( A new master )
Zhang Wei's legs gave out beneath him.
He dropped onto the cold stone floor of the cave, his breath still uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly—as if his body had not yet understood that it had survived.
"…I'm… back…"
His voice echoed faintly against the cave walls.
The cold was still there.
But it was different now.
Quieter.
Contained.
Not like the endless, suffocating death outside.
Wei swallowed, his throat dry as his eyes moved slowly across the cave again—every crack, every shadow, every drop of water clinging to the ceiling.
Real.
Still.
Safe… or at least safer.
"…How did I come back…"
No answer came.
Only silence.
Then—
His gaze stopped.
A scroll.
Small.
Old.
Resting against a flat stone as if it had always been there… waiting.
"What is that…"
His voice lowered instinctively.
Something about it felt… deliberate.
Wei forced his body to move, though every muscle protested. His limbs still felt weak, as if the cold had seeped deep into his bones.
Step.
Step.
He reached it.
His fingers hesitated briefly before picking it up.
The material was worn but not fragile—smooth, aged by time but preserved carefully. When he unrolled it, the faint scent of old ink rose into the air.
His eyes scanned the contents.
Then paused.
"…This isn't…"
Not the Zhang style.
Not even close.
His brows knit together as he read.
The movements illustrated were strange—flowing, circular, continuous. Each stance transitioned into the next without sharp edges or killing intent.
It wasn't about striking.
It wasn't about overpowering.
It was…
Yielding.
Redirecting.
Like water.
Like a calm lake disturbed only by wind.
Wei blinked slowly.
"…This is swordplay?"
It looked more like a dance.
A quiet one.
His mind drifted briefly—
To the past.
A Ji Ya.
Her soft voice.
Her gentle movements as she once guided his small hands.
"Don't force it… feel it…"
His chest tightened faintly.
Then—
Zhang Lin.
Firm.
Precise.
"Again. Your stance is wrong."
Wei exhaled slowly.
"…I couldn't even understand that…"
The Zhang swordplay had always felt… distant to him.
Too rigid.
Too sharp.
But this—
This felt…
Close.
"…What is this doing here…"
"Let's start."
The voice cut through the silence.
Wei flinched violently, nearly dropping the scroll as he turned around.
"You—!"
His heart jumped.
The same figure from before.
Standing there.
Calm.
Unmoving.
"You—why are you here?!" Wei asked, still shaken.
The figure tilted their head slightly.
"You're in my home. Why can't I be here?"
Wei blinked.
"…Your home?"
His eyes darted around the cave again.
"You live here?"
"Yes."
A simple answer.
As if nothing about this place was strange.
The figure stepped forward slightly, pointing at the scroll in Wei's hand.
"My son died on that battlefield," he said calmly. "He left that behind."
Wei's grip tightened slightly.
"…Your son…"
"He never had the chance to pass it on."
A pause.
"My granddaughter married early. I could not find her again."
The figure's voice didn't waver.
Didn't break.
But something in it…
Felt unfinished.
"…So now," he continued, his gaze settling on Wei, "a successor has arrived."
Wei stiffened immediately.
"…Wait—no—"
"Though you are weak…"
The words landed bluntly.
"…you will do."
Wei's lips twitched.
"…Sir, can't you find someone else?"
There was caution in his voice now.
Careful.
Measured.
After everything he had just seen—
He wasn't eager to accept anything blindly.
The figure looked at him.
Long.
Quiet.
"I have been dead for ten years."
Wei went still.
"This spirit will fade soon."
The air grew heavier.
"And you…"
A step closer.
"…are the only one who walked into this forsaken land."
No pressure in the tone.
No threat.
Just inevitability.
"…So we begin."
Wei opened his mouth—
Then closed it.
He looked at the scroll.
Then at his trembling hands.
Then at the man.
"…Fine…"
Not confidence.
Not willingness.
Just… acceptance.
"…Let's start."
—
The first step—
Looked simple.
Too simple.
Wei lifted the sword the man had handed him—old, slightly rusted, but balanced.
"Stand."
Wei adjusted awkwardly.
"No."
The correction came instantly.
"Relax."
Wei frowned slightly, trying again.
"Not like that."
A pause.
"Are you stiff wood?"
The first strike came without warning.
Smack—!
Wei yelped as the flat of a wooden stick hit his arm.
"Ow—!"
"Again."
"No—wait—!"
Smack—!
"Your center is wrong."
"Ah—!"
Smack—!
"Your breathing is chaos."
"I just started—!"
Smack—!
