The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Xiao Chuyun suddenly spoke, her tone as calm as if she were discussing everyday matters:

"Your Highness, besides delivering the sword, I have another matter to discuss with you."

Zhao Zongshi raised his eyes.

"I want to fight you."

She spoke calmly, her tone as light as, "The snow is quite heavy today."

Zhao Zongshi was not surprised. Yelü Zongwang's secret report had already mentioned: "Martial Saint Xiao Chuyun has rarely seen outsiders in recent years. He once said that if someone from the Southern Dynasty wins three battles and retrieves the Zhenyue Saber, he is willing to use all his knowledge to prove a technique." He already knew that this competition was unavoidable.

"I'm sixty-one years old this year," Xiao Chuyun said suddenly, her voice filled with melancholy. "Your master is sixty-three. We're all getting old. I've been practicing swordsmanship for fifty years. Ten years ago, after finishing a set of sword techniques, I needed to rest for half a cup of tea; five years ago, I needed to rest for a cup of tea; this year, I need to rest for two cups of tea."

She turned to look at him, her gaze clear and sharp.

"While I can still wield a knife, I want to use the eight techniques I've learned in my life to find a person and verify one thing. I didn't find them in the Liao Dynasty, I didn't find them in Dali, and perhaps I will never find them in my lifetime."

"Your Highness, do you dare to withstand eight of my moves?"

Zhao Zongshi picked up the half-cooled tea and drank it all in one gulp. As the tea went down his throat, he suddenly recalled the words in Huiming's notes: "Immortality is not about not dying, but about dying without perishing," and he remembered his master Ning Zhongze's lifelong regret. Xiao Chuyun's words, "to entrust it to one person," Huiming's instruction, "to pass it on," and Ning Zhongze's "body tempering," "qi refining," and "transformation into emptiness" were all ultimately the same path.

He put down his teacup and met Xiao Chuyun's gaze with composure.

"I'll take it."

"But there's a condition."

Xiao Chuyun's eyebrows twitched slightly: "Speak."

"I will accept the eight moves. After accepting them, you must agree to one thing—three years later, at the old hall of Baigou Post Station, you and my master Ning Zhongze will respectively act as the Great Song Wusheng and the Khitan Wusheng to witness my marriage to Yelü Jingrong, and also to witness the integration of Liao and Song into one family of Hu and Han."

Xiao Chuyun was taken aback, then her lips curved slightly into a faint smile, like spring breaking through ice:

"You even planned this step out?"

Zhao Zongshi replied truthfully, "No. It was only when you said 'entrust it to one person' that I thought of it. Your willingness to use all your life's insights to prove the Dao is an affirmation. Since you affirm me, it is most appropriate for you, my master, and me to be witnesses."

Xiao Chuyun remained silent for a long time, then picked up her teacup and drank it all in one gulp. She then rose, stepped outside the pavilion, and stood in the wind and snow, her back to Zhao Zongshi, her voice carried away by the north wind:

"On the thirtieth day of the twelfth lunar month, at the drill ground north of Youzhou City, I will be waiting for you."

She didn't turn around; her figure in white robes gradually disappeared into the snowy night, her footsteps leaving no trace in the snow, until she was finally swallowed up by the wind and snow.

Zhao Zongshi sat alone in the pavilion, gazing in the direction she had disappeared, his palm pressed tightly against Ning Zhongze's handwritten notes in his bosom, and he murmured to himself:

"Master, I will take this attack for you."

On the thirtieth day of the twelfth lunar month, at the drill ground north of Youzhou City.

A night of snowfall washed away the dust of the world. The sky after the snowfall, like a piece of cold iron forged by the biting wind, was clear and bluish-white, its coldness almost blinding, pressing down on the entire world with a solemn stillness. The vast training ground was covered with thick snow, a pristine white expanse that buried the scars of past battles, the bloodstains, and the ruts of horses' hooves, yet made the flames of the nine tin oil lamps in the four corners burn even brighter. On this windless, snowy night, the lamp flames shot straight into the sky, their golden-red light spilling down, illuminating the snow-covered ground with a translucent brilliance. Every inch of snowflake, every tiny icicle, was revealed in exquisite detail. The stark contrast between the cold white snow and the blazing red flames created an intensely chilling sense of confrontation.

