Chapter Twenty-Three: The Sword Named "Autumn Water"

The temple master let out a long, heavy sigh.

“In my youth, it was the forms and footwork of the Sword-Body Art that so captivated me, I became utterly enthralled, so much so that I foolishly cast aside the very foundation of cultivating qi.

“With weak blood and insufficient vitality, how could I hope to wield a longsword with true mastery? Without ample spiritual power, how could I hope to step upon the stars and tread the celestial paths? Where then is courage? Where is transformation?

“Looking back now, when people accused me of practicing nothing more than a mortal’s sword, their words were not without reason. It was I who brought shame upon the Sword-Body Art.”

Yunqi, awkward at comforting others, could only manage, “Master, you speak too harshly of yourself.”

The old temple master, his back turned to Yunqi, stroked his beard and sighed yet again. Yet, in truth, Elder Zhenwei was glancing sidelong at Yunqi, making faces in an effort to lighten the mood.

“Yunqi, this old man is but skin and bone now, my years long gone. Yet the sword I bore in my youth is still as new as ever, resting in its case. Each autumn night it sings like a dragon, yet I am too ashamed to face my old companion!”

Yunqi was at a loss as to what the master wished to say.

The temple master continued, “Come, since you happen to be here today, let me borrow your youthful spirit. Walk with me, and let’s take a look together!”

Without waiting for a reply, he grasped Yunqi’s wrist and strode off. For one who called himself half bones and dust, his stride was vigorous and commanding, and in no time, they arrived at his own quarters.

“Dwelling of Remorse.”

A rather odd name.

The master bade Yunqi wait a moment in the main hall while he went to retrieve the sword from his room.

The decor was plain, sparsely furnished, with only a few pots of greenery for ornament.

Soon, the master returned, sitting beside Yunqi and placing a sword case on the table between them. His hand trembled slightly as he slowly opened the lid.

A chill wafted forth.

Yunqi leaned forward, and at first glance found the sword exquisite beyond words.

It appeared to be a sword from the late Song dynasty, with that era’s unique grace—a first impression of elegance fused with strength, like a gaunt, ancient serpent.

The blade was slender and long, roughly three feet six inches, sheathed in a scabbard of deep black—not glossy, not lacquered, but like the surface of a bottomless pool. The guard and pommel were silver-white, shaped like rolling clouds or surging waves, with the mouth and tip of the scabbard wrapped in silver wires forming cloud-and-water patterns.

Curiously, Song swords were usually worn via two rings on the scabbard, but this one had none. Instead, set in its center was a jade ornament—a style of the pre-Qin era. The jade was creamy-white, carved into the form of a coiled dragon, as if about to plunge into a dark pool, with one claw before and one behind, body still arching outside, the space within hollowed.

The dragon-shaped jade softened the sword’s sharpness, its black and white contrast made less severe.

“What a beautiful sword!” Yunqi exclaimed in admiration.

The old master gazed upon the sword with a particular tenderness, but did not touch it. Instead, he encouraged Yunqi, “Go ahead, pick it up and see.”

Yunqi, delighted by the sword, did not decline, nodding as he reached with his left hand to grasp it.

The sword felt cold as autumn lake water, sending a shiver through him. It was also much heavier than its slender form suggested.

He drew it out and set it upright before his eyes for a closer look.

Only then did he realize—the black of the scabbard and hilt was not lacquer nor iron, but seemed some kind of beast horn. He could not tell from what creature, only that it was icy and deep as midnight.

The guard, pommel, mouth, and marker all seemed to be made of the same silvery material. Were it not for his knowledge that the master was not wealthy enough for pure silver, he might have mistaken it for such.

“Draw the sword,” the master said.

Yunqi stood, right hand gripping the hilt, both hands cold as if holding blocks of ice.

A clear ringing—a long sword flashed forth, brilliant rays shooting outward, as if the scabbard had hidden moonlight within.

He examined the blade: about two feet five inches, bright silver-iron, cold as frost, clear as water, reflecting like a mirror.

Below the guard, two characters were engraved in ancient seal script: “Autumn Water.”

That was the sword’s name.

“Autumn Water,” Yunqi repeated softly.

The master sat back, watching Yunqi stand with sword in hand, and also gazing at the sword in his grasp.

“From the first moment I laid eyes on ‘Autumn Water,’ I was utterly entranced,” he began, his tone drifting into reminiscence. “At the time, Sword-Casting Mountain was about to cleanse a batch of blades. You know as well as I do, there are more swords in the arsenal there than one can count—some seized, some brought from subordinate sects, some crafted and sold by disciples, and some, left by masters or adepts who, not wishing their swords to be buried with them, donated them to the armory upon their passing.

