The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

Spring breezes sweep across the fields, seedlings sprout from the soil, and ridges crisscross the land; wisps of smoke rise from the chimneys. Farmers toil diligently, children chase and play, and the elderly lean against trees, chatting idly. Life is peaceful, and the warmth of human connection lingers.

The most moving scenes are hidden in the myriad aspects of human life.

On the plains, the clear distinction between Han and non-Han peoples vanished. Some wore Han clothing, others wore non-Han fur coats, and still others were half-Han and half-non-Han, living harmoniously together. A Khitan man gave his winter surplus to a poor Han woman, who returned the favor with a smile and pickled vegetables, a tender gesture. A Han scholar taught with books, Khitan script annotated alongside the Han characters, while children of all ethnicities sat together, reading poetry and books. A Han man and a Khitan woman sat side by side on the edge of a field, embracing each other, their young child's eyes bright and clear, embodying the spirit of both cultures, unaware of conflict or barriers.

This is not an illusion or a mirage; it is the peaceful and prosperous world that Zhao Zongshi sought in his heart and devoted his life to, the utopian world that Ning Zhongze regretted throughout his life and that Xiao Chu longed for half his life.

So beautiful it's almost unreal, so gentle it's enough to make you fall in love with it.

Xiao Chuyun's voice descended from the sky, like a question from the heavens, each word piercing to the bone: "This scene is exquisitely beautiful, yet the world has been embroiled in conflict for a century, with deep-seated resentment and unbreakable barriers. What makes you think the world can believe that this illusory realm will one day become reality?"

"People are trapped by hatred and fixated on North and South. What makes you think you can persuade the Han and non-Han peoples to let go of their obsessions and live in harmony?"

This question shatters illusions, reveals the true intentions, and exposes the hardships ahead.

As Zhao Zongshi gazed at the peaceful scene of fireworks and the tranquility of the people before him, his heart swelled with warmth, and tears welled up in his eyes. What he saw was not a beautiful illusion, but the yearning for peace in the hearts of countless ordinary people, the refuge that everyone longed for in a chaotic world.

He spoke slowly, his tone gentle, yet carrying an unwavering resolve:

"I do not seek the world's immediate belief in me, nor do I rely on words or power to exert pressure."

"The great way is never spoken, but lived. I guard the last spark, practicing it with my own body and fulfilling my promise with my actions. When someone witnesses the warmth of harmony, one person's heart begins to believe; when someone sees ten years of peace between the North and South, and the coexistence of Han and non-Han peoples, thousands and tens of thousands follow suit."

"No need to rush, no need to be forceful, no need to force a return to oneness overnight. I will live a little longer, do a little more practically, and walk a little more steadily, slowly dissolving barriers and gradually melting away grudges, guarding the spark and waiting for spring to come. As time goes by, true feelings will be revealed, and one day, today's illusion will become the normal state of the world."

"I remain true to my original aspiration and patiently await those who will add fuel to the fire."

The gentle breeze and the magnificent dreamscape slowly melted away with his words, returning to the cold night and snow-covered training ground of Youzhou.

Xiao Chuyun sheathed her sword and stood silently, gazing at the blood-soaked youth before her. Twenty-three years of steadfast perseverance through wind and snow, half a lifetime of tumultuous obsessions—she had heard countless empty pronouncements of universal harmony and delusional pronouncements of unification, each one eloquent yet hollow, utterly untenable. Only this man before her stood firm in the face of life and death, guarding truth amidst illusion, seeking neither quick success nor empty fame, but only seeking to be grounded and practice the Way with his own body.

For the first time, warmth truly ignited in her heart, which had been frozen for half her life. She finally saw that the successor of the Great Dao, whom Ning Zhongze had been waiting for, had truly arrived.

"Sixth move, passed."

The seventh trick is to appear clumsy when you are truly skilled.

The illusion dissipated, and the question was finally answered. The seventh move was unleashed, devoid of chaotic mystery, the illusion of all things, intricate transformations, and sharp edge.

There is only one strike, the most simple, clumsy, and basic straight slash in the world. Like a child learning swordsmanship making a bewildered swing, without angle, feint, rhythm, or fancy moves.

But at this moment, the atmosphere in the entire training ground completely froze.

Complex moves inevitably have flaws, and ingenious variations inevitably have oversights. Only the utmost simplicity and clumsiness are flawless and impenetrable. Without scheming or trickery, it crushes all illusions with the purest power and the most steadfast heart.

