6. Pathogenic Wind

The day of the Sword Sect’s Grand Tournament soon arrived.

Kunwu has a vast number of disciples. While many of the seventeen legendary Sword Masters have seen their lineages lost to time, and barely half of those titles remain active, the thousands of years since the sect’s founding have seen new talents spring up like bamboo shoots after rain. These rising stars, however, are merely addressed as Sword Lords, distinct from the original seventeen.

For disciples who fail to apprentice under the successors of the seventeen, becoming a pupil to one of these Sword Lords is still a respectable choice, as it comes with a stipend. Beyond the throngs of ordinary disciples hoping to secure a master through the tournament, those already under tutelage must also compete; a poor performance reflects poorly on their masters, and they would surely face harsh consequences upon returning home.

Shen Yihan had always felt that the competitive spirit of sword cultivators was quite inexplicable. In their youth, seeing another swordsman might spark a natural itch to spar—that is understandable, for what is youth without a bit of recklessness? Yet, as they grow older and adopt airs of seniority, they become too proud to descend into the arena themselves. When they grow red-faced and neck-strained arguing over such matters, they insist on offloading their competitive urges onto their own disciples. How is this any different from commoners pitting crickets against each other?

Thus, he had never taken interest in his friend’s sect tournament and had never come to watch. Today was his first time attending.

The venue for the tournament was a massive, expansive plaza. Anyone flying on a sword above could see that the plaza was actually the cross-section of a towering mountain. Looking down from a distance, it appeared as if the peak had been sheared off by some sharp object, leaving behind this smooth, flat surface.

And indeed, that was the case. This Sword-Performing Peak had been carved out by the very first Sword Master of the Dengyang Sword lineage. Thousands of years later, the once-barren peak was now lush with greenery and vegetation, hiding the imposing and sharp sword intent of that original strike. Only when disciples took to the air and beheld the sheer, rugged shape of the mountain would they sigh in admiration, letting their imaginations wander to the grace and stature of that ancient Sword Master.

Since visiting Master Mei, Yun Ran’s teacher, a few days prior, the atmosphere between the two had been somewhat stiff, and they had not met since. Yet, on the day of the tournament, Shen Yihan arrived early at Dengyang Peak and, with a smile, suggested they sit together to watch the proceedings.

Yun Ran agreed. The tacit understanding and harmony between them returned as if the slight awkwardness of two days ago had never existed. Shen Yihan thought to himself that perhaps Yun Ran had finally let it go.

After all, cultivation is a personal journey. No matter how close friends are, one cannot cultivate or break through on behalf of the other. He had his own Dao heart, and Yun Ran had his own Sword heart; they were, at the end of the day, two entirely different individuals. It would do Yun Ran no good to be overly fixated on the success or failure of his own breakthroughs.

Obsession is a karmic obstacle, and such obstacles can manifest as inner demons. Yun Ran had reached the peak of the Lesser Vehicle stage and was only a thin layer of paper away from the Great Vehicle stage. Unlike Shen Yihan, whose life was destined to flicker out, Yun Ran had a bright future that should not be hindered.

Friendship among cultivators is meant to be like this: the friendship of gentlemen is as clear as water—even if they are kindred spirits when they meet, they should be indifferent when they part.

As for himself—he was naturally different from Yun Ran. Why should a cultivator who lacked even the drive for self-improvement be bound by such rigid rules? He insisted on being stubbornly affectionate and openly protective. Shen Yihan had never felt there was anything wrong with that.

***

Sect Leader Chu was quite observant. Seeing Shen and Yun arrive together, he must have given some instructions to his disciples. When it came time to be seated, Shen Yihan found that the seating for the disciples of the Miaoyin Sect had been arranged very close to Yun Ran.

Sect Leader Shen, feeling this was still not enough, saw that the Dengyang Peak area was cold and sparse, with only his friend Yun Ran sitting there alone. He simply moved his desk and sat right beside him. The disciples of the Miaoyin Sect, who took all their cues from their leader, naturally followed suit—some moving desks, others tossing fruit, all laughing and chatting as they shifted toward the Dengyang Peak seating area.

Though the Miaoyin Sect had only a dozen or so disciples, they were quite the spectacle. Unlike the Sword Sect disciples, who wore tight-sleeved, dark-colored training gear and were all silent and sharp-edged, the Miaoyin disciples mostly wore robes in shades of deep purple and light blue. Their long, flowing sleeves and graceful postures were striking. At a glance, one could not find a single plain-looking person among them. The male disciples wore jade belts cinched at their waists and hairpins shaped like flying phoenixes, appearing as upright, handsome, and spirited youths. The female disciples wore "flying fairy" buns, with light purple ribbons tied at the ends of their hair. As they walked, they seemed to float, light and agile, perfectly accentuating their flower-like beauty. It was truly a sight to behold, making it impossible for anyone to look away.

This group of Miaoyin youths, chattering and laughing like a swarm of colorful butterflies, had suddenly flown into the otherwise desolate Dengyang Peak seating area. Though lively, they were also remarkably noisy, creating a commotion equivalent to a hundred ducks, drawing frequent side-glances from the Sword Sect disciples.

Sect Leader Shen, however, remained composed, feeling nothing was amiss. He believed that such a grand event as the sect tournament should be lively. Besides, they were all young, and as music cultivators, they were meant to be spirited and emotionally expressive; only then could they truly grasp the depth and essence within their music scores. If they were all as silent and taciturn as his friend, that would truly be a tragedy.

Sect Leader Shen acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He held a folding fan, turned his head, and with an elegant, graceful snap, opened it. Fanning himself, he asked his friend with a smile, "Where is Uncle Mei? Why don't I see him?"

He looked less like the leader of a righteous sect and more like a dashing, worldly playboy. Compared to his flock of "little butterflies," Sect Leader Shen was not much more steady; at most, he was simply the most flamboyant leader of the butterfly swarm.

"Master will be here shortly."

"Why not have Uncle Mei sit with us?" Shen Yihan said while fanning himself. "It would make it easier for me to help him vet some of the younger disciples."

Yun Ran gave a soft hum. Shen Yihan noticed his gaze lingering on the folding fan in his hand and suddenly remembered something. Looking down, he said, "Oh, right. This fan—it seems you gave it to me back then. When was that, exactly?"

Yun Ran watched him. "...It was after you reached the Golden Core stage, while we were traveling together in the Guangling region."

Shen Yihan was struck by a sudden realization. "Oh, I remember now! I saw a down-and-out scholar on the street selling fans, and his paintings were quite good. You saw me looking at them for a while, so you bought it for me, right?"

Yun Ran hummed in agreement.

Shen Yihan laughed, "It’s been so long, and you still remember so clearly."

Yun Ran replied, "There is a dust-repelling and water-evading spell I left on the fan."

Shen Yihan was stunned. He flipped the fan over and saw that the painting of the beauty was still as vivid and lifelike as ever. He realized, "...No wonder! I had been wondering how this fan, clearly just a mundane object, still looked brand new after hundreds of years. I thought I had cast a cleaning spell on it at some point. So, you had already taken care of it when you gave it to me. You really are meticulous."

Yun Ran did not answer. He turned his gaze toward the arena below and said calmly, "The tournament is about to begin."