The Song and Liao armies lined up in battle formations to the east and west, and the entire army was so silent that you could hear a pin drop.

No one donned armor, no one wielded weapons; both armies were dressed in plain, everyday clothes, armor and weapons discarded, facing each other in their purest form, yet without the slightest sign of slackening. Before the Song army's ranks, Yang Wenguang, cradling a jet-black Zhenyue sword, stood tall and straight like a pine tree, his face as somber as a cold stone. Decades of battlefield experience imbued him with a chilling aura, his eyes concealing sixty years of regret for his country. Opposite, at the head of the Liao army's ranks, Yelü Jingrong, clad in a plain white fox fur coat, stood in the shadows of the snow, her hat pulled low, obscuring her eyes and brows, leaving only her sharply defined chin, which gleamed with a jade-like coldness in the flickering firelight. She exuded no aura of power, yet she rendered the entire Liao army ranks as steadfast as a rock, silently lying in wait.

In the very center of the training ground, Xiao Chuyun had been standing quietly for a long time.

She shed her former regal attire as a martial saint, donning a dark gray, form-fitting outfit. Deerskin cuffs tightened her sleeves, and an old leather belt cinched her waist, stripping away her former sharpness and leaving only a simple, formidable presence. Her full head of silver hair was pulled back high with a thick wooden hairpin, revealing her thin, angular face and the old scar that slashed from her forehead to her jawline. It was a mark etched by decades of bloody battles, a dark white line, like a lightning bolt dulled by time, lying across her face, concealing countless untold nights of life and death and entanglements of family and country.

Tonight, she carried no branded blade, nor any weapon.

Three steps ahead, in the frozen earth, a long sword is half-inserted in the snow, its blade buried deep in the frost, with only the ancient hilt and half of the dark spine exposed. The lamplight casts a straight, cold, dark shadow across the snow-covered field, like a destiny line sealed for twenty-three years.

Zhao Zongshi slowly entered the venue from the east side.

Dressed in a dark, narrow-sleeved Hu-style robe, without armor or helmet, stripped of all the regalia and protective gear of a crown prince, he exposed himself entirely to the life-or-death duel. Hanging at his waist was a brand-new, hundred-forged steel sword, the "Snow Chant" blade that Qin Tiehua had personally forged over five days and five nights without sleep. The blade was three-tenths of an inch thick on the back, with a seven-inch blade, and its center of gravity shifted two-tenths of an inch forward. Its weight distribution perfectly followed the profound principle of Huiming's notes, "When the mind is calm, the sword is calm," not seeking ruthless killing power, but rather aiming for movement at will and steadfast adherence to one's own principles.

Before leaving, Qin Tiehua handed him the knife, his rough palm stroking the cool blade, leaving only a heartfelt sentence: "This knife cannot cut through fine iron or ordinary steel, but it can cut through all the obsessions and barriers that entangle people's hearts and minds."

At this moment, Zhao Zongshi stepped steadily into the core of the training ground, stopped ten steps away, and solemnly bowed to the silver-haired, scarred woman in front of him. His expression was calm, without the slightest arrogance or fear.

Xiao Chuyun nodded slightly, remaining silent, but raised her eyes to signal him to look at the lone sword in the snow.

"This sword is named Guiyuan." Her voice was calm and even, as if she were recounting a long-forgotten past. "It's the only memento Ning Zhongze left me. On the day she left, she planted it in the snowy desert of the north and said her last words to me—'Junior sister, in this life, I ultimately failed to write the words "Han" and "Hu" together. You watch over it for me and see if those who come after can.'"

Her gaze fell lightly on the hilt of the knife, her fingertips seemed to twitch slightly, and her eyes held a lingering sense of melancholy and expectation that had not dissipated for twenty-three years.

"I've held onto this promise for twenty-three years."

The wind and snow are silent, the lights flicker, twenty-three years of cold winters and hot summers, black hair turned to snow, all hidden in this understated sentence of waiting.

She raised her eyes, her clear gaze like a deep, icy pool, seemingly cold and devoid of warmth, yet deep within it cracked a tiny, warm fissure—a longing that spanned half a lifetime, an ultimate yearning for the unification of the world and peace between the Han and non-Han peoples.