This is the ultimate truth of the way of the sword, and also the ultimate principle of how to conduct oneself in the world—great skill is formless, great wisdom appears as foolishness, and the great way is simple.

Suddenly, the image of Master Huiming before his death flashed into Zhao Zongshi's mind.

Lu Laojiu once recounted that on the night his master passed away, he sat alone on the deck, gazing at the moon in silence. In his hands were no scriptures, no prayer beads, no magical implements, only a pair of empty fists, weathered and marked with age. The old monk opened his palms, reflecting on half a lifetime, and finally murmured to himself calmly: "In my life, I have learned all kinds of doctrines, searched for the great principles of the world, and believed in countless illusions. Only in the end did I realize that the most useful thing in the world is never extensive knowledge or clever calculations, but simply a pair of hands and a heart that is willing to do things and persevere."

No amount of clever tricks can compare to a sincere heart; no amount of scheming can compare to being down-to-earth.

Zhao Zongshi instantly understood, completely letting go of all obsession with countering moves and all calculations of offense and defense.

He lowered his waist and straightened his wrist, firmly guarding his mind and abandoning all distractions. With the most basic, clumsy, and sincere blocking posture, he faced this unparalleled clumsy sword strike head-on.

"clang--!"

The second loud bang reverberated throughout the surrounding area, even more violent and devastating than the first.

The bluestone slab beneath his feet shattered completely, sending fragments flying like sharp blades and shrapnel. Zhao Zongshi's hand was torn open, flesh turned inside out, and scalding blood flowed freely down the hilt of his knife, dripping onto the snow and melting into countless tiny, dark red holes.

The excruciating pain pierced my bones, my blood and qi flowed backward, and I felt completely drained. My legs could not withstand the immense pressure, and I fell heavily to my knees, my knees slamming against the hard, broken stones. The piercing pain swept through my entire body.

He knelt on one knee in the snow, covered in blood, his clothes torn, looking utterly disheveled and on the verge of fainting from exhaustion.

Yet the steel knife in his hand remained as steady as a rock, its tip firmly planted on the ground, its hilt firmly gripped, unmoving. His upper body remained upright, his head never bowed, and the conviction in his eyes never wavered.

Even if one is physically disabled and exhausted, even if one is covered in wounds, one's Daoist heart remains undefeated and one's original intention remains unyielding.

After a long silence, he breathed heavily, his voice hoarse but still resolute: "The road ahead is long and arduous... I will... persevere in my pursuit... Seventh move... done?"

Xiao Chuyun lowered her eyes and gazed at his bloodied kneeling figure, his unyielding spirit even in the face of death. Her eyes were filled with complex emotions she had never experienced before—shock, emotion, relief, and relief, all intertwined and intertwined.

She slowly raised her hand and inserted the Guiyuan Blade back into the frozen soil where it had been. The blade was half-buried in the snow, returning to its original form, as if the seven life-and-death battles and the seven inquiries into the Great Dao had all been just a dream of wind and snow.

She took three steps back, her posture as upright as a pine tree in the first snow, her voice clear and melodious, filling the entire venue:

"For the eighth move, I will not draw my sword."

Despite the excruciating pain throughout his body, Zhao Zongshi looked up at the other person, his eyes showing a hint of weariness, yet still clear and resolute.

"The eighth move: Facing death to live."

Xiao Chuyun turned to the side and raised her hand, looking at the Liao army formation. Yelü Jingrong immediately understood, her figure in white robes stepping out through the snow, her steps light yet her mind heavy, solemnly holding a long, jet-black sword in both hands, she passed through the silent Liao army formation, step by step walking towards the center of the training ground.

It is the Zhenyue Blade.

The Yang family's heirloom blade, scattered across the north for sixty years, carries the patriotic blood and sweat of three generations of soldiers, etching the blood and tears of the North-South conflict. The old brass marks on the scabbard are the imprints of sixty years of wind and rain, the sedimentation of time, shining brightly under the lamplight, like a long river of time flowing backward, carrying the obsessions and expectations of countless people.

Xiao Chuyun held the long sword horizontally with both hands and solemnly presented it to Zhao Zongshi, her tone extremely dignified:

"This move has no blade, yet it has a blade. If you catch this Zhenyue sword, and bear this century-old grudge, the obsession of three generations, and the heavy responsibility of the North and South, then you have caught the eighth move, and you have truly faced death to live and achieved the Dao in your heart."

At this moment, Zhao Zongshi was kneeling on one knee in the snow, his hands cracked and bleeding, his body covered in blood, and his strength completely exhausted. He was at his last gasp. Yet, his eyes shone brighter and more intensely than throughout the entire duel and the entire snowy night.

