Chapter Fifty-One: To What Can the Falling Snow Be Compared?

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That night, around the second watch.

The modest study had its curtain drawn, yet the white hound was not guarding the entrance.

Inside, the dog sat back on its haunches, front paws upright, head held high, a talisman arrow shaft clamped crosswise between its jaws.

From the shaft, sparks would flicker now and then. The source of those sparks was a treasured sword, just over three inches long, its tip inscribing wards onto the thin shell of the arrow!

The long sword danced like a brush upon paper, swift as dragons and serpents in flight.

As the blade flashed, cold light scattered in all directions, and when the tip touched the arrow shell, sparks leapt outward. It was impossible to tell whether the sword’s master was honing magical wards or practicing swordsmanship.

The white dog didn’t know; it thought its master was playing a game. Its broad, foolish head remained perfectly still, its pink nose quivering, while its tail wagged with delight, thumping the floor and drowning out the sound of carving spells.

Four feet away, Yun Qi stood tall and graceful, as upright as a pine or bamboo, his body unmoving, right arm extended, wrist alone guiding the sword tip in a whirl of white blossoms.

He was inscribing wards and practicing swordplay at once.

At that moment, on this winter night, a flash of inspiration struck him naturally.

One day, he would seek a true magical sword—using the blade as brush, his power as ink, the void as parchment—painting sigils in midair. When his power was sufficient, the sword’s aura would stretch for miles, inscribing talismans in the sky a thousand miles away. Wouldn’t that be wondrous?

His mind surged with fresh ideas, but his hand remained steady, working until the talisman arrows for the next day’s sale were complete.

Then he lifted the curtain and stepped outside.

The full moon hung high, casting its light over a world blanketed in white. The snow reflected the moonbeams so brightly it seemed to glow, and the mingled light of moon and snow made the night far less dark.

Snow was still falling, feather-light, settling on branches and turning emerald leaves white, covering the earth and riverbanks, but vanishing as soon as it touched the river, leaving the waters a deep, shadowy black.

The snow was so light it made no sound as it fell. All night long it drifted without rest, painting green mountains and clear waters into white peaks and dark rivers, yet the transformation was utterly silent. Only at dawn, when people opened their eyes, did they realize with a start:

Ah! The snow had grown deeper.

Yet after a few more days, on a night like this—

“Crack!”

No one could say which tree branch, burdened beyond its strength, snapped under the weight of the snow and crashed to the ground with a startling noise, waking those at rest. And again people would realize:

The snow, though it falls so gently and ceaselessly, can become so heavy in the end.

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Yun Qi stood for a long while, quietly observing the snow’s lightness and its weight, its clarity and cold brilliance, how it melted into water, how it broke branches, how it crowned the mountains and bowed the forests.

Within all this, there was intent and momentum.

He wandered to a deserted stretch of riverbank and drew Autumn Water.

There, under the moon and amid the snow, he began to move, sword dancing.

His sword flashed, scattering silvery light that mingled with moon and snow, as if the sword’s glimmer was itself the drifting snow or the moon’s radiance.

The blade moved, creating a flurry like falling snow, filling the world. Yet if you tried to focus on a single flake, it was impossible—just as with the sword, you saw only a blur of steel, never a single stroke.

His blade moved, its tip transformed into icy rays, countless points of cold light falling like snow from the heavens. In the vast wilderness, where could one hide from such a storm?

This was sword momentum.

The snowstorm troubled all the southern sects, but for Yun Qi it was just right.

Some days before, Yun Qi had exchanged talisman arrows for a sword manual, "The Four Water Forms of Sword Intent." Though not especially valuable, this manual served as a good introduction to the study of sword momentum. Its techniques were ordinary, but its understanding of intent was sound.

To practice the sword, one needed to comprehend the momentum; techniques would follow naturally.

This manual divided the intent of water into four forms: great snow, sudden rain, surging river, and giant wave.

