Chapter Thirty-Five: Playful Indulgence

In the early morning, the mountains are always shrouded in a gentle poetic haze. Mist rises, enveloping the spring woodlands—a familiar scene in these remote hills. Because of its seclusion, few people tread here, lending the place an air of tranquil solitude. The hour is yet early; sunlight has not fully spilled across the land. A lingering chill seeps into the bones, and the dew on every leaf and blade of grass glistens, round and clear, endearingly beautiful.

Such scenery would certainly captivate any lover of beauty, who would not fail to immortalize it in verse or painting. The literati, given the chance, would no doubt compose or sketch with abandon. But today, misfortune seems to have befallen this peaceful glade. A sword swings fiercely, its arc edged with anger; it strikes the leaves, scattering dewdrops in all directions, disturbing the calm. Even the silence of the forest shudders, and the sudden clamor startles a few sleeping birds into flight, their wings flapping as they flee.

“Old geezer, stingy old man! How dare he leave me behind—I'm so angry I could burst!” The one venting her spleen shows no sign of being appeased. Yet, in her eyes, there is nothing improper about her outburst. Year after year, day after day, she has grown up among these Qilian Mountains; such scenes are commonplace every spring. Rarity breeds value—what is seen every day becomes mundane. A closer look reveals her face, flushed with indignation, as she seeks to vent her frustration through action. While muttering curses, her hands do not pause; spiritual energy surges within her, amplifying the sword’s destructive force. Wisps of wind spiral from her movements, causing the young yellow leaves to quiver and dance.

But she is not one to persist endlessly. However much she wills it, her body soon tires. Numbness and fatigue set in, and hunger gnaws at her in the crisp morning air, leaving her weak. Her complaints fade. She reins in her motions, planting her sword beside a rock, and with a leap, alights atop the stone. This is a familiar haunt—perched high on the Qilian peaks, from here she can survey the land in all directions. Especially striking is the vast gorge below; leaning forward to peer over the edge, she is seized by vertigo, recoiling at the dizzying depth. Fear of heights remains her greatest weakness, unchanged despite all the years spent here.

“If only Senior Brother were here,” she muses, “he’d sit in front of me and block the view—then I wouldn’t be so scared. But why did he leave without a word?” Alone, her mind wanders. It is only natural; memories cling to this place, stirring her emotions. Her gaze shifts to the sword—half a month ago, when she left the Qilian Mountains, Hantan Yi bought it for her as a gift. Otherwise, she would have had to make do with wooden swords or tree branches. It is no legendary weapon, but crafted of fine steel worth several taels of silver. She has never asked where the money came from, and Hantan Yi has never volunteered the answer.

Lost in thought, a faint anxiety lingers in her mind. The higher one climbs, the colder it grows; the air, moving as it will, flows downward. Though the breeze is mild, its presence is keenly felt. Her long black hair flutters behind her, giving an impression of wild grace. She wears a purple gauze dress; seated in a daze upon the stone, the trailing fabric cascades down, lending her the ethereal elegance of a fairy descended to earth.

“Wait—Master forbade me from following, but he never said I couldn’t go myself! If he’s heading to Xingyang, I’ll go to Jinjiang. That way, we won’t cross paths. As for Second Senior Brother, even if Master left him to watch over Qilian, what can he do if I sneak away? If I get scolded, I’ll just say I went to find Senior Brother. No matter how stern Second Brother gets, he softens before Senior Brother. With him backing me, who would dare blame me?” Whether it’s the cold or her own excitement, she shivers as this clever plan takes shape. She knows her companions’ temperaments well. Spoiled from childhood, she is stubborn by nature; now, instead of hesitation, she feels rather pleased with her own ingenuity.

She is not one to merely talk—once her mind is set, she springs into action. Rising from the stone, she notices that after days of disuse and damp weather, the once-smooth surface is now tinged with moss, staining the hem of her purple gauze. The color stands out, and she finds it unsightly, but this is no time to go back and change. Though she rarely fears her second senior brother, some things are best done discreetly; there’s no need to make things awkward.

“Never mind, it’s behind me—I can’t see it anyway. Once it dries, it’ll be fine. The best strategy is to leave now, before Second Senior Brother catches on. He’s just like Master; not old, but terribly nagging—enough to drive anyone mad. I can’t let him stop me, or even if I argue till dawn, it’ll be for nothing.” Her mutterings are low and disgruntled, more a complaint to herself than to anyone else. Since she’s come this far, she does not hesitate. With a practiced motion, she slings the sword across her back and calls loudly toward the row of cottages not far off: “Second Senior Brother, is breakfast ready yet?”

It is a clever diversion. After all, the stone is not far from the eaves of the houses—if she’s going to slip away, she needs time. If her brothers think she’s still atop the mountain, she can gain a head start. Once she’s through the Qilian pass, they won’t even know which direction she went.

“Almost done! Just wait a bit longer, Junior Sister—just a little while!” comes the reply from a middle-aged man. At this distance, only his voice is audible, for the kitchen is shrouded in smoke, white and thick, leaking through the gaps in the wooden beams—a testament to his busy preparations. Most of the Qilian disciples are orphans; only Second Senior Brother was once a farmer in these mountains, joining the sect by chance. Though older, he is simple and guileless, never suspecting Qiu Wan’er’s little ruses.

“All right, but hurry up!” she calls back, as expected. She glances around—the other disciples are busy with morning exercises, chopping wood, or fetching water. Only she, as the sect’s treasured daughter, can afford such leisure; no one pays her much heed, and the exchange passes as routine. Seeing that all eyes are elsewhere, Qiu Wan’er moves without hesitation. Light-footed and agile, she employs her skills to the fullest; faster even than a hare in the undergrowth, she disappears into the undulating mountains in the blink of an eye.

Who knows how long she runs? Her cheeks are flushed, and she gasps for breath before finally halting beside a great tree, leaning against it and bending at the waist to recover. A hint of pride dances on her face as she glances back the way she came and murmurs, “That old man really thought Second Senior Brother could keep me here—what a joke! See how easily I slipped away? I’d like to see what they can do about it now. Hmph!”

Still, pride alone won’t keep her safe. She dares not linger—if anyone gives chase, she’ll be in trouble. Qiu Wan’er knows her skills are formidable within Qilian, but not unrivaled. If caught, escape would be difficult. So, after a brief rest, once her breathing steadies, she sets off again toward Jinjiang City.

Ahead, in the distance, lies the teahouse where she had paused just yesterday on her return. Now, steam rises from within, thick as fog, veiling the entrance and blurring the view, making it impossible to see what lies inside.