One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

Chapter 84 Practicing the Sword

The night was quiet, so quiet that I could hear my own heartbeat and breathing. The moon was large and round, its silvery light spilling across the courtyard, illuminating the bluestone slabs and casting long, slender shadows of bamboo.

Nie Lingfeng stood in the center of the courtyard, the moonlight illuminating him clearly. He looked down at the knife in his hand—the blade reflected the moonlight, as did his pale face and his eyes, which had not yet completely lost their color. He looked at his hand holding the knife; the veins on the back of his hand were bulging, his knuckles were white from excessive force, but… it was trembling slightly.

"I can't..." he murmured, his voice hoarse like a broken bellows, "I can't kill anymore... I can't..."

"Then don't kill."

A cold, clear voice came from the rooftop.

Nie Lingfeng suddenly looked up.

Under the moonlight, atop the eaves, sat a figure clad in a white Taoist robe, the wind blowing gently. His robes fluttered slightly in the night breeze, his long, ink-black hair was tied back with a simple wooden hairpin, a few stray strands falling across his forehead. He held a vermilion gourd in his hand, tilting his head back to take a sip; his Adam's apple bobbed, and his profile was outlined with clean, sharp lines in the moonlight.

It's Zhang Lingyu.

He didn't know when he arrived, nor how long he had been there.

"Master Lingyu..." Nie Lingfeng's voice was hoarse.

Zhang Lingyu floated down from the rooftop—truly "floated," his Taoist robe billowing as he landed as lightly as a feather, without disturbing a speck of dust. He stopped three steps in front of Nie Lingfeng, first looking at the pair of eyes still bearing traces of crimson, then at the Snow Drinking Blade tightly gripped in his hand, trembling slightly.

"Want to practice your sword skills?" he asked, his voice flat, as if asking, "Have you eaten yet?"

"I..." Nie Lingfeng opened his mouth, unsure how to answer. He didn't want to practice with the sword; he was afraid... afraid he wouldn't be able to control it, afraid the sword would swing out on its own.

"I'll practice with you." Before he could finish speaking, Zhang Lingyu tied the wine gourd back to his waist, raised his right hand, and pressed down with his left, assuming the most basic Tai Chi starting stance. "No need for Qi, no need for thunder magic, no need for the Golden Light Mantra. Just the most basic swordsmanship and the most basic fist and foot techniques. How about it?"

Nie Lingfeng was stunned.

He looked at Zhang Lingyu—this junior martial uncle of Longhu Mountain, a rising star among the younger generation, who at this moment resembled an ordinary martial arts instructor, assuming the most basic starting stance, his eyes calmly awaiting his response.

After a long silence, Nie Lingfeng nodded: "...Okay."

The two men took their stances under the moonlight.

Nie Lingfeng gripped the blade with both hands, not using the Six Techniques of Aohan, nor the Demon Blade, but simply the most basic "Chop"—raising it high above his head, channeling his power into the blade, and slashing straight down. The blade whistled through the air with a "whoosh."

Instead of retreating, Zhang Lingyu advanced, stepping forward with his right foot and parrying upward with his left hand—not by directly blocking, but by using the back of his hand to press against the side of the blade and deflect it to the side. The movement was slow and steady, like a patient teacher correcting a student's posture.

"clang!"

The blade was deflected and struck the bluestone slab, sending up a few sparks.

"Again," Zhang Lingyu said.

Nie Lingfeng sheathed his sword and slashed horizontally.

Zhang Lingyu turned to the side, gently pressed his right hand on the blade, and used the momentum to take a half step back.

"clang!"

Another soft sound.

There was no clash of Qi, no dazzling special effects, no earth-shattering roar. There were only the most basic sounds of weapons clashing and the whooshing sound of fists and feet cutting through the air. The movements were all slow, each move clear and distinct, like a teaching demonstration.

But Nie Lingfeng could feel that as each move unfolded, the surging killing intent in his heart was being gently soothed by a gentle hand. The burning sensation in his chest gradually cooled down, his breathing became steady, and the hand holding the knife stopped trembling.

So that's how knives can be used...

It's not for killing, not for destruction, but simply for... "use".

After practicing for about an hour, the two stopped simultaneously.

They were all drenched in sweat—not from exhaustion, but from intense concentration. A night breeze blew, evaporating the sweat and bringing a slight coolness.

"Thank you." Nie Lingfeng sheathed his sword and solemnly clasped his hands in thanks.

Zhang Lingyu shook his head, untied the gourd from his waist, uncorked it, took a sip, and then handed it to him: "Want some? I bought it down the mountain, it's pear blossom white. It's not a good wine, but it's strong enough."

Nie Lingfeng took it, hesitated for a moment, then tilted his head back and took a big gulp.