Great snow was the momentum of overwhelming force, falling as if weightless, covering all; sudden rain, the momentum of endless continuity, seeping everywhere; surging river, the momentum of unstoppable power, rushing a thousand miles; giant wave, the momentum of churning water, clouds billowing to cover the sky.

Yun Qi matched the momentum of great snow with a footwork method from Azure Dragon Cave: "The Transforming Steps of Celestial Balance."

The Star of Balance lies at the boundary of the Dipper’s bowl and handle, embodying equilibrium and mastery of advance and retreat. According to the Astronomical Records of Jin, the seven stars of the Northern Dipper each govern heaven, earth, humanity, time, sound, rhythm, and the stars themselves.

Balance governs time, and time is the key to transformation.

The young Daoist’s steps followed the shifting lines of the Dipper; in his hands, Autumn Water conjured the momentum of swirling snow, and the sword sang with joy like a dragon.

But in the end, all snow is wrought by men, and how could man defy the seasons?

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The stars of the Dipper turn, unmoved by mortal affairs. When the Dipper’s handle and the Star of Radiance point to the Tiger position, spring arrives; the heavy snows melt and become tiny streams that flow into the river.

First comes the thawing of the eastern wind, next the stirring of hibernating insects, and finally the fish breaking through the ice.

And when the Dipper’s handle points to the North Water position, the rains come.

The east wind thaws the earth, the first water of heaven falls, all transformed into rain.

The spring rain falls endlessly, pattering and drifting. Once again, on the banks of the Seven-Mile River, beneath the pouring rain, the young Daoist was still practicing with his sword.

This time, his blade was not like the snow—light and airy—but urgent and swift. Countless thrusts and changes in a single instant, each movement fierce and unending. If one had not witnessed it in person, who could believe the act of drawing and sheathing a sword could be so beautiful?

“I never really believed in talent before.”

Not far from the riverbank, within a thatched hut, a few wounded men lounged on chairs, chatting idly but all watching the Daoist practicing in the rain.

Among them was a red-haired, one-armed man—the very one who had exchanged a sword manual for talisman arrows with Yun Qi on the opening day of the Modest Study. Back then, his arm had been whole. No one knew when the loss had occurred, only that he’d returned from the front lines one day with just one arm. He spoke softly,

“Take that heir from Master Hong’s household—our only true Daoist in Redwood Ridge! Still just in his teens and already approaching the second level, but I saw him at the Grand Autumn Festival two years ago, and he was so stiff during the demonstration, his treasure sword handled so poorly the opponent could have killed him ten times over and it wouldn’t have seemed excessive. Poor fellow, forced to act the part under Master Hong’s watchful eye, it wasn’t easy.

“From then on, I thought there were no born geniuses. Power and cultivation can always be piled up, but real skill in magical combat comes from surviving fire and water over time. Just reading books and going through the motions—who’d believe that’s enough?”

“And now?” asked a man missing an eye, grinning.

“Now I believe in it,” the one-armed man sighed. “The master of the Modest Study only started practicing swordsmanship here last winter—I remember it well, as I’d brought out that sword manual in exchange for his talisman arrows. He even joked with me, saying only after practicing with the manual I’d given him did his sword become more than just for show.

“It’s only been a few months. At first, he asked us to join him for practice, but now, no one can keep up! Old Blind Man, don’t tell me you went easy on him? I didn’t believe in luck, so I fought him with everything but my life. Every time, the bouts grew shorter. In the end, I couldn’t last even seven minutes! And that was half a month ago. Now… I can’t even imagine!”

The one-eyed man nodded. “He’s amazing at talismans and fire, and now that he’s practicing swordsmanship, he’s amazing at that too. What sort of person is this? Me, hold back? Nonsense! I just saw him blur before my eyes, tried to come up with a counter, and the sword was already at my throat.”

The group burst out laughing, the hut filled with cheerful voices.