“There are many swords, but never are they given away lightly. Even true disciples must pay in gold or complete a quest to obtain one. Every so often, a selection is brought out and washed in the sword pool, and those who find one they fancy can purchase it—at a price lower than if they chose directly from the arsenal.

“My luck was poor—during my year in the sect, there was never such a washing. But that year, I encountered it.”

He remembered clearly—it was his third year in the sect, and all he had was a standard-issue iron sword, handed out to new disciples. He was frugal, took odd jobs, and managed to save some money and rare metals, but never invested them into his iron sword, for he never cared for it. He hoped to save enough for a sword that truly spoke to him, but his means were never enough for those he desired.

Then, word came that the arsenal would be opened for a washing.

He knew his chance had arrived. He waited all night by the sword pool.

When the washing began, the dazzling glint of so many swords nearly blinded him. He, like all the others, forced his eyes open through streaming tears, searching the light for his destiny.

Then he saw “Autumn Water.”

Unlike the flying swords darting and dueling in the pool, or the powerful magic swords stirring the waters, “Autumn Water” stood quietly, unmoving amidst the chaos.

He was immediately drawn to its ancient, elegant grace. When a flying sword crashed into “Autumn Water” and rebounded, while “Autumn Water” did not budge in the slightest, his resolve was set.

Perhaps no one else saw that moment, or perhaps “Autumn Water” was too plain for most to notice. In any case, it was left to him.

He spent all his savings and rare metals—though still short, the elder overseeing the washing nonetheless handed “Autumn Water” to him, even returning the rare metals, kindly explaining that “Autumn Water” was a dual-natured sword, attuned to both gold and water, and meant to be worn at the side.

He remembered the elder smiling, saying that while Sword-Casting Mountain excelled at flying swords and magic blades, they could teach the Sword-Body Art too, and if not, they could always invite someone from the Stone Forest sect—after all, behind closed doors, they were all one family.

He was elated to receive “Autumn Water,” proud to have recognized its worth. By day, he practiced sword forms, by night, he slept with the sword by his side. He saved every coin to buy more rare metals to feed to “Autumn Water.”

But in the end, he realized that while the sword was indeed worthy, the hero was not. He failed “Autumn Water,” he failed his elders, and failed that kind elder who had placed the sword in his hands.

These memories flashed by in an instant, memories he had turned over countless times.

Outwardly, he was calm. “Yunqi, I wish to give ‘Autumn Water’ to you. Would you accept it?”

Yunqi was stunned—such a treasure, given so freely?

“I am unworthy. I should have returned ‘Autumn Water’ to the arsenal when I left the sect, but I could not bear to part with it. Yet, after selfishly taking it, I was too ashamed to even look upon it, leaving it in its case, high on the wall. But the sword is spirited—every autumn, when metal’s energy waxes, it rings out nightly. I feared it would leave me, yet secretly hoped it would transform and fly away. Such tangled feelings are hard to express.”

The master’s hand, hidden in his sleeve, clenched and trembled.

Yunqi sighed quietly—was this the origin of the name “Dwelling of Remorse”?

“Yunqi, take ‘Autumn Water.’ How can you travel the world without a fine weapon? If you truly dislike it, then when you return to the sect, take it back to Sword-Casting Mountain for me.”

The master looked at him, eyes full of hope.

Reason and sentiment both compelled Yunqi to accept. He loved the sword dearly—what reason was there to refuse such a gift?

He sheathed the sword, bowed deeply. “Thank you, Master, for the sword.”

The master threw back his head and laughed, as though a great weight had been lifted. “Good child! Sit, sit, I have more for you!”

He pressed Yunqi back into his seat and hurried inside, even livelier than before, taking the sword case with him.

Yet Yunqi, hearing a thud as soon as the master left the hall, wondered—had he really just tossed away the sword case?

He smiled and lowered his gaze to “Autumn Water” again. What a beautiful sword! He had never managed to acquire one in the sect, but now, newly out in the world, someone had gifted him such a treasure—was this a dream, or fate?

As for flying swords or magic blades, he no longer cared. With such a sword at his side, what more could he want? The rest would come in time.

When the master returned, seeing Yunqi so enamored, his heart was filled with comfort. He carried a small box, sitting again at Yunqi’s side and placing it on the table.

