Awakening

Jiang Ci woke up.

More accurately, she wasn't fully awake yet. Ever since Lu Yan had started cultivating, she had heard his low, heavy breathing, and her consciousness had struggled to wake up. But the warm blankets and her exhausted body felt like heavy chains, binding her tightly and dragging her back down.

It was as if someone were constantly whispering in her ear: Sleep a little longer, rest well. Jiang Ci was indeed exhausted—so exhausted that she didn't even dream, simply curling up in a pitch-black world.

Perhaps it was because Lu Yan had sweated too much. A strong, unfamiliar scent lingered in the air, mixed with sweat and a subtle, indefinable aggressiveness. Jiang Ci's rationality shrieked: Something is wrong, wake up now!

She opened her eyes.

An unfamiliar ceiling. It was made of wood, with some gaps stuffed with thatch. A dim, gray light leaked through the cracks, making it impossible to tell whether it was dawn or dusk. An unfamiliar bed, unfamiliar blankets.

Her wounds, which had been numb with pain, sent waves of stinging and cooling sensations through her body under the stimulation of the ointment. Her high fever had broken, but she still had a low-grade fever. Her head felt heavy, her throat felt as if it were stuffed with hot coals, and she had no strength left in her body.

Was I rescued? She squinted, turning her head slightly to look at the floor.

On the wooden floor lay her ruined, shredded clothes. Even her undergarments. The fabric had been cut into several pieces, scattered across the floor.

It felt as if someone had plunged an icicle into the back of Jiang Ci's head. Her mind went blank for a moment, her breath catching. Holding onto her last shred of hope, she slowly lowered her head to look at herself—

She was wearing absolutely nothing.

Crooked strips of cloth were wrapped around her ugly wounds, tight in some places and loose in others, with the knots tied haphazardly to the side. Under the blanket, she was covered by a male cultivator's robe made of coarse cotton, washed until it was faded, its edges frayed.

Jiang Ci's heart felt as if it were being squeezed by an invisible hand, tightening bit by bit. There was the sound of water outside—dripping, blending with the sound of the rain, making it hard to tell them apart. Someone was washing up.

She tried her best to swallow, but her throat felt constricted, refusing to budge.

“...Oh.”

Only after a long moment did she finally catch her breath, forcing air into her oxygen-deprived lungs. Her eyes felt dry and burning, so sore that they ached. She blinked hard once, then twice. There were no tears. Her eyes were completely dry.

The life in her eyes was fading away bit by bit. Like a lamp running out of oil, the flame flickered unsteadily before dying out completely. She closed her eyes and opened them again. Her grayish-white pupils held nothing now, resembling a silent lake without a single ripple.

She needed to find her sword.

Lu Yan had placed her sword in the basket, which sat right beside the bed. It leaned against the medicine basket, as if silently keeping her company this whole time.

She turned onto her side, trying to sit up. Her movements were very gentle, but they still tore at her numerous wounds. The newly knitted flesh tore open, and beads of blood seeped out, absorbed by the bandages. Dark red plum blossoms bloomed across the pristine white cloth. She didn't look down. She couldn't feel the pain. Her eyes were fixed only on the sword.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, she reached out for the medicine basket. Her fingertips brushed the rim—cold, woven bamboo, worn smooth in places. But she was still an inch away from the sword. She grit her teeth and gave a tug. The basket tipped over, spilling the herbs across the floor. The sword rolled out, falling to the ground with a dull thud as its scabbard struck the wooden floorboards.

Draped over the edge of the bed, she bent down to reach it. Her fingers wrapped around the scabbard. It was ice-cold and damp—she couldn't tell if it was from rain or something else. She lifted the sword and clutched it tightly to her chest. The scabbard felt cold against her chest. Her heart was just as cold.

Qinghan slid from its scabbard. The blade was covered in cracks, just like her heart. She reversed her grip, pointing the tip of the sword toward herself.

She no longer had the courage to live.

Every time she danced with death, every time she teetered on the brink, she had fought. One had to fight in this world. Fight heaven and earth for spiritual energy, fight the world against injustice. Others might have goals, attachments, or ambitions, but she had none. What kept her alive was a single breath—a stubborn, unyielding pride from the bottom of her heart that refused to bow. Relying on this breath of pride, she had used her broken life to clash head-on with this dog-eat-dog world. Even when her heart was gouged out, even when her cultivation was dispersed, even when she was exiled to the Northern Border to die, she had not given up. She had kept walking, kept heading east, still wanting to go home.

But reality had slapped her in the face in the most brutal way possible.

You think you have pride? Then I will break you step by step, throw you into the mud, and make sure you can never crawl back out. Her Glass Sword Heart had been gouged out. Her cultivation had been dispersed. Her sect had abandoned her. Her master couldn't save her. And the thing she was most proud of, the thing she had guarded for over twenty years—what she thought was her absolute last sanctuary, something no one was allowed to touch—had been taken from her while she lay unconscious.

Jiang Ci's hands trembled. Born with a Glass Sword Heart, she had felt that her sword was a part of her body from the very first time she held one; her hands had never shaken, not even when she was surrounded by the Ice Spirit Cult. But now, she was shaking. From her fingers to her elbows, from her elbows to her shoulders, her entire body was trembling. The tip of the sword pointed at her chest, hovering unsteadily over her skin. It wasn't that no one had ever mentioned dual cultivation to her, or that no one had ever subtly propositioned her. She had rejected them all. This was her bottom line, the very foundation of her existence. No matter how ruined the building on top was, it could always be rebuilt. But now, even her foundation had been dug up and destroyed. Not a single trace remained.

Tears finally gathered in her eyes. There were no sobs, no whimpers. The droplets silently slid down her chin, dripping onto the worn bedsheet and spreading into small damp circles.

She closed her eyes, gripping the hilt with both hands. Doing her best to steady the blade, she pulled it back to thrust it forward.

The tip of the sword pierced her skin. It didn't hurt—it was just cold. The coldness of iron. Beads of blood trickled down the blade, dripping onto the bedsheet and mixing with her tears until they were indistinguishable.

Just as she was about to push harder, the sword seemed to freeze. She couldn't push it in, nor could she pull it out. It was as if something from the outside was holding the blade fast.

She opened her eyes.

A hand had grabbed the blade. The fingers gripped it tightly, the knuckles turning white. She hadn't even heard his footsteps. She didn't know when he had entered, or how long he had been standing there.

Blood seeped through the gaps of his fingers, running down the back of his hand and dripping onto the bedsheet. One drop, then another.

He did not let go.