chsdbacks Chapter 422 One-Day Holiday
Chapter 422 One-Day Holiday
A three-day holiday is neither too long nor too short.
For Zhang Chulan, these three days were basically a three-dimensional combination of his bed, curtains, and takeout boxes. He rented a small, north-facing single room on the third floor of the company's dormitory building in the suburbs of Beijing. On the windowsill sat two succulents that had long since withered into specimens. The moment he kicked off his shoes upon entering the room, he collapsed into the mattress, his head sinking into the pillow, the blanket pulled from his feet to his chin, his whole body wrapped up like a silkworm cocoon. On the first day, he slept for nearly twenty hours, only getting up around 3 a.m. to drink half a bottle of mineral water before pouring it back down. The second day was slightly better; he woke up once around 2 p.m. from hunger, ordered a spicy hot pot takeout on his phone, ate it, wiped his mouth, and slumped back into his pillow. On the third day, he entered a semi-conscious state, too lazy even to turn over. He opened his eyes, looked at the chandelier on the ceiling, closed them again, and fell asleep.
Wang Zhenqiu came to see him twice. The first time was at noon the next day. He ran to Zhang Chulan's dormitory door with two boxes of packaged mutton skewers and knocked for three minutes. Only a muffled "I don't eat—" came from the crack in the door, the tone drawn out like the dying cry of some endangered animal. Wang Zhenqiu listened to the sounds inside for a long time—he heard nothing but even snoring. He sighed, said to the crack in the door, "Then you can continue being your hibernating bear," and then put one box of mutton skewers on the ground by the door and left with the other box. The second time was in the evening of the third day. He passed by and came up to take a look again. The box of mutton skewers was still there, but there was a layer of morning dew and a line of ants on the outer packaging. Wang Zhenqiu squatted down and looked at it for three seconds, then silently picked up the box and left.
"This guy is hopeless." He shook his head and muttered to himself at the bottom of the stairs, then went to eat hot pot alone. He made three bowls of dipping sauce, and after he was full, he even ordered a bowl of hand-pulled noodles.
Feng Baobao's three-day holiday was ridiculously regular. Every morning at 5:30, she would appear on the small playground downstairs from her dormitory, wearing a faded tracksuit and jogging slowly around the track with her hair in a ponytail. Her strides were short and even, like a clock with lubrication. After running for forty minutes, she would go to the cafeteria for a standard breakfast—two steamed buns, a bowl of porridge, and a boiled egg. She would peel the egg quickly and neatly, keeping the shell intact and never crumbling into pieces. At noon, she would sit in her usual chair by the window, basking in the sun, hugging her knees with her back to the window, like a lazy cat, her eyes half-closed, for more than an hour. In the evening, she would sit in front of the TV watching a local news program, a bowl of washed cherry tomatoes at her feet, watching with great interest, occasionally taking one from the bowl and popping it into her mouth, chewing until a little red juice seeped from the corner of her mouth.
On the afternoon of the third day, she suddenly had a whim and went to the supermarket, returning with a plastic bag of groceries—tomatoes, eggs, green peppers, a block of firm tofu, half a pound of pork belly, and two bunches of greens. For nearly an hour, the kitchen was filled with the sounds of clattering tables and the smell of cooking oil drifting out through the window cracks, causing passersby to quicken their pace. When Zhang Chulan was woken up by a phone call and groggily rushed to her dorm to taste the food, three dishes and a soup were already laid out on the table: the tomato and egg stir-fry had burnt-black egg pieces, the pork slices in the green pepper and pork dish were cut into uneven pieces, almost like ribs, and a layer of gray foam floated on top of the tofu and vegetable soup. Zhang Chulan picked up a piece with her chopsticks and put it in her mouth, her jaw stiffening for three seconds before she slowly swallowed, wiped her mouth, and looked at Feng Baobao very seriously: "Bao'er, you shouldn't cook anymore."
Feng Baobao tilted her head, expressionless, picked up a piece of burnt tomato and scrambled eggs, chewed it, and swallowed. Then she put down her chopsticks, picked up her soup bowl, took a sip, put the bowl back on the table, and calmly said, "It's alright."
Zhang Chulan was certain she was serious based on her expression.
Zhang Lingyu locked himself in his guest room and meditated. The room faced north, the curtains were drawn tightly shut, and a towel was stuffed under the door to prevent light from getting in. He sat cross-legged on a futon, his back straight as a vertical axis drawn by an ink line, his breathing long and even, each inhalation lasting seven breaths and each exhalation lasting nine breaths, as slow as the rise and fall of the tide.
For three whole days, he didn't eat or drink a drop of water or a grain of rice. He only got up in the early morning to open the window and stand for a short while to get some fresh air before sitting back down.
On the morning of the third day, Master Wang Ye came and knocked on his door, carrying a chessboard and two cups of hot tea. He knocked three times but no one answered. He listened for a while to the faint breathing sounds coming from the crack in the door, shrugged, and sat down in the courtyard by himself. He set up the chessboard, played three games with his left and right hands, drank two cups of tea, and after basking in the sun, he put the chessboard away and went to his room for a nap.