The liquor went down his throat like a burning line from his throat to his stomach, spicy and scorching, making him bend over and cough violently, tears streaming down his face.

Zhang Lingyu looked at him, and the corners of her mouth curved upwards slightly—very faintly, almost imperceptible, but it was definitely a smile.

"The first time I drank alcohol," he said, "it was like this too. My master gave it to me, saying it was to celebrate a victory. I took one sip and coughed for half an hour."

Nie Lingfeng straightened up, wiped away the tears he coughed up from the corners of his eyes, and smiled—though it was still somewhat forced, it was indeed a smile.

The two sat down on the stone steps in the courtyard.

The moonlight, like water, bathed the entire courtyard. In the distance, the faint chirping of insects drifted in and out.

"Master Lingyu," Nie Lingfeng suddenly spoke, his voice exceptionally clear in the still night, "Do you ever... lose control of yourself?"

Zhang Lingyu remained silent for a moment.

The night breeze ruffled the stray hairs on his forehead, and the moonlight cast soft shadows on his face. After a long while, he nodded: "Yes."

"When?"

"When using Yin Five Thunder," Zhang Lingyu raised his right hand, palm up. There was no Qi circulation, just this simple movement, "that power... is very dirty, very turbid, like water in a muddy swamp, like filth in a sewer. Every time I use it, I feel that I... have defiled this Taoist robe, that I am unworthy to be a disciple of Longhu Mountain, unworthy... to be my master's disciple."

His voice was calm, but Nie Lingfeng could hear the deep, almost overflowing pain hidden within it.

“But Master said,” Zhang Lingyu continued, his gaze fixed on his palm, as if there were truly a murky ball of lightning leaping there, “that is not the power that is dirty, but the human heart. When I use Yin Five Thunder to save a child, that lightning is clean, it is merit. When I use the Golden Light Mantra to slaughter the innocent, that golden light is dirty, it is sin.”

He paused, then turned to look at Nie Lingfeng. The moonlight reflected in his eyes, making them shine like two clear springs.

"Your demonic blade is the same. A blade is a blade, and a person is a person. A blade has no good or evil, but a person does. Don't let the blade... turn around and hold you."

Nie Lingfeng stared at him blankly.

After a long silence, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then nodded solemnly: "I understand."

These words are light, yet carry immense weight.

half a month later.

Nie Lingfeng can now maintain a clear mind even after circulating the Xuanwu True Scripture for three complete cycles. The Qilin tattoo on his chest still feels hot, and the killing moves of the Demon Blade and those bloody memories still flash through his mind, but he can now calmly watch them rise, surge, collide, and then... recede like the tide, like an observer.

Do not resist, do not fear, do not cling.

Just like watching the clouds in the sky, they come, gather, and disperse, but the sky is still the same sky.

Master Rongshan has been coming less and less. At first, he came three times a day—morning, noon, and evening—then once every two days, and now he hasn't shown up for three whole days.

That morning, Rong Shan arrived carrying a double-layered bamboo food box. When he opened the door, Nie Lingfeng was sitting cross-legged on a futon, chanting scriptures with his eyes closed. His voice was not loud, but each word was clear, like pearls falling onto a jade plate.

Rongshan didn't disturb them, and stood quietly at the door listening.

After reciting it once, Nie Lingfeng slowly opened his eyes, his eyes clear and without any trace of scarlet blood.

"Young friend Nie," Rong Shan smiled, a smile that held satisfaction, approval, and the kind of elder's affection for a junior's growth, "You've made great progress. Your eyes are much clearer, like a mountain spring that has just been washed."

Nie Lingfeng stood up, bowed, and accepted the food box: "Thank you for your guidance these past few days, Daoist Master."

"It's because you have innate talent." Rong Shan waved his hand. "By the way, there's a waterfall behind the mountain with crystal-clear water and beautiful scenery. If you're feeling bored, young friend Nie, you can go for a walk there. Practicing your skills in front of the waterfall—especially your mind—is even more effective."

Nie Lingfeng's eyes lit up.

That afternoon, he followed the path Rongshan had indicated and headed towards the back of the mountain.

Passing through a dense bamboo forest and along a narrow stone path barely wide enough for one person, the sound of rushing water grew louder, like a stampede of horses. Rounding the last bend, the view suddenly opened up before me—

Atop a hundred-foot cliff, a silver ribbon of water cascades down! The force is immense, crashing against the massive, dark blue rocks below, shattering them into a spray of mist. Sunlight shines obliquely, reflecting a complete rainbow within the mist, its seven colors distinct, a dreamlike spectacle. Below the waterfall lies a deep pool, its waters emerald green and unfathomable, the surface rippling constantly from the impact of the falls.

