The next day at the hour of Chen, Lin Zhiyue arrived right on time at the martial arena on the west side of the main peak.
The martial arena was a vast platform paved with green jade. Surrounded by mountains on three sides and bordering a cliff on the fourth, morning mist surged up from the precipice, rolling like waves along the edge of the platform.
Qi Yan was already standing in the center of the arena. Clad in fiery red martial attire, his high ponytail was tied back neatly. The pitch-black long saber that usually hung at his waist was gone, and in his hand, he now held a sword.
The blade was slender and entirely silver-white with a faint golden sheen. As the morning sunlight pierced the mist and fell upon the edge, it refracted a thin, sharp line of light.
He stood there with his hand down, holding the sword. Hearing Lin Zhiyue's approaching footsteps, he lifted his eyelids slightly and said only a single sentence: “Today, I will teach you how to use a sword.”
Lin Zhiyue paused in her tracks. “Alright.”
“First, I'll teach you to understand your weapon.” Qi Yan switched the sword from his right hand to his left. With a gentle flick of his wrist, the blade traced an extremely thin and swift arc through the air. The sound of the edge cutting the wind was much clearer and crisper than that of a saber, like a tightly wound string being plucked. “Your spiritual root leans toward cold, while saber techniques are fierce and domineering. Controlling a saber with cold requires using strength to break strength. It's not that you can't practice it, but you will find a sword much smoother.
“Swords are light and nimble, possessing a natural affinity with wind spiritual energy. When ice attributes are attached to the blade, they can condense frost into a sharp edge. Combining the two is where the advantage of your Heavenly Spiritual Root lies.”
“Today, I will pass down a basic sword art to you. I created it myself in my early years, and it is easier to pick up than ordinary routines. Watch from the side.”
Without waiting for Lin Zhiyue to reply, he took two steps back and lowered his stance slightly.
Then, he moved.
When Lin Zhiyue recalled this scene later, only one line of poetry from her past life came to mind—A single sword's frost freezes fourteen provinces.
Qi Yan's figure stretched into a red afterimage in the morning mist. As the sword-light scattered, the temperature of the entire martial arena seemed to plunge by several degrees.
His strikes were not fast; they even carried a leisurely rhythm. However, the trajectory of each strike was as clean as if drawn with a ruler. Wherever the tip of his sword tapped, a thin line of frost remained in the air, refusing to dissipate for a long time.
The sword shadows interwoven in perfect order. Between the sparse and dense strokes, there was actually a hint of the artistic charm of pine branches on ancient paintings—sparse enough to let a horse gallop through, yet dense enough to block the wind.
Lin Zhiyue stood by the edge of the arena, completely mesmerized.
It was completely different from the silent, solemn pressure Qi Yan exuded when wiping his saber. The moment he held a sword, his entire aura transformed.
With a saber in hand, Qi Yan was like a silent volcano, suppressing a bellyful of heat and sharpness, burning anyone who dared draw near.
But with a sword in hand—his red martial attire fluttered, his ponytail rising and falling with his movements to scatter in the morning breeze. The arcs traced by the tip of his sword were clean and neat, yet not overbearing. Every step he took and every turn of his wrist carried a relaxed, youthful grace, like a young general riding a horse across the plains in spring. Where the hooves passed, the grass turned fresh and green; where the blade swept, frost flowers began to bloom.
Lin Zhiyue suddenly remembered a historical drama she had watched in her past life. In it, there was a young general who rode in on a horse wearing red robes. When his sword left its scabbard, blossoms all over the city swirled up with it. That passionate, unbridled, and utterly carefree dash and vigor overlapped perfectly with the sword-wielding Qi Yan on the martial arena right now.
She even forgot to breathe. Only when Qi Yan withdrew his sword and stood still, its tip pointing toward the ground as the residual frost lines in the surrounding air slowly dissolved in the sunlight, did she finally let out the breath she had been holding for so long.
Qi Yan rotated his wrist and turned the sword horizontally to glance at the edge, as if confirming whether the sword art he had just performed had damaged the blade.
He looked up at Lin Zhiyue, his tone returning to its usual flat, indifferent note. “Did you understand?”
“I didn't understand the details,” Lin Zhiyue said honestly, “but I got the essence.”
Qi Yan did not press her on what she meant.
He lowered his head and rummaged through his storage bag for a moment, pulling out three or four iron swords of varying quality. After weighing them, he drew the one that looked the lightest and handed it toward Lin Zhiyue.
“Practice with this first. Wooden swords are too light to build proper muscle memory. This iron sword weighs three catties and seven taels, suitable for beginners—”
“Master,” Lin Zhiyue interrupted him, retrieving the Azure Scale Sword from her system space. “Can I practice with this instead?”
The moment the Azure Scale Sword was unsheathed, the residual frost lingering at the edge of the martial arena seemed to be drawn by something, gathering toward the blade for an instant. The silver dragon pattern on the blade lit up in a thin line under the sunlight before quickly dimming.
The blade was slender and slightly curved, its teal-green luster flowing like water across the surface. With the two dragon wings of the guard spread wide, the entire sword exuded a natural, serene, and biting sharpness.
Qi Yan's outstretched hand froze halfway. He looked at the three-catty-seven-tael iron sword in his hand, then at the Azure Scale Sword in Lin Zhiyue's hand, his brow twitching almost imperceptibly.
He withdrew the iron sword, his gaze sweeping over the way Lin Zhiyue held her weapon. Her grip was not standard, but her palm pressed firmly against it, and her wrist had not collapsed. At the very least, she was not someone who had never touched a sword before.
Then, his gaze fell upon the silver dragon pattern. He paused for two breaths before looking up at her.
“Your ancestor,” he said, his tone carrying a trace of faint, almost imperceptible amusement, “left you quite a lot of things.”
Lin Zhiyue gripped the Azure Scale Sword, its dragon-patterned blade sending a slightly cool temperature into her palm. Using the skill she had honed in her past life of holding test tubes with an expressionless face in the laboratory, she calmly replied, “Just odds and ends. I'll use them slowly.”
Qi Yan glanced at her, let out a half-smiling chuckle, and then raised his silver-white sword with the faint golden sheen once more. He stepped forward and stood three paces in front of her.
“Draw your sword.”
Lin Zhiyue drew the Azure Scale Sword. A cold light flashed as the dragon pattern wound along the blade, emitting tiny flecks of light.
Qi Yan's gaze slid from the blade to her grip. His tone carried no unnecessary emotion, remaining flat and calm. “First, I'll teach you how to hold a sword. With your current posture, your grip strength is concentrated on your thumb and index finger. In a real fight, a single strike from an opponent would disarm you. Correct it: tighten your middle, ring, and pinky fingers, press your tiger's mouth against the guard, and leave a gap in your palm.”
Lin Zhiyue looked down and adjusted her grip. The center of gravity of the Azure Scale Sword settled firmly in her palm. The faint glow of the dragon pattern interwoven with the morning mist, and the blade reflected the morning light of the entire mountain, looking exceptionally beautiful.
She looked up, meeting Qi Yan's deep black eyes. His expression was solemn, yet it carried a faint hint of youthful earnestness.
“Watch closely. I will demonstrate the starting stance one more time.” He raised his silver-white longsword again, its tip pointing to the ground as his posture bent slightly. The morning breeze whipped up the stray hairs on his forehead and his fiery red robes—
“I will only show you once.”
Lin Zhiyue gripped the hilt tightly, her gaze locked onto his movements as the corners of her mouth curved up slightly.
“I've memorized it.”
Hearing this, a barely perceptible arc rose at the corner of Qi Yan's mouth.
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