Nie Lingfeng spent almost all of his three-day holiday on Lu Linglong.
Nie Lingfeng had anticipated Lu Linglong's dedication to cultivation after becoming her disciple, but he was still momentarily surprised when he actually saw her schedule. Every day, she was already standing in the courtyard before dawn, wearing light training clothes, her hair neatly tied into a high ponytail with a hemp rope, and the stray hairs on her forehead were stuck to her skin with sweat.
She first practiced the Ice Heart Technique for an hour, standing in a stance with her eyes closed and arms crossed in front of her chest. A faint chill condensed into a fine layer of white frost in the morning light, and the rhythm of her breathing gradually became long and slow from its initial awkwardness. Then she switched to practicing the footwork of the Wind God Leg, her toes touching the ground and drawing continuous arcs on the blue brick floor. The movements went from slow to fast, and the footprints grew larger and larger. Finally, she moved like a gust of wind, darting and spinning in the courtyard, the fallen leaves she stirred up swirling around her in the air, forming a small vortex that lingered for a long time before finally settling down.
She practiced the Cloud-Dispelling Palm technique with particular fervor. With each flick of her palms, the wind from her palms created a deep, resonant hum in the air. The branches of the old locust tree in the corner of the courtyard trembled violently from the shockwaves of her every push, sending several withered leaves tumbling and flying over the wall. A thin layer of calluses formed on her elbows and palms, and bruises, both old and new, overlapped on her knees and calves. But she never complained of pain; she simply gritted her teeth, breaking down the movements and practicing them again and again. Occasionally, she would stop, furrow her brow, and mutter, "No, no, the energy isn't flowing smoothly here," before starting all over again.
Nie Lingfeng moved a rattan chair to the porch, held a cup of hot tea, and watched quietly. After three days of observation, he noticed something: Lu Linglong's comprehension of the Cloud-Dispelling Palm was significantly faster than that of the Wind God Leg. She had practiced the Wind God Leg for three days, but her footwork still occasionally faltered; her center of gravity would sway when turning, and her toes would sometimes deviate slightly. However, on the third day of practicing the Cloud-Dispelling Palm, she could already unleash three consecutive layers of palm force, though still somewhat clumsy, her technique was flawless. What struck him even more was her perception of the sword—two days ago, he casually tossed her a twig to practice with. Her demeanor when holding the twig was completely different from when she held a knife. When holding a knife, her brows were furrowed, her shoulders tense, as if she were wrestling with the weapon; when holding the twig, her wrists relaxed, her shoulders and back relaxed, and the trajectory of her swing was much smoother, her eyes shining.
"This girl is more suited to the path of the sword." Nie Lingfeng thought to himself, put down his teacup, and tapped his fingertips lightly on the armrest of the rattan chair.
That evening, he returned to his room and opened a wooden box he always carried with him. The bottom of the box was lined with dark blue velvet, and inside lay two tightly bound booklets. The covers were old-fashioned blue cloth hardcovers, their edges worn rounded, showing they had been read many times. He pulled out the two booklets and flipped through them under the lamp. The pages had an aged, yellowish-brown hue, but the handwriting was as clear as new. Each page was densely covered with human figures depicting sword techniques, and the annotations in tiny, meticulous characters were written beside them.
The next morning, he called Lu Linglong to the center of the courtyard.
"Master!" Lu Linglong ran over with a thin layer of sweat on her forehead and a small wet patch on the collar of her training clothes. After she stopped, she respectfully clasped her hands in a salute and looked at Nie Lingfeng with bright eyes.
Nie Lingfeng handed over two booklets. Lu Linglong took them and glanced down. On the cover were four powerful characters in ink—"Holy Spirit Sword Technique"—and underneath was another book with "Overlord Sword" written on its spine. She turned a page, and dense sword manuals and annotations rushed towards her. Her fingertips rubbed the pages, and her breathing quickened slightly.
"Master, are these two sword techniques... impressive?" She looked up, her voice almost overflowing with anticipation.
"Impressive." Nie Lingfeng nodded, his tone flat, but the last syllable of his next sentence was slightly emphasized. "Extremely impressive. If you master any one of these techniques, you'd be among the top-tier individuals in the current world of supernatural beings."
"Really?!" Lu Linglong's eyes lit up, her cheeks flushed with excitement, and she almost jumped up and down in the yard. "Then I'll definitely practice hard! I'll practice two extra hours every day! No, three hours!"
"Don't be too happy yet." Nie Lingfeng snatched the "Overlord Sword" from her hand, flipped through a page, and pointed to a line of annotation for her to read. "The 'Holy Spirit Sword Technique' emphasizes the feeling and understanding of the way of the sword. You need to be calm and focused; you can't rush it or be impatient. Without enough patience and talent, you can't master it. The 'Overlord Sword' may seem simple and straightforward, but its essence is sword intent—that decisive power to move forward without hesitation and cut through everything. Without a firm will and a resolute determination ingrained in your bones, all you'll achieve is empty showmanship."
He closed the booklet and handed it back to her, his gaze slightly more somber than before: "I'll give you both sword techniques together. The choice is yours, the path you choose. But let me make this clear—this path won't be smooth; it will be very difficult."