# 105
**Chapter 105: The Path**
*Clack, clack, clack, clack!*
On the training ground, wooden blades clashed in rapid succession. Lin Qiye held one hand behind his back, his right gripping a sword as he advanced step by steady step.
Opposite him, Baili Pangpang retreated in a fluster, swinging his own wooden blade wildly, barely managing to parry.
With a flick of his wrist, Lin Qiye easily knocked Baili Pangpang’s sword aside, then lunged forward in one sharp motion, bringing his blade to a halt at the boy’s throat.
“You’re too strong—I can’t beat you!” Baili Pangpang dropped his sword and sat down, panting in frustration.
“It’s not that I’m strong, it’s that you’re weak,” Lin Qiye said bluntly.
Cao Yuan, who couldn’t touch a blade, sat nearby, chin in hand, watching. At Lin Qiye’s words he nodded in full agreement.
Baili Pangpang: …
“Baili Tuming, your fundamentals are a mess. Go join the basics group over there.” Instructor Han Li stepped up and pointed him toward the side.
Baili Pangpang trudged off, face long, to join the others drilling footwork and stances.
“Lin Qiye…” Han Li’s brows drew together. “Your basics are solid and your forms clean, but… something’s missing.”
“Missing?”
“Your blade has shape, no soul,” Han Li said after choosing his words. “It’s rigid—fine against ordinary fighters, but against a real master you’ll struggle. Let’s spar.”
He took a wooden sword from the rack, arms hanging loose, stance casual.
Lin Qiye nodded, set himself, and whipped his blade out—
*Clack-clack-clack—!*
Han Li’s seemingly slack posture turned fluid; his sword flickered like a ghost, effortlessly turning every strike aside. After three exchanges he narrowed his eyes; his blade seemed to come alive, slipping in like a serpent to tap Lin Qiye’s wrist.
A light *clack*, and Lin Qiye’s sword spun from his grip.
Lin Qiye stood stunned.
Unlike the last demonstration—when Han Li had slowed the sequence so recruits could memorize the set forms, forms Lin Qiye had already learned from Chen Muye—this was entirely different.
Four cuts, no pattern, the wooden blade alive in Han Li’s hands, terrifyingly agile.
Beside it, Lin Qiye’s style looked dead.
“Feel it?” Han Li picked up the fallen sword and handed it back.
“Yeah.” Lin Qiye frowned. “But how do I fix it?”
Han Li was quiet a moment. “It’s serious, but not hopeless. Mortal martial artists spend twenty, thirty years of grinding practice to reach high levels.”
Lin Qiye’s face paled at “twenty or thirty years.”
“But I think the root lies elsewhere,” Han Li went on.
“Where?”
“Have you considered you might simply not be meant for the blade? Or at least, not for this kind of blade?” He met Lin Qiye’s eyes.
Lin Qiye froze.
“Truth is, your talent with swords is only average. A true prodigy—first time holding one, however clumsy—carries an unspoken grace. I don’t see that in you.”
He added quickly, “Not saying you can’t improve. Few are born gifted; diligence still yields skill. But to touch the higher realms? Very, very hard. I speak only to suggest: perhaps there’s a path better suited to you.”
“A path better suited…” Lin Qiye murmured.
Han Li clapped his shoulder. “Think on it. I’ll check the others.”
Alone on the sand, sword in hand, Lin Qiye stood lost in thought…
…
After the first day of hell, life eased. The canteen food turned edible, sadistic punishments vanished. Yet the instructors still invented daily tortures in the name of fitness, leaving every recruit half-dead.
That night Lin Qiye crawled onto his bunk; the moment his eyes shut, Han Li’s four formless cuts replayed again and again…
Maybe the man was right—he simply wasn’t a swordsman. But twenty years of grinding? Unacceptable.
If not the blade… then where lay his path?
Half-dreaming, he slipped into sleep.
In the dream the old terror returned: Chen Muye in the underground yard, twin blades storming like hurricanes, driving Lin Qiye back until he could barely breathe, only managing to block a few cuts before wooden edges thudded against his body.
This time he did not flinch.
Eyes wide, he tracked every motion with mental energy—where each blade began, where it fell…
Gradually the yard faded; Chen Muye’s face blurred until only the twin swords remained, every stroke carving itself into his heart.
Suddenly Lin Qiye jerked awake!
He sat up, eyes bright as moonlight outside. After a moment’s hesitation he dressed and slipped out the door.
Under the boost of [Starry Night Dancer] he moved without sound, a midnight ghost gliding across the camp to the empty training ground.
He stepped onto the platform, took down two wooden swords, closed his eyes; Chen Muye’s storm-like forms unfolded in his mind…
He moved.
Under night, beneath moonlight,
Twin blades in hand, he danced like a midnight butterfly, fluid and alive.
His eyes snapped open—stars burning inside!
…
“Achoo!!”
At Peace Office, Chen Muye sneezed violently.
Wu Xiangnan, lounging on the sofa with the TV, tilted his head. “Caught a cold?”
“Doesn’t feel like it.”
“Ten sneezes in a row and it doesn’t?”
“I think,” Chen Muye said solemnly, “someone’s thinking about me.”
Wu Xiangnan rolled his eyes.
“Bull.”