Nie Lingfeng found a flat boulder by the pool and sat down cross-legged.

He neither practiced martial arts nor chanted scriptures.

I just sat there, watching quietly.

Watch as the waterfall plunges relentlessly down the cliff, as the spray shatters and bursts, as new streams rush forth one after another, never ceasing. The roar of the water is deafening, but strangely, amidst this extreme clamor, the heart grows ever calmer.

As he looked at it, he suddenly smiled.

The laughter was soft, drowned out by the sound of the waterfall, but he heard it himself.

"I am like this water," he murmured to himself, his voice only audible to himself. "The Demon Blade is a waterfall, that unstoppable, destructive force. I am the water, the essence that carries that force. No matter how fierce the waterfall, it is still part of the water. I can be swept away by it and plunged off a cliff, shattered to pieces... or I can pass through it, see its true form, and then, carrying its power, continue forward."

He stood up and walked to the edge of the waterfall.

A wave of steam washed over him, carrying the unique, refreshing scent of a mountain spring. He took a deep breath, activated the Xuanwu True Scripture to protect his vital points, and then, step by step, walked beneath the waterfall.

The first step was as the water pounded on his head like a heavy hammer! His knees buckled, and he almost fell to his knees, but he quickly steadied himself.

The second step involved the water curtain completely obscuring vision, turning the world into a roaring, flowing white expanse. Nothing could be heard except the sound of water.

Third, he walked to the very center of the waterfall, where the water surged against his body from all directions, as if countless hands were pushing, pulling, and tearing at him. He closed his eyes, no longer using his eyes to see, but only his body to feel.

Then, he began to silently recite the Heart-Cleansing Mantra in his mind.

"The Great Dao is formless, yet it gives birth to Heaven and Earth..."

Strangely, this time, the Qilin tattoo on his chest didn't get hot. When those violent memories surfaced in his mind, they didn't stir up the slightest ripple, like a reflection in water, swaying slightly but not breaking.

He "watched" those memories—Shen Chong's death, Gao Ning's blood, his own maniacal laughter—as if he were watching someone else's story. There was emotion, there was sighing, but no anger, no fear, no... impulse.

He opened his eyes—though he couldn't see anything—and looked down at his hands.

His hands are very steady.

Even though it trembled slightly under the impact of the water flow, it was a natural reaction of the body to the pressure, not fear or loss of control.

Suddenly, a thought struck him, and he raised his hand to touch his hair.

His white hair clung to his scalp, soaked by the rushing water. He brushed the wet hair aside and brought it close to his eyes—in the dim light filtering through the water, he could vaguely see…

At the roots of my hair, there seems to be... a slightly different color?

It's not pure white anymore.

It was a very faint, almost invisible grayish-black. Like the first sprout of grass emerging from the frozen soil after a cold winter, timid yet tenacious, proclaiming the existence of life.

Nie Lingfeng was stunned.

He suddenly turned around, rushed out of the waterfall, stumbled and fell to the edge of the pool, and looked down at the water.

His face was reflected in the water: his complexion was flushed from holding his breath for so long, and water was dripping from his forehead, nose, and chin. But most importantly, it was his head of white hair—

At the roots of the hair, a faint, soft gray-black ring was clearly visible. Although it was still very light, and only a short section at the roots, it was definitely... black.

It wasn't dyed, it wasn't an illusion; it was real black hair that grew from the roots, his original hair color.

Nie Lingfeng stared blankly at his reflection in the water.

I watched it for a very long time.

Then he smiled.

It wasn't a loud laugh, nor a maniacal laugh, but a smile that rippled from the deepest part of his heart. It was faint, subtle, but so real that it brought tears to his eyes.

"I'm back..." he said softly, his voice trembling slightly. "I'm back."

It's not as simple as just turning gray hair black.

It was Nie Lingfeng, who was shrouded in demonic influence, entangled in fear, and swept up in madness, who finally broke through the fog and walked back into the light, step by step.

He lay on his back on the grass by the pool, looking up at the sky.

The sky was a deep blue, like the purest gemstone. White clouds drifted lazily by, their shapes ever-changing. In the distance, the evening bells of Longhu Mountain tolled, one after another, melodious and serene, echoing through the mountains and forests, through the sound of water, reaching his heart.

Nie Lingfeng closed his eyes.

He heard the sound of bells, the sound of waterfalls, the sound of the wind, the chirping of insects in the grass, and the steady, powerful beating of his own heart.

My heart is at peace.

Like the sea after a storm, calm and vast, reflecting the entire sky.

The devil is still here.

The beast was still in its cage, occasionally growling and baring its teeth.

But he was no longer afraid.

Because he knew that he himself was the one wielding the knife.

The key was also in his own hands.

This is enough.

Seriously, that's enough.