chsdbacks Chapter 29: Losing the Sword Heart
Chapter 29: Losing the Sword Heart
Fox spirit.
That year, the mastermind behind the Seventy-Two Caves of the Southern Kingdom, Bian Naonian, stained the sky of the southern border of the human race with blood. Twelve cities fell one after another, and the cries of agony were swept into the sky by the demonic wind, turning into dark clouds that lingered for months.
When Dongfang Guyue, the former patriarch of Shenhuo Mountain Manor, went south to fight the Demon Emperor Huandu Qingtian, even a small mountain village a thousand miles away from the battlefield could hear the rumbling thunder coming from the south—it wasn't thunder, but the aftershocks of the two powerful figures of the era tearing through the sky. Then, the rain began to fall, fine and dense, as if the sky itself had cried itself out and was left only with this endless sobbing.
The rocks outside the village were a dark red from the rain, whether naturally so or truly soaked in blood was unclear. A figure with a missing left arm leaned against the rock, his tattered black robe clinging to his gaunt frame. He gazed at the churning dark clouds to the south, his Adam's apple bobbing several times before he finally uttered a hoarse, broken voice:
"Can I eat this?"
Before a solitary grave not far away, a woman in plain clothes was placing the third incense stick into the damp soil. The rising smoke was quickly dispersed by the rain. In a rough pottery dish in front of the grave, three white steamed buns were still slightly warm—her husband's favorite food.
She looked up at him. His gaze was as still as a deep pool, devoid of sorrow or joy, reflecting only the hazy sky.
"These are my husband's things." Her voice was soft, yet it pierced through the rain. "Ask him."
Having said that, he gathered up the rain-soaked hem of his clothes, turned, and headed down the mountain. His plain cloth shoes trod through the mud, leaving shallow puddles with each step, and he soon disappeared at the end of the winding path.
Beside the rocky cliffs, only the pattering of rain remained.
Then came the suppressed, slow sound of chewing. He grabbed the bun with his only remaining right hand, biting into it one bite at a time, chewing forcefully as if it weren't food, but something that had to be crushed and swallowed. Rainwater mixed with crumbs of bun dripped from the corner of his mouth, which he caught and licked clean.
From that day on, the small mountain village gained a silent, one-armed young man.
No one knew where he came from, only that his name was Zhou Yi, and that he had exchanged a few pieces of silver for an abandoned hunter's hut at the east end of the village. Across a narrow dirt road from the hut was the home of the widow Yang Yan.
Zhou Yi made his living by hunting. He would go up the mountain before dawn every day and return at dusk, usually carrying roe deer or rabbits on his shoulders. He spoke very little; when villagers greeted him, he would only nod in response. His left sleeve was always empty, tied at his waist with a straw rope, swaying gently in the wind as he walked, like some kind of tattered flag.
Yang Yan was also a woman of few words. Every day, besides tending to a small vegetable garden behind the house, she would sit by the window, gazing at the distant horizon—where dark clouds always seemed to gather. Her features were actually quite beautiful, but she rarely showed any expression, as if half of her soul had been lost, leaving only an empty shell in the world.
As time went by, gossip began to circulate in the village.
"The two of them looked exactly alike, as if they had lost their souls."
"Could they be a couple from a past life, who have found each other in this one?"
"Tsk, a widow and a cripple, they're quite a match..."
The story was repeated three times, and some people secretly believed it. A naughty child threw stones at Yang Yan's courtyard gate, but after she gave him a quiet glance, he was so frightened that he turned and ran away—there was no anger in her eyes, but they were so cold that they made people's hearts tremble.
"Are you really not my father?"
That evening, Zhou Yi carried the wild boar he had just hunted down the mountain, his left sleeve fluttering in the mountain wind. A little tail followed beside him—Mu Mie, Yang Yan's son, who had just turned seven this year. His features were already showing his mother's outline, and he was stubbornly tilting his head back.
"No." Zhou Yi looked down at him, his face expressionless.
"I don't believe it." Mu Mie followed his empty sleeve. "If you're not my father, why do you always give me meat to eat? And teach me to read?"