"Your mind is worse."
Wei stumbled back, clutching his arm.
"…You're hitting me!"
"Yes."
The man didn't even blink.
"You are learning."
Wei stared at him in disbelief.
"This is teaching?!"
"This is mercy."
Wei almost choked.
—
Time blurred.
Step by step.
Movement by movement.
Wei learned.
Or rather—
Was forced to learn.
The technique unfolded slowly.
One stance flowed into another.
A turn.
A shift of weight.
A breath.
Every motion had to connect.
Nothing wasted.
Nothing forced.
Like ripples across a still pond.
Like wind brushing across water.
"…No killing intent," the man said.
Wei adjusted his stance, sweat dripping from his chin despite the cold.
"…Then what is it for?"
The man's eyes rested on him.
"…To remain."
Wei paused.
"…What?"
"To endure."
A strike came.
Wei reacted instinctively—
And for the first time—
He didn't block.
He moved.
The blade slid past him, redirected, his body turning naturally with the motion.
The force—
Gone.
Wei blinked.
"…That…"
"Again."
No praise.
No pause.
—
By the time he reached the 10th step—
His legs were shaking.
By the 15th—
He fell.
Repeatedly.
By the 20th—
He stopped thinking.
His body moved on instinct.
On feeling.
On survival.
By the 25th—
His breathing began to match the flow.
Slow.
Steady.
—
At the 29th step—
He collapsed.
Flat on his back.
Chest heaving.
"…I… can't…"
His voice was barely there.
His arms refused to move.
His legs burned.
His entire body ached.
The cave spun slightly above him.
"…Get up."
Wei didn't respond.
"I said—get up."
"…No…"
For once—
He refused.
Silence followed.
Then—
"…Pathetic."
Wei didn't even have the energy to argue.
But his fingers twitched slightly.
"…I learned… 29…"
His voice was faint.
"…That's enough for today…"
A long pause.
Then—
"…For now."
Not approval.
But not rejection either.
Wei closed his eyes slowly, his body sinking into the cold ground.
Exhausted.
Broken.
But—
For the first time—
He had learned something that didn't reject him.
Something that didn't feel wrong.
Something that matched him.
Soft.
Flowing.
Enduring.
And somewhere deep within him—
His core pulsed faintly.
Quiet.
But… responding.
The cave no longer felt like a place of shelter.
It had become a prison.
A training ground.
A grave that refused to let him rest.
—
"Again.from the starting step one "
The old man's voice echoed—not loud, but heavy. It carried weight, like something that had seen too much of the world and had long grown tired of it.
Zhang Wei's legs trembled as he stepped forward.
His gray robe—now damp at the edges and slightly torn from earlier falls—clung to his body in uneven folds. The hem brushed against the cold stone floor, picking up dust and faint moisture from melted frost that crept in from outside.
His breathing was uneven.
But he moved.
Step one.
His foot slid forward—not forcefully, but gently, like touching the surface of still water.
"Too stiff."
A strike.
Not with a weapon—but a flick of force.
It hit his shoulder.
Wei stumbled, nearly falling.
"This is not killing. This is not fleeing. This is acceptance," the old man said, his translucent figure pacing slowly around him. "If your heart resists, your body will resist. If your body resists, the flow breaks."
Wei clenched his teeth.
"I'm trying…"
"Trying is not enough."
Again.
—
Step three.
His body turned slightly, sleeves following a fraction too late. The movement was supposed to be seamless—but his hesitation broke the rhythm.
A sharp tap hit his back.
Pain bloomed.
"Late."
—
Step seven.
He spun—too fast this time.
His foot slipped.
He fell.
Hard.
The impact echoed through the cave, his palm scraping against rough stone. Small cuts formed instantly, stinging as he pushed himself back up.
"I said flow—not rush!"
Wei's chest rose and fell rapidly.
"I… I don't understand…"
His voice cracked slightly—not from weakness, but from frustration.
"I can dodge… I can react… but this—this feels like I'm not supposed to fight at all!"
The old man stopped.
For a moment, silence filled the cave.
Then—
"You finally speak sense."
Wei blinked.
"Huh?"
"This art…" the old man gestured toward the scroll, "…was never meant for those who seek victory."
His voice softened—but carried something deeper now.
"It was created by someone who wanted to survive without taking life."
Wei froze.
Those words—
They hit something inside him.
Something buried.
Something he had been running from.
—
"I don't want to kill…"
Wei whispered unconsciously.
The cave seemed to grow quieter.
