Zhou Man could not help but scold Jin Bu Chang silently in her mind. His behavior was absurd, and she felt a twinge of embarrassment, unsure how to respond or cover it up.
Just as she was lost in thought, the bell from the tower rang—the hour for the sword master’s class had arrived.
Relief washed over her, as if a weight had lifted. She whispered to Miao Huanxi, “Class,” and turned to enter. Yet a shiver ran down her neck; she could not shake the feeling of someone’s gaze lingering behind her.
The sword master began the lesson, focusing on sword moves and the operation of internal qi. Today’s instruction seamlessly connected with the notes of the Mud Bodhisattva, and Zhou Man listened attentively for the first time. She realized that, despite his gruff temper, the sword master truly deserved his place among the top five sword cultivators. Every word he spoke carried a precision and uniqueness that only experience could forge.
“The path of the sword is simple,” he began, echoing the Mud Bodhisattva’s notes. “I teach the most important and basic truth—the ‘one’ that gives birth to all things. The type of sword you wield comes from the type of person you are. A cunning person cannot produce a gentleman’s sword; a righteous and generous person cannot wield a dark sword. Swordsmanship emerges from your mind, your true heart. Do not presume that your family background allows you to learn all techniques; predecessors’ sword techniques are only references. Your journey is yours alone. Only by forging your own path can you glimpse the true ‘Tao’ of the sword.”
There were countless academies and sects across the world, yet how many masters dared to say such things to their students?
He continued, “I have produced countless disciples who have excelled in the sword path. Even those who attained enlightenment at Daiyue Fengzen and were crowned ‘Emperor’ by heaven and earth were shaped by swordsmanship. One was Emperor Wang of Xishan, Shuzhou, and the other the White Emperor of Baidi City, Zhongzhou. Countless sword immortals and sects never sought Zen enlightenment, yet their swords left lasting legacies.”
He spoke of Fengshan, the sacrifice to heaven, and Zen, the sacred place of worship. Enlightenment before heaven and earth was a mark of recognition; only then could one claim the title of Emperor, the pinnacle among monks.
Zhou Man listened, enraptured. Her mind wandered back to her previous life—besieged by Zhang Yi, unable to preach at Zen, uncertain if she could ever be crowned. Others had called her the “Emperor of Qizhou” because of her lineage and strength, but this title differed from true heavenly recognition.
Her thoughts returned to the present. If Master Jian insisted that each student must forge their own path, wouldn’t she also need to create a sword style that fit the mental method of Yi Shen Jue and her own heart? Only then could she glimpse the sword path and enter its true chamber.
Master Jian had noticed her absence during class over the past thirteen days and intended to help her catch up. Yet Zhou Man had approached the sword unnoticed, listening carefully, and assimilating everything silently.
When the lesson concluded, Master Jian asked, “Zhou Man, you have missed thirteen days of class. Can you understand today’s instruction?”
Zhou Man replied calmly, “The key points from class thirteen days ago were written down by classmates. I borrowed the notes and have understood the material fully.”
The sword master froze.
The entire hall knew the student who relied on written notes to learn swordsmanship, yet here she was, claiming comprehension. His eyes swept the door, where Wang Shu sat frowning over a spread of books, holding a sheep’s hair pen, lost in thought.
The sword master could hardly believe it—could someone truly learn swordsmanship from notes alone? And yet Zhou Man’s calm affirmation left no room for doubt.
Wang Shu, still mulling over Zhou Man’s earlier correction of his notes on pages twenty-two and twenty-three, slowly realized that the hall’s atmosphere had shifted. Curious eyes followed him, but he remained dazed, unsure of what had just happened.
Master Jian’s anger swelled to a fever pitch. “Outrageous! Completely outrageous!” he bellowed.
Li Pu, who had dozed off in the last row by the door, jolted awake at the sound. He lifted his head, blinking: “Wha—Who called me?”
The entire Sword Hall turned to him with sympathetic yet incredulous eyes.
The sword master’s veins bulged as his temper flared. His beard shook with fury. “Get out! Starting today, you’ll attend classes outside the hall! Dare to step in here again, and I’ll break your leg!”
Li Pu hurriedly hugged his face, still half-asleep, and retreated to the corridor, shrinking onto the floor in pitiful submission. He had no idea why calamity had struck from the sky, and he dared not utter a single word of protest.
The sword master’s voice thundered over the hall: “Don’t think that finishing the sword trial gives you the right to relax! When classes resume next month, you will start real sword and swordsmanship practice, with more competitions ahead! Your current rank or position won’t protect you—follow the results of the trials, or bear the consequences!”
Outside the hall, Wang Shu and Li Pu could only swallow hard, realizing they had no choice but to obey. The academy did not tolerate slacking.
