Chenwei felt the strain in his limbs, a strange yet familiar ache as he moved through the sword forms, his feet shifting carefully over the uneven stones of the training ground. The morning mist was still heavy in the air, clinging to the ground in swirling eddies, and the peach trees in the courtyard were shedding their blossoms, scattering delicate petals across the stones.
He completed another strike, focusing intently, but his arms trembled slightly under the weight of his sword, the muscles weaker than he remembered. This body was younger, more pliable, but also raw and unrefined. Every motion felt clumsier, lacking the ease he'd cultivated over years of hard training. In his mind, he knew exactly how each movement should feel—precise, powerful, fluid—but the reality was… disappointing.
A sharp laugh broke his concentration. "What's with that face, Chenwei?" Zhao Tiansheng's voice was booming, full of his usual hearty humor. "Looking at that sword like it's betrayed you. You sure you didn't leave your skills in Wen Yuhan's shadow?"
Chenwei gritted his teeth, feeling his cheeks burn. "No, Master," he muttered, trying to sound steady. "I'm just… adjusting."
Zhao snorted, striding over and clapping a hand on Chenwei's shoulder, nearly making him stumble. His master was as towering and solid as a mountain, his broad frame casting a shadow over Chenwei in the early morning light. Zhao's grip was firm, grounding, and yet the touch sent a flash of painful memory through Chenwei—a flash of blood, his master's body broken in defense of the sect, defending them against the monstrous forces that Wen had unleashed…
Chenwei blinked, forcing the memory away, steadying himself in the present. Focus. You're here to stop that future from happening.
"Earth to Chenwei!" Zhao barked, shaking him a little. "You spacing out already? What, is all that stalking exhausting your little brain?" He gave a wide, toothy grin, his tone a mix of teasing and pride. "You know, I've seen you practicing harder these past few days than you ever did. I almost believed it was because of Xu's rejection… but seeing you trailing after Senior Brother Wen, I thought, 'Ah, there it is. He's finally found a muse.'"
Chenwei tightened his grip on his sword, trying to ignore the heat in his cheeks. "It's not like that, Master," he insisted, though his voice came out more defensive than he intended.
"Oh, isn't it?" Zhao gave a wicked grin. "Please. You're practically drooling whenever he's around. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were thinking with your little sword rather than your head." He laughed, patting Chenwei's back so hard that it nearly sent him staggering.
"It's nothing like that," Chenwei muttered, struggling to regain his composure. He shifted his stance, gripping his sword tighter, trying to hide his embarrassment. "I'm just… I'm focused on improving myself. That's all."
"Ha!" Zhao let out a bark of laughter, crossing his arms as he appraised his disciple. "Focused on improving, are you? Well, maybe you finally started to put some thought into it. That's good. The sect could use more swordsmen who actually use their heads."
He watched as Chenwei returned to the form, his gaze more serious now, his sharp eyes catching the subtle hesitation in each movement, the slight unsteadiness in Chenwei's strikes. After a moment, he sighed and shook his head. "You're pushing yourself too hard. You know, there's a difference between cultivating a sword and cultivating as a swordsman. You're still trying to wield the blade like a tool, but a true cultivator of the sword learns to wield himself."
Chenwei slowed his movements, his master's words resonating with him despite the gruff tone. Wield yourself, he thought. But how could he focus inward when his entire reason for being here was to stop someone else? To stop Wen Yuhan?
Zhao stepped closer, his voice taking on a rare note of seriousness. "Remember, Chenwei: a sword in the hand can be wielded by anyone. But a true swordsman learns to wield his own will. You're here to refine yourself, not just your weapon."
Chenwei took a slow breath, feeling his younger body straining to keep up with his ambitions. Zhao's words were blunt, but they struck a nerve. How long had he been consumed by his mission, driven by this single, narrow focus on destroying Wen? Was he even thinking of his own path anymore, or had he become… a weapon, wielded by his own obsession?
No, he told himself firmly. Stopping Wen is my path. It has to be.
But a small, nagging doubt wormed its way into his mind, and he hated how unsettled it made him feel.
Zhao clapped his hands, dispelling the moment of introspection. "All right, enough moping. Since you're actually putting some effort in, I suppose it's time you understand the basics. Let's go over your dantian—or have you forgotten even that?"
Chenwei straightened, focusing as Zhao launched into his explanation.
"There are three key dantian points," Zhao began, thumping a hand against his own lower belly. "First, the Lower Dantian—the foundation. That's where you store Jing—your essence, your physical strength. Without a strong lower dantian, you're just waving a stick around like a fool. Jing gives you the power to hold your stance, to ground your body."