"You owe your father."
"You know my father?!" Mu Mie's eyes suddenly lit up.
"I don't know him."
Zhou Yi stopped in his tracks. Ahead lay the low courtyard, where Yang Yan sat by the window, her gaze quietly fixed on them—or rather, on Mu Mie.
Mu Mie suddenly fell silent, instinctively hiding behind Zhou Yi, her small hands clenching the empty sleeve.
It wasn't until Zhou Yi gently lifted him out and escorted him to the courtyard gate that he was finally brought out.
"Let's go back."
Having said that, he turned and walked towards the simple wooden hut opposite. A few tree trunks hastily formed a courtyard, where some chickens and ducks were kept—something that wasn't originally necessary. A Taoist practitioner no longer needs to eat the food of the mortal world. But now he needed these living creatures, needed their clucking and chirping, needed feeding and cleaning to fill his time.
Mu Mie lowered his head and went into the house.
Without even looking up, he could feel his mother's gaze, silently enveloping him like an invisible veil.
"Mother," he called softly.
no respond.
He climbed onto the stool by the table, tiptoed to retrieve the brush and ink, and began to trace the characters. The light outside the window gradually dimmed, smoke rose from the village chimneys one after another, and scattered lights spread out in a dim yellow halo in the deepening night.
When the oil lamp was lit, a plate of three steamed buns was gently placed beside him.
Mother was no longer at the table. In the next bedroom, a dim yellow light shone through the crack in the door.
Mu Mie put down his pen, sniffed the aroma of food wafting from the air—it came from Uncle Zhou's house across the street. He tucked the cooled buns into his pocket, slipped out of the yard, and familiarly pushed open the creaking fence across the street, shooing away the flapping chickens and ducks, and stepped into the house.
Hot dishes were already laid out on the table: braised pork glistened with an amber light, scrambled eggs were golden and fluffy, green vegetables were so tender they seemed to drip with juice, and bright red wild fruits were arranged in a circle. In the center, a pot of clear soup simmered, steaming hot.
Mu Mie swallowed hard, sat down, picked up the bowl, and began to eat heartily with the steamed buns he had taken out of his pocket. He ate with great seriousness, chewing each bite very carefully, as if it were some kind of solemn ceremony.
The little one had an amazing appetite, finishing off the entire plate and even using the soup to dip the buns in the broth.
He neatly cleared away the dishes, squatted outside the door by the wooden basin to wash and dry them, returned them to their original place, and then patted his round belly as he went home.
He blew out the oil lamp, crawled into bed, and quickly fell asleep—in his dream, he rode on Zhou Yi's shoulders, calling out "Daddy" again and again, begging him to buy him candied hawthorns. Zhou Yi still had that expressionless face, but he really did take out a string of bright red candied hawthorns from his sleeve and hand them to him.
Once his breathing had evened out, the lights in the bedroom next door quietly went out.
The moonlight was thin, and deep in the mountains, waterfalls cascaded like ribbons, their roar echoing.
A figure stood by the pool, soaked to the bone, it was hard to tell whether it was sweat or splashing water. He was breathing heavily, his only remaining right hand was trembling slightly, and the surrounding rock walls were covered with messy handprints of varying depths, the deepest of which was almost three inches embedded in the stone.
A sword was deeply embedded in the giant rock standing before him.
The sword was covered in rust, its blade so dull it could be used to chop firewood. The guard was wrapped with strips of cloth soaked in black blood, seemingly having remained silent for a hundred years, just like the rocks.
Zhou Yi stared at the sword, something surging in his eyes, which he then forcefully suppressed. He turned and struck the rock wall with his palm again, sending pebbles tumbling down.
"One mouthful for the world".
Wandering Taoist priests often carry this banner as they travel the world. Most of them have no real magic; they are just ordinary people who earn a living by telling old stories and anecdotes passed down through the Taoist alliance. True cultivators disdain doing this, yet tacitly approve—after all, those stories are also a kind of inheritance.
On this day, such a flag was planted under the ancient tree in the small mountain village.