As the bell rang to mark the end of class, the sword master’s fury still lingered, shaking the hall even as students filed out.
Miao Huanxi’s laughter broke the tension. “Junior Sister Zhou…”
Zhou Man snapped out of her thoughts. “Senior Sister Miao, class is over,” she said lightly, moving toward the door. As she passed, she didn’t forget to grab the back collar of a certain culprit and drag him down to the corridor outside.
Jin Buhuan, startled awake, protested, “Zhou Man? What are you doing?”
“How dare you speak nonsense?” Zhou Man shot back.
Jin Buhuan blinked. “What nonsense did I say?”
Zhou Man only reminded him of Miao Huanxi’s earlier comment, which left him staring at her in disbelief. “You actually said that in front of everyone?”
She remained expressionless. Jin Buhuan, feeling both amazed and amused, nearly laughed himself into a fit. “Mud Bodhisattva! Mud Bodhisattva, come quickly!” he called out, as if sharing a private joke.
Zhou Man kicked him lightly, expression still unchanging.
Even as he laughed uncontrollably, Jin Buhuan rambled about the Nichiren sect—its mysterious senior brothers and sisters, and the rumors that swirled around them. Zhou Man frowned slightly, noting how little she had known of this sect in her previous life.
Wang Shu approached, asking quietly, “What happened?”
Zhou Man gave him a warning glance, unwilling to recount her humiliation. Jin Buhuan finally stifled his laughter with a cough. “Cough… it’s fine now.”
Just then, a group of maids passed by carrying lacquer trays. Jin Buhuan’s eyes lit up. “Isn’t that Zhao Nishang?”
Zhou Man looked up. Zhao Nishang was indeed there, holding a tray with a brocade dress, seemingly delivering it to someone. Their eyes met briefly, then Zhao Nishang quickly averted her gaze.
Jin Buhuan, ever curious, asked, “Have you already asked her for repayment?”
Zhou Man’s reply was curt: “It has nothing to do with you.”
Bored, he waved his hands. “Too lazy to ask. Mud Bodhisattva, help me get leave this afternoon.”
Wang Shu raised an eyebrow. “It’s talisman class—won’t you attend?”
“Tomorrow is a rest day,” Jin Buhuan shrugged. “I’ll be checking people at Chen Temple. Can’t spare the time.”
Zhou Man glanced at him silently, noting his habitual flippancy. He paused mid-step, then turned with a mischievous grin, his bright peach blossom eyes sparkling. “Zhou Man… you actually believed me before?”
She frowned, momentarily speechless.
Jin Buhuan laughed, shaking his fan behind him, and strode off. Zhou Man watched him go, silently chastising herself for her earlier carelessness—believing in his words in front of Miao Huanxi had been a mistake.
Shaking off the lingering irritation, she told Wang Shu a few parting words and returned to the East House. The academy would be closed tomorrow, and many students had already left.
Zhou Man, however, did not rush. She sat quietly in her room, counting the hours. As dusk approached, soft footsteps sounded outside her door.
“Senior Sister Zhou… are you still here?”
She opened the door to see Zhao Nishang standing there, holding a lacquer tray.
“Come in,” Zhou Man said calmly.
Zhao Nishang entered, carrying the tray before her. Inside lay a new dark robe, meticulously folded. She held it high, presenting it with trembling hands.
Zhou Man examined the robe in silence.
Zhao Nishang’s eyes reddened slightly as she spoke, voice low but steady. “Senior Sister, I’ve thought about your words all night. I’m weak… my skills are limited. All I can offer is the Rainbow Garment technique passed down from my father. I wish to serve you from now on.”
The robe was crafted from Xuan Ye brocade, embroidered with the delicate thread called “Oriental White.” The pattern wove across the dark fabric like clouds at dawn rising over the sea.
Unknown to anyone, Zhao Nishang had stayed awake all night, enduring countless pricks of the needle and bleeding fingertips, refusing to stop. She had only her craft to offer—the only way she could repay Zhou Man’s teaching.
She lowered her head, closing her eyes, as if awaiting a verdict, fearing rejection.
A long silence passed. Then Zhou Man laughed softly. “Not bad.”
Zhao Nishang’s eyes widened, lifting the tray slightly. Zhou Man picked up the robe, examining it carefully as the last rays of the setting sun filtered through the window, casting a golden glow. The warmth of the light reflected the effort and sincerity embedded in each stitch.
Zhao Nishang’s tension melted. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she did not cry out.
Zhou Man, unbothered by the display, said lightly, “I accept the price you’ve paid. I still need to go down the mountain today. Wait for the rest to end, then come to the East House.”
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