Zhao moved his hand to his chest. "Next is the Middle Dantian, where Qi gathers. Qi is your movement, your flow. It connects your strikes, keeps you from being predictable. Without Qi, you're stiff as a board, easy to read, easy to counter."
Then he tapped between his brows. "Finally, there's the Upper Dantian—where Shen, your spirit, your clarity, gathers. That's what lets you see past the obvious, to understand what your opponent will do before they do it. With Shen, you're no longer swinging blindly; you're cutting with intent."
Chenwei nodded, feeling the energy pulsing faintly in each of these centers. He'd been aware of them, of course, but Zhao's reminder grounded him, reminding him of the fundamental principles that even he, with all his future knowledge, still needed to respect.
"Now," Zhao said, gesturing for Chenwei to resume his form. "I want you to focus on shifting between these energies. Start with Jing, root yourself. Feel the weight of the blade. Then move into Qi, let it carry you. And finally, bring in Shen. Let it guide your intent."
Chenwei took a breath, centering himself. He planted his feet, feeling the energy of Jing flow up from his lower dantian, giving him a solid foundation. As he began the form, he let Qi fill his movements, flowing from one strike to the next. And as he reached the final move, he felt Shen gather in his upper dantian, sharpening his focus to a point.
But even as he flowed from one energy to the next, a dissonance nagged at him—an awareness that this body wasn't yet strong enough to channel them fully. His strikes were precise but lacked the strength he remembered. His footing was steady, yet his muscles strained as if protesting the demands he placed on them.
This body is younger, he thought bitterly. Weaker. Every flaw, every imperfection, grated against his memory of how it should feel. The ghost of his older self haunted him, a silent reminder of what he'd lost by coming back.
Zhao watched him with a raised brow, clearly noticing the tension in Chenwei's form. "What's wrong, Chenwei? You're frowning at your sword like it's a snake about to bite you."
Chenwei tried to shake off his frustration. "It's nothing, Master. Just… adjusting."
Zhao chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Adjusting, huh? Sounds like something's on your mind. Or maybe it's just that you're thinking with that little sword again." He winked, enjoying Chenwei's embarrassment.
"Master!" Chenwei groaned, his voice coming out more exasperated than he intended.
"What? It's natural for young men like you to get distracted." Zhao shrugged, giving him a wide, lecherous grin. "Why, I even have an assassination technique that'll help you with that sort of thing."
Chenwei blinked, taken aback. "You… know an assassination technique?"
"Of course I do," Zhao said proudly, leaning in. "It's excellent for sneaking in undetected… to catch a glimpse of the women's side of the bathhouse." He winked. "Used it all the time in my younger days."
Chenwei's face twisted in horror. "Master, I don't need that!"
"Suit yourself." Zhao shrugged. "Of course, it's different for you cut-sleeve types, isn't it? You just walk in without a care in the world." He gave a mock sigh. "I tried to imagine what it would be like, but all I kept seeing were some nice, firm—well, you get the idea." He laughed as Chenwei spluttered, scandalized.
"Let's… please… focus on real training," Chenwei managed, his voice barely more than a strangled gasp.
"All right, all right." Zhao waved his hand, still chuckling. "But remember, fixation can cloud the mind, Chenwei. It's easy to get lost in what's in front of you and forget what's really important. Keep your eyes clear, and don't let someone else's shadow turn you into a sword wielded by your own obsession."
Chenwei paused, feeling the weight of his master's words. Shadows… He remembered the Glass Hell, Wen's mocking voice, the swirling vortex of poison, the smell of death and decay. And the image of Zhao—this Zhao—falling to protect the sect from the horrors Wen had unleashed.
That won't happen, he vowed silently. I'll stop it before it begins.
Zhao gave him a gentle, almost fatherly pat on the shoulder. "Remember, Chenwei. You're here to cultivate yourself, not just a weapon. Keep that in mind, or you'll end up just another tool."
Chenwei looked up, meeting his master's gaze. For a moment, he felt a flicker of doubt, the tiniest tremor in his conviction. But he pushed it aside, focusing on the path ahead. He had a mission, and he would see it through.
With one last laugh, Zhao shook his head. "Now, get back to practicing your forms. I won't have my disciple looking like a fool next time he's skulking around. And keep both those swords steady, will you?"
As Zhao walked off, still chuckling to himself, Chenwei took a deep breath, centering himself. Despite the embarrassment, the teasing, the crude jokes, he felt… grounded. Perhaps even a little more prepared for what lay ahead.
But as he returned to his practice, that flicker of doubt lingered, buried deep within him, like a shadow waiting to surface.