject her so clearly.”

Zhou Man turned to look. Miao Huanxi reclined casually, her chin resting in her hands, an amused sparkle in her eyes. “For the family, those who do not become friends must consider the possibility of becoming enemies. And you… you took the sword head already. Your courage is admirable.”

Zhou Man inclined her head. “Thank you, senior sister, for your advice.”

Miao Huanxi’s gaze lingered, eyes shifting subtly. A faint smile curved her lips. “If you were a man, I would surely admire you.”

Zhou Man blinked in confusion. “I—You are neither…”

Before she could finish, Miao Huanxi’s eyes had already softened, her smile lingering with a subtle warmth.

Zhou Man exhaled silently. Damn it — gold cannot be exchanged for this kind of trouble, she thought, but the sensation was unavoidable.

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