The villagers gradually gathered around: an old man fanning himself with a palm-leaf fan, a woman carrying a vegetable basket, and a man who had just put down his farm tools. As soon as Mu Mie came out of school, he ran over, taking advantage of his small size and agility, and squeezed through the crowd to the front, his eyes shining as he stared at the Taoist priest.
"Last time we talked about the Eastern Divine Fire and the King's Sword, today we'll discuss the Daoist Heavenly Eye—the Yang Family!" The Daoist struck his gavel, his voice rising and falling in cadence. "The Yang family members possess divine eyes on their foreheads, capable of seeing through all techniques. No matter how exquisite your moves or how concealed your inner energy, under the Heavenly Eye, everything is as clear as watching fish in still water, completely transparent. Hence the saying in the martial world: 'Be cautious before you meet the Yangs, for fear will arise before the battle even begins…'"
Like the other children around him, Mu Mie was deeply moved by what he heard. He subconsciously touched his forehead—it was smooth and flat, with nothing on it.
He had always admired those cultivators who could fly and escape into the heavens, but whenever he mentioned it to his mother, she would lower her eyes and remain silent for a long time. Once, when he pressed her for answers, his mother didn't sleep all night, sitting by the window until dawn.
He didn't want to see his mother sad, so from then on he only dared to secretly listen to stories, suppressing his longing deep in his heart, like hiding a burning stone.
Until one night not long after, a real monk entered the mountain village.
The man, dressed in a blue robe with a jade pendant at his waist, moved with a light and graceful gait, seemingly untouched by dust. As he passed Yang Yan's house, he paused, his gaze falling on the figure sitting quietly by the window, a complex emotion flashing in his eyes.
Mu Mie was squatting in the yard feeding the chickens when he saw this and couldn't help but chase after them out the door.
Almost simultaneously, the door of the wooden house opposite creaked open. Zhou Yi's figure leaped up like a ghost, blocking the path of the man in blue robes. The night breeze fluttered their clothes, and the bright moon hung overhead, its clear light shining down, allowing Mu Mie to see for the first time—that the usually taciturn Uncle Zhou actually had such a pair of eyes, sharp as an unsheathed sword.
"My name is Yang Yitan. I have no ill intentions and have come to pay my respects to an old friend." The man in the blue robe bowed, his voice clear and melodious like a jade chime.
Mu Mie was then surprised to find that the newcomer actually had a faint golden mark on his forehead, resembling an eye that was half-closed.
He was about to speak when he heard a soft voice behind him:
"Mie'er".
His mother was already standing behind him, the moonlight making her face appear exceptionally serene, as still as a jade sculpture.
"Mother!" Mu Mie hurriedly turned around.
Upon seeing that the newcomer was Yang Yitan, Zhou Yi concealed his aura and vanished in a flash. The figure that soared away through the air was as light as a feather, leaving Mu Mie stunned, the burning stone in his heart almost leaping out of his chest.
"Yi Tan, I pay my respects to my aunt." Yang Yi Tan landed and bowed deeply to Yang Yan.
"Aunt? Senior..." Mu Mie was stunned, looking at Yang Yitan, then at his mother.
"He's your cousin," Yang Yan said calmly, her gaze lingering for a moment on the golden mark on Yang Yitan's forehead.
After saying that, she turned and went back into the house, the hem of her plain-colored dress sweeping across the threshold like a cloud.
"Respectfully seeing off my aunt." Yang sighed and bowed, only straightening up after the door closed.
"Who was that just now?" Yang Yi sighed as he looked at Mu Mie, but his gaze drifted toward the tightly closed wooden house across the way.
"It's Uncle Zhou, he lives across from us. He's a very nice guy, he always gives me meat to eat," Mu Mie said quickly, then added after thinking for a moment, "He's just not very talkative."
Yang sighed thoughtfully. The man, surnamed Zhou, who carried no sword yet embodied sword intent… must be the person he knew.