"I don't want power… I don't want fame… I don't want to fight…"
His fingers tightened slightly.
"I just… don't want to die."
The words came out raw.
Honest.
Unfiltered.
The old man watched him silently.
For the first time—
He did not interrupt.
—
"Then stop resisting it."
Wei looked up.
Confused.
"The fear. The hesitation. The softness you think is weakness…"
The old man stepped closer, his figure flickering slightly like a candle in the wind.
"…that is your path."
—
"Again."
—
Step one.
This time—
Wei didn't think about enemies.
He didn't think about attacks.
He didn't think about surviving the next strike.
He just moved.
His foot touched the ground softly.
His body followed.
Not forcing.
Not resisting.
—
Step nine.
His sleeves flowed with his movement, the fabric trailing like water behind him. The motion was still imperfect—but smoother.
Less rigid.
—
Step fourteen.
A strike came.
Wei didn't block.
He turned.
The force brushed past him, missing by inches.
His eyes widened slightly.
"…I didn't…"
"You didn't fight," the old man finished. "Good."
—
Hours passed.
Or maybe days.
Time had no meaning in that cave.
Wei's body grew heavier.
Bruises formed.
His muscles ached.
But—
He improved.
Slowly.
Painfully.
—
Step twenty-three.
He moved like a drifting leaf—unstable, but no longer stiff.
Step twenty-seven.
His breathing aligned with his movement.
Inhale—step.
Exhale—turn.
—
Step twenty-nine.
He stopped.
His entire body trembled.
Sweat ran down his neck, soaking into the collar of his robe. His white hair clung slightly to his face, strands sticking to his damp skin.
"I… can't…"
He dropped to one knee.
His arms shook from exhaustion.
"I really… can't…"
The cave was silent again.
The old man stood still.
Watching.
—
"You learned twenty-nine steps in this state."
Wei didn't respond.
He didn't have the strength.
"…You are worse than my son."
Wei's head dropped further.
"…But."
A pause.
"…you are also more suitable than him."
Wei slowly lifted his head.
Confused.
Tired.
"…Huh?"
The old man looked toward the cave entrance, where faint cold light filtered in.
"My son wanted to perfect it."
His voice carried a hint of regret.
"He tried to turn it into something stronger… sharper… something that could stand against the world."
His gaze returned to Wei.
"And he died for it."
Silence.
"But you…"
He studied Wei carefully.
"…you don't want to stand against the world."
Wei swallowed weakly.
"…I just want to live…"
"Exactly."
—
The old man turned away.
"This art will not make you strong."
Wei blinked.
"It will not help you defeat enemies."
A pause.
"It will only help you… not die."
Wei let out a weak, breathless laugh.
"…That's enough…"
—
The old man's figure flickered again—fainter this time.
"Rest."
He said quietly.
"Tomorrow… we continue."
Wei didn't argue.
He couldn't.
His body finally gave in as he collapsed onto the cold stone floor, his chest rising and falling slowly.
But his mind—
For the first time since arriving—
Was quiet.
Not empty.
Not numb.
Just…
Calm.
—
Outside the cave—
The wind howled across the blood-stained snow.
But inside—
Zhang Wei slept.
Not as prey.
Not as a burden.
But as someone—
Who had finally taken a step toward surviving this world.
Even if…
It was only step twenty-nine.
The next day came without warmth.
No sunlight.
No sense of time.
Only the cold silence of the cave—and the weight of what remained to be learned.
—
"Continue."
The voice came as it always did.
Calm.
Unyielding.
Zhang Wei stood slowly.
His body protested immediately.
Every muscle ached.
Every joint stiff.
The thin gray robe he wore now hung loosely on him, wrinkled and damp in places where sweat had dried and returned again. The fabric brushed against his bruised skin, sending faint stings with every movement.
But he didn't complain.
Not this time.
—
Step twenty-nine.
He moved.
Slower than yesterday.
But steadier.
—
"Too shallow."
A force struck his side.
Wei staggered, catching himself just before falling.
"Again."
—
Step thirty-two.
His breathing broke.
"Inhale with the step, not before it."
—
Step thirty-eight.
His sleeve tangled slightly with his wrist.
A mistake.
Pain followed.
—
The training did not stop.
Not once.
Not for rest.
Not for mercy.
—
Hours passed.
Or maybe longer.
Wei lost count after step forty-five.
His mind blurred.
His body moved on instinct alone.
Fall.
Rise.
Step.
Turn.
Miss.
Adjust.
Again.
—
By step fifty—
His legs shook constantly.