Opening it, Yunqi saw a dozen or so lumps—some gold, some stone, some as big as eggs, some as small as beans; some looked like common stones, others glimmered with light.

“These are rare metals I gathered over the decades in the mortal realm. There were more, but I traded most for gold-water types for the sword. Now, these are yours. They’re not as fine as those in the sect, but don’t mind that.”

He pushed the box towards Yunqi with a smile.

Yunqi could hardly refuse, and bowed in thanks.

The master beamed and asked, “Have you ever fed a sword before?”

Yunqi shook his head—without a sword, how could he have?

The master’s smile never faded now that Yunqi had accepted “Autumn Water.” He explained:

“Flying swords are honed by sharpening, magic swords by wielding, but the strength of a side sword lies in feeding. Think: the Sword-Body Art relies on momentum, and that force is borne by the sword. If your sword is inferior, one sudden movement or change, and it’ll snap. Sword-Body swords must be strong—unyielding in both offense and defense.”

Yunqi nodded throughout the explanation.

“To keep a side sword strong, you must feed it rare metals regularly—it’s truly expensive. So you see, flying and magic swords aren’t the costliest.”

Yunqi, a little embarrassed, admitted, “I spoke out of ignorance.”

The master waved it off. “Do you know fire arts? Can you conjure magical flame?”

Yunqi nodded—indeed, fire arts were his main practice at the moment.

“Feeding a sword isn’t difficult as long as you have the right metals. Here, try this now.”

He picked a blue-green ingot from the box and handed it to Yunqi.

“This is called ‘Flowing Gold in Silt,’ an acrid metal; ‘Autumn Water’ favors both gold and water, with yin predominating, so it especially likes acrid gold and fennel water. Call forth your fire, melt it, and once it’s liquid, drip it onto the blade—‘Autumn Water’ will absorb it. Over time, after a hundred such feedings, the sword will become ever stronger. Some rare metals also impart unique properties to the sword, so keep an eye out for such treasures.”

Yunqi nodded, summoned fire to his palm, and began refining the metal.

The master sighed as he watched, “When I first set out, I still had spiritual power. But the dust of the world, the decline of the flesh—each day my breath grew fainter, until my power was spent and I was no better than a mortal. Even feeding ‘Autumn Water’ became impossible.”

Yunqi nodded in agreement. In the few days since leaving the sect, he too had noticed how thin spiritual qi was in the mundane world. No wonder the great sects all fought to claim spirit mountains.

“It seems a bit slow. ‘Flowing Gold in Silt’ is hard and cold, resistant to fire—try another.”

But Yunqi shook his head. “No need.” He laid the sword across his knees, right hand holding the flame, left hand forming a seal, pointing to the metal, and softly intoned, “Burn!”

Instantly, the metal began to melt.

The master, watching, grew all the more satisfied.

Soon, the ‘Flowing Gold in Silt’ turned to liquid. Yunqi withdrew the flame, drew his sword, and caught the molten metal on the blade. Like rain falling into a pool, it left a blue-green mark as it was absorbed, and the sword gave a clear, ringing note.

“‘Autumn Water’ is pleased,” the master laughed.

With the matter settled, he did not keep Yunqi longer, giving him all the remaining rare metals and sending him home.

At parting, he reminded him not to rush feeding the sword—wait until each metal is fully absorbed before adding more, lest greed spoil the sword’s strength. When the blade shows no trace of other colors, it is ready to be fed again. Yet, the master joked, few sword-bearers have such worries; most struggle to find enough metal to keep up with the sword’s appetite. The ten-odd pieces he’d collected would hardly satisfy “Autumn Water” for long.

Yunqi bowed deeply in gratitude.

The master waved him off, watching as he left.

Yet as Yunqi vanished from sight, the master, all smiles, suddenly felt a chill on his cheek. He touched his face—it was wet. He was crying.

Why tears? He was so happy—happier than he’d been in years!

Was this what people meant by “tears of joy”?

He could not understand it. Returning to his chamber, he habitually avoided the wall where the sword case had always hung. As he sat on the bed, he suddenly recalled himself, laughing and cursing, “Old fool—you’re muddled! ‘Autumn Water’ has a new master now, one far more gifted than you. Why keep hiding? No need to avoid it any longer. Tomorrow, you ought to change the name of the ‘Dwelling of Remorse’!”

He felt he should be at peace. He looked up, facing the wall directly.

It was empty now, utterly bare.

For some reason, grief welled up within him, his nose stinging unbearably. He collapsed onto the bed and wept aloud.