Zhou Yi, a rogue cultivator, unaffiliated with any sect, is undisputed as the foremost swordsman among the younger generation in the Southern Territory. Three years ago, during the Southern Territory Sword Tournament, he defeated the direct disciples of seven major sects with his "Thirteen Swords of Lone Peak," ultimately achieving a draw with the eldest disciple of Shenhuo Mountain Manor, thus becoming famous throughout the land. It was assumed he had perished in the recent invasion of the Southern Kingdom—rumor had it that a swordsman defended a lonely city, slaying over a thousand demons before collapsing from exhaustion, leaving no trace of his body. Unexpectedly, he has vanished in this place.
If that person knew, he would definitely be eager to come and challenge her to a sword duel. Yang sighed, recalling a certain peer who was obsessed with swords, a slight smile appeared on his lips, which he quickly suppressed.
That night, Yang Yitan stayed in the small mountain village. Under the moonlight, he pointed his finger at Mu Mie's forehead, and a soft golden light seeped in. Mu Mie felt a warmth between his brows, as if something had awakened, and his vision suddenly became several times clearer, even the tiny cracks of the burning lamp wick could be seen clearly.
"The Heavenly Eye needs to be nurtured by bloodline. You are still young, so I will open a sliver for you." Yang Yi sighed and withdrew his hand, then passed on to him a set of self-created foundation-building techniques. "Although this technique has no offensive or defensive features, it can solidly accumulate spiritual power. When your Heavenly Eye matures, you will be able to learn all the laws of the world through your eyes."
Mu Mie nodded blankly, feeling a warm current slowly flowing through his body.
From that day on, Mu Mie often secretly observed Zhou Yi's cultivation. At first, it was just out of curiosity, but later, as his divine eye gradually opened, he was actually able to see a certain pattern in the energy flowing around Zhou Yi's body when he was practicing. The energy was sometimes like a babbling brook, and sometimes like a raging torrent, but in the end, it all returned to a solid "core" in his dantian.
Within a few days, he followed the same breathing exercises and actually learned a set of sword principles—not techniques, but principles, the fundamentals of "how the sword should move." Almost overnight, his entire demeanor changed dramatically. When still, he was like an ancient well; when moving, his sharpness was revealed. He even frightened the little girl sitting at the next table in the school to tears, and even the teacher who was giving the lesson turned pale and dared not ask him to recite anymore.
After that, Mu Mie stopped going to school and studied on his own in his courtyard. He was happy to be free, spending his days practicing with a straight, sharpened tree branch—not just flailing it around randomly, but practicing swordsmanship. No one taught him; he learned the sword techniques from observing the rusty sword on the boulder beneath the waterfall with his third eye: whenever he focused his gaze, he would see a hazy figure dancing beside the sword, its movements ethereal, the sword light as white as snow, its dance bearing somewhat similar to the occasional aura that Uncle Zhou sometimes displayed. He imitated it, and gradually, each move took shape, the tree branch even producing a subtle, sharp sound as it cut through the air.
He had once asked Zhou Yi why there was a figure dancing with a sword beside the sword. Zhou Yi always remained silent, only giving him a deep look, his eyes containing something Mu Mie could not understand, heavy and weighty, like the rusty sword pressing down on the bottom of the pool.
The days flowed by like the little river beside the village.
One night, Zhou Yi was sitting cross-legged by the waterfall, meditating as usual. The moonlight, like water, poured down on his shoulders, making the empty sleeve appear pale white.
Fallen leaves touch the water, creating delicate ripples.
A figure suddenly descended from beneath the moon, a sword in his arms, his face covered by a golden mask that reflected a cold, hard light in the moonlight. He lightly touched the ground with his toes, landing precisely on the rusted hilt of the sword stuck in the boulder, as light as a feather.
Silent, yet like a thunderclap.
The Book of Changes opens its eyes.
Beneath the mask, a pair of eyes shone brightly, staring directly at him. A voice came through the mask, carrying a metallic hum:
"I've found you."
The wind stopped, and the water stagnated.
Two people, one sitting and one standing, met each other's gazes, and the air seemed to freeze.
"Unfortunately, you've lost your swordsmanship..."
Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.
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