By step sixty—
His palms were raw, small cuts reopening each time he pushed himself up from the ground.
By step seventy—
Even breathing felt heavy.
Like each inhale had to fight its way into his lungs.
—
"I… can't…"
He whispered once.
A strike came instantly.
Not harsh.
But firm.
"You can," Pi Lang replied.
"Your body is weak. Your mind is scattered. Your understanding is poor."
Wei flinched slightly.
"…but your will to live is stubborn."
A pause.
"…that is enough."
—
Step seventy-eight.
Something changed.
Wei didn't notice it at first.
But his movements—
Though still imperfect—
Had begun to connect.
Not perfectly.
But naturally.
Like threads finally finding each other.
—
Step eighty-three.
A strike came.
Wei turned—
Not fast.
Not sharp.
But just enough.
The force brushed past him.
Missed.
—
His eyes widened slightly.
"…I did it…"
"Don't stop."
—
Step eighty-nine.
His entire body trembled.
His vision blurred at the edges.
The cave seemed to spin slightly as exhaustion clawed at his consciousness.
But he moved.
One more step.
—
Step ninety.
He stopped.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he couldn't move anymore.
His body gave out beneath him, dropping to his knees with a dull thud against the stone floor.
His chest heaved violently.
Sweat dripped from his chin onto the ground.
His arms hung limply at his sides.
"…ninety…"
He whispered.
Barely audible.
—
Silence filled the cave.
Then—
A soft sound.
Not a strike.
Not a command.
A laugh.
—
"You really are terrible."
Wei let out a weak breath that almost resembled a laugh.
"…I know…"
"But…"
Pi Lang stepped closer, his fading form flickering faintly.
"…you reached ninety."
Wei lifted his head slightly.
"…so… I passed…?"
"No."
Wei froze.
"…huh?"
"You survived."
A small pause.
"…that is better."
—
Wei let out a breathless chuckle before collapsing backward onto the cold ground.
"I'll take that…"
—
Time passed.
Quiet.
Still.
Then—
"Listen carefully."
Wei forced his eyes open.
Pi Lang stood near the cave entrance, where faint light touched his fading figure.
"This swordplay…"
He gestured lightly.
"…must be practiced when the moon is highest."
Wei blinked weakly.
"…why…?"
"Because that is when the world is quiet."
His voice softened.
"No noise. No rush. No killing."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"…only stillness."
Wei swallowed.
"…peace…"
"Yes."
—
Wei slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position.
That's when he saw it.
Pi Lang's body—
Fading.
More than before.
Edges dissolving into the air like mist.
—
"You are leaving…"
Wei said softly.
Pi Lang nodded.
No hesitation.
No regret.
—
Something tightened in Wei's chest.
Unexpected.
Unfamiliar.
Tears welled up before he could stop them.
"…already…?"
"What a baby you are."
The words were the same as always.
But this time—
They were gentler.
"Life ends. That is normal."
Pi Lang turned slightly, looking toward the distant, unseen battlefield beyond the cave.
"My wish has been fulfilled."
A pause.
"…it is time I leave."
Wei clenched his fists slightly.
Tears slipped down his face silently.
"…you never told me your name…"
His voice trembled.
For the first time since arriving—
He didn't want to be alone.
—
Pi Lang looked back at him.
And smiled.
Not faint.
Not distant.
But real.
—
"Pi Lang."
—
Wei lowered his head immediately, forcing his trembling body into a proper bow despite the pain screaming through him.
His forehead touched the cold stone.
Respectful.
Sincere.
"Goodbye… Master Pi Lang…"
His voice cracked.
"…safe journey… to the other side."
—
Silence.
Then—
A laugh.
Warm.
Light.
Acknowledging.
—
When Wei lifted his head—
The cave felt… emptier.
No presence.
No voice.
No pressure.
—
Gone.
—
Wei sat there for a long moment.
Motionless.
Quiet.
The cold no longer bothered him.
The silence no longer pressed on him.
But something else—
Something heavier—
Settled in his chest.
—
"…goodbye…"
He whispered again.
Softer this time.
As if afraid the word itself might disappear.
—
Outside—
The wind still howled.
The snow still bled red.
The world remained unchanged.
—
But inside the cave—
Zhang Wei had changed.
Not stronger.
Not sharper.
Not fearless.
—
But steadier.
—
And when night would come—
And the moon would rise—
Somewhere beneath that quiet sky—
A boy who only wanted to live—
Would begin practicing a swordplay
That refused to kill.
Step by step.
Until one day—
He might finally reach one hundred.