"With all the insights I've gained from my life's work on the sword, I've created the Eight Ways of Seeking the Dao. These eight moves will test your foundation, will, vision, and life itself. If you can withstand them all, this Returning Origin Sword will be yours. On my behalf, and on behalf of Ning Zhongze who left with regrets, pass on this unwavering commitment and this great Dao."

Zhao Zongshi lowered his gaze, gazing at the Guiyuan Blade in the snow. Layers of old hemp rope were wrapped around the hilt, polished smooth and warm like ancient jade by decades of hand contact. The varying depths of the grooves in the hilt held the steadfastness and tireless efforts of two generations. In a daze, he seemed to see a woman in simple white robes standing amidst the swirling snow, her heart set on a shared nation, a life of constant striving, ultimately leaving behind regrets. They had never met, yet their hearts were connected, a distant reunion across twenty-three years.

He raised his head, his words heavy and resolute: "I accept."

There were no grand pronouncements, only unwavering resolve. He drew his sword, the hundred-forged steel blade gleaming coldly, and held it horizontally before him. He stepped back, lowered his stance, and his aura became completely still, like an ancient well, undisturbed by any ripples. The pressure of a life-or-death duel was overwhelming, yet his heart remained as firm as a rock, steadfastly guarding his true self.

Xiao Chuyun raised her hand and pulled the Guiyuan Blade out of the frozen soil.

The moment the blade broke free from the ice and snow, a clear, resonant sound echoed across the training ground. It was not like a sharp blade used for killing, but rather like the original aspiration that had been dormant for twenty-three years, finally slowly awakening.

No opening stance, no building up momentum, no breathing exercises. Half a lifetime of swordsmanship and half a lifetime of dedication to family and country are all condensed into a simple gesture of raising a hand and presenting a blade. Within the unremarkable movements lies a terrifying foundation that has crushed the years.

The first move: Water has no fixed shape.

The blade suddenly rose, but it lacked any sharp, killing intent. Instead, it flowed like water across a field, without a fixed shape, a fixed trace, or a fixed direction. The blade naturally deflected with Zhao Zongshi's movements, like a stream winding around a rock or a river overflowing its banks, moving with the flow, omnipresent yet leaving no trace.

This move has no killing intent, yet it is the most torturous and psychologically damaging. It does not attack the physical body, but only destroys the foundation, using invisible sword intent to guide the opponent's every move, forcibly disrupting the body's energy. Once the steps become unsteady and the center of gravity shifts, the overwhelming flowing sword energy will instantly surround and envelop the body, leaving no place to escape.

At that moment, Zhao Zongshi suddenly understood Ning Zhongze's painstaking efforts back then.

When Chen Zhou first learned the way of the sword, Ning Zhongze forbade him to practice sword techniques. Instead, she made him train his body and cultivate his inner energy, having him practice walking barefoot for three hours. Despite Chen Zhou's doubts and confusion, she left him with only eight words of advice: "The sword is the arm, and the feet are the foundation. If the feet are not stable, no matter how fast the sword is, it is just a floating duckweed."

Back then, I was young and naive, and thought it was boring and useless; now, facing life and death, I realize that the great way is simple. Xiao Chuyun's Flowing Water Blade Intent is the ultimate test of one's foundation and the initial tempering of one's state of mind.

Surrounded by swirling blades, each step drawing him in, an invisible pressure enveloped his entire body. Zhao Zongshi cleared his mind of all distractions, focusing his spirit, his feet firmly planted on the ground, maintaining his center of gravity within a small space. Seven shifts in his body, four changes in position, his form like a pine tree standing tall in a storm, unmoved by the relentless onslaught, entanglement, and probing of the flowing blades, remaining as steadfast as a rock.

Seven blades grazed the edges of his robes, cutting through the cold wind and stirring the snowflakes, yet failing to harm his flesh in the slightest. The overwhelming, gentle force of the blades found no opening, and finally, like water flowing into the sea, slowly receded.

Xiao Chuyun sheathed her sword and stood still, a faint hint of approval flashing in her eyes. For the first time, her frozen state of mind began to loosen.

"First move, passed."

Before the words were even finished, the sword's momentum suddenly changed dramatically, flowing like mercury without the slightest pause or hesitation, seamlessly connecting with the first move!