Everyone assumed he would take the opportunity to cut the knife.

Taking over Zhenyue means winning the duel, inheriting the legacy, and rightfully taking charge of the North-South peace negotiations—an unparalleled glory that countless people dream of.

But under the wind, snow, and lamplight, Zhao Zongshi slowly shook his head.

He raised his hand and gently wiped the blood from the corner of his lips, his movements calm and composed. Then, using his sword as a support, he endured the excruciating pain and slowly straightened his body, rising to his feet. His thin, blood-soaked figure stood before the swirling snow and thousands of soldiers, yet more upright and majestic than ever before.

"Mr. Xiao, I cannot accept this knife."

The moment those words were spoken, the entire room fell silent.

Tens of thousands of soldiers from both the Song and Liao dynasties held their breath, staring in astonishment. No one could have imagined that he, who had survived seven life-or-death trials and near-death experiences, would resolutely refuse the sword at the final moment of victory.

Xiao Chuyun's eyebrows twitched slightly, and a hint of surprise flashed in her eyes, but she did not stop him and waited for him to speak.

"The Zhenyue Blade is the legacy of the loyal soul of the Yang family, the spirit of the soldiers of the Southern Dynasty. It has been wandering in the North for sixty years, a regret of the family and the country, a scar of the North and the South." Zhao Zongshi's voice was not loud, but every word was firm and resounding, penetrating the wind and snow and shaking people's hearts.

"If I accept the sword, it will be a case of the crown prince being the victor and the power being established, still following the old rules of the North-South confrontation and the debate over who wins and who loses. Even if I win against Liao, suppress the North, and gain benefits, there will still be estrangement, opposition, and a distinction between the strong and the weak, which is definitely not the utopian new world I desire."

"The new North-South relationship I want is not one where the Southern Dynasty dominates the North and the Liao Dynasty submits, nor is it one of strength and weakness, victory and defeat, or distinction between the noble and the lowly."

"What I want is for the Yang family to return with their swords, and for the Liao Kingdom's Martial Saint to witness it with equanimity, without feeling humiliated or harboring resentment; for the swords to return to the north, not with a humble posture of defeat and surrender, but with an open and honest framework of keeping promises and coexisting harmoniously."

He turned to face the Song army formation, solemnly cupped his hands, and said loudly, "General Yang, please step forward to receive this sword."

Yang Wenguang's body trembled, and tears that he had suppressed for half a lifetime welled up in his eyes. He strode out of the formation, his armor plates clattering softly, his steps steady. Decades of battlefield experience had etched their marks on his face, yet he could not hide his emotion at this moment. He stood beside Zhao Zongshi, gazing at the ancestral heirloom blade that had been lost for half his life, his fingertips trembling slightly.

Zhao Zongshi turned to face Xiao Chuyun, bowed deeply, and said with utmost solemnity: "Please, Mr. Xiao, on behalf of our ancestors in Liao, return the sword to the Yang family of the Song Dynasty and uphold righteousness for the world."

At that moment, the wind and snow suddenly stopped, the lights in the row were quiet, and everyone was completely silent.

Xiao Chuyun gazed at the young man before her, and the twenty years of frozen obsession and the lifelong divide between North and South in her eyes shattered and melted away completely. She was finally convinced that Ning Zhongze was not waiting for a strongman or a victor, but for a righteous person who cared about the world, did not care about winning or losing, and only sought harmony.

This person can truly quell centuries of conflict, bridge the gap between the Han and non-Han peoples, and fulfill a lifelong wish.

She slowly nodded, solemnly holding the Zhenyue Sword with both hands, and handed it to Yang Wenguang. Her tone was solemn, without a trace of the cold confrontation: "Descendant of the Yang family of the Great Song Dynasty, accept the sword."

Yang Wenguang, trembling, reached out his hands and steadily caught the Zhenyue Blade.

The moment the blade touched his hand, sixty years of wandering, the unwavering loyalty of three generations, and the hopes of countless soldiers all took root in his heart. The lamplight illuminated the bronze marks on the scabbard, and also the tear-streaked face of the old general, streaked with snow and tears. He held the precious sword horizontally, took three steps back, and bowed deeply to Xiao Chuyun, paying homage to the righteousness of Liaodong; then he bowed deeply to Zhao Zongshi, paying homage to the harmony of the world.

This bow shattered a century-old feud between North and South, and opened a path for coexistence between the Han and non-Han peoples.