Chapter 3:
Three days.
Jiang Buyu did not waste a single one.
**Day One.** He slept for a full twelve hours. He drank every dose of medicine Shen Qingci sent. He ate every grain of rice from the meals brought to him. His body recovered faster than expected — perhaps his foundation was still there, perhaps the fragment of the Sword Seal was working silently within him. By the time he woke on the second morning, he could already walk.
**Day Two.** He went to the training ground.
The training ground of Qingyin Pavilion was built on the mountainside — an open expanse paved with blue stone slabs, surrounded by dense groves of emerald bamboo. The morning mist had not yet fully dissipated. A dozen or so disciples in green robes were already practicing their sword forms. Blades of light crisscrossed through the air. Robes fluttered. Movements were perfectly synchronized.
Jiang Buyu stood at the edge of the ground and watched for a long time.
His eyes followed the trajectories of those swords. Something deep in his mind was working furiously — not thinking, but a more primal instinct. Before each thrust landed, he could already predict where it would strike. Before each transition, he could see the flaw in the technique and how it might be corrected.
But when he picked up a sword, everything changed.
It was the most ordinary iron sword — the standard practice blade of an outer disciple of Qingyin Pavilion, weighing no more than three catties. Yet in Jiang Buyu's hand, it felt as heavy as a thousand.
His grip was correct.
The angle of his arm was correct.
Even his breathing rhythm was correct.
His body remembered all of it.
But his strength did not.
His first thrust missed the target by a full foot. His wrist went limp, as if someone had wrung it out like a wet rag. His second strike — a sweeping horizontal slash — carved a crooked, wobbling arc through the air and nearly flew out of his hand. His third thrust —
He didn't make the third thrust.
Because he couldn't lift his arm anymore.
Jiang Buyu stood there, gasping for breath, sweat streaming down his forehead. Three thrusts. A few breaths' worth of time. And his body felt completely drained — his legs weak, his vision darkening at the edges.
The disciples on the training ground stopped their practice and looked his way. Their eyes held curiosity, sympathy, and more than a little poorly concealed disdain.
*This was the legendary Buyu?*
*He couldn't even hold a three-catty sword steady?*
Jiang Buyu ignored their stares. He bent down, picked up the sword that had fallen to the ground, and resumed his starting stance.
Fourth thrust — off target.
Fifth thrust — the sword flew from his hand.
Sixth thrust — before he could even extend his arm, his knees buckled. He pitched forward, and the iron sword clanged against the blue stone slabs with a harsh screech.
"Master Jiang." A young disciple walked over. His tone was polite but distant. "The Pavilion Master said your meridians are severely damaged. Forcing yourself to practice will only worsen your injuries. Perhaps you should rest for a few more days —"
"No." Jiang Buyu pushed himself up from the ground. The back of his hand was scraped raw, beads of blood seeping out. He didn't even glance at it.
The disciple opened his mouth, thought better of it, and simply shook his head before returning to his spot.
Jiang Buyu picked up the sword again.
Seventh thrust. Eighth. Ninth.
Each thrust was slower, wobblier, more feeble than the last. By the fifteenth thrust, he wasn't "thrusting" anymore — he was "pushing" the sword forward. His arms trembled. The tip of the blade traced wobbly circles in the air. His whole body swayed on the verge of collapse.
But he didn't stop.
Because the image kept replaying in his mind —
The woman in white, standing in the heavy snow, turning her head to smile at him.
*"Wait for me."*
Those two words were like a brand carved into his bones. Every time he wanted to give up, they would surface on their own, burning through him, setting his whole body on fire.
Twentieth thrust.
He struck.
Not at the empty air in front of him — but at an imaginary enemy. The angle of this thrust was dangerously unorthodox — from below, slashing upward diagonally toward the throat. If his arm had possessed enough strength, this one strike would have forced any opponent back three steps.
But the strength was not enough.
The tip of the sword paused at its highest point, then drooped weakly downward.
Jiang Buyu finally gave out. He dropped to one knee, the iron sword wedged into a crack between the blue stone slabs, both hands gripping the hilt for support. He gasped for breath.
"Interesting."
A voice came from behind him.
Jiang Buyu turned his head.
An old man in gray robes stood at the edge of the training ground, a broom in his hand, sweeping fallen bamboo leaves at a leisurely pace. He looked to be in his sixties or seventies, his back slightly hunched, his face deeply lined. His eyes were half-closed, as if he might fall asleep at any moment.
But Jiang Buyu noticed one detail.
The old man's footsteps.
As he swept, wherever his feet passed — after the bamboo leaves were brushed aside — the blue stone slabs beneath bore no trace. No footprints. Not even a spot where the dust had been compressed. That was not something an ordinary person could do.
"Senior," Jiang Buyu said, his voice hoarse.
"Not worthy of 'senior,'" the old man said with a low chuckle. "This old servant is just a sweeper. But I've been sweeping these grounds for decades, and I've watched people practice swordsmanship for just as long." He paused, and a glint of sharpness flashed through his murky eyes. "The way you're practicing this sword — that's not how it's done."
Jiang Buyu frowned.
"You're using 'force,'" the old man said. "But back then, you used 'intent.' Force can be crippled. Intent cannot be crippled. Right now, you're not practicing swordsmanship. You're wrestling with your own body. The harder you wrestle, the more crippled you become."
With that, the old man shouldered his broom and ambled away, leaving Jiang Buyu kneeling alone on the training ground.
*Intent.*
*Force can be crippled. Intent cannot be crippled.*
Jiang Buyu looked down at his hands. At the iron sword stuck in the ground.
He closed his eyes.
He stopped thinking about the strength in his arms. Stopped thinking about the ache in his muscles. Stopped thinking about the stares of the disciples. He withdrew all his attention inward, sinking into the chaotic depths of his consciousness.
Something was there.
Not strength. Not internal energy. Not anything that could be measured by "strong" or "weak."
It was a feeling.
A feeling of *this is how a sword should be.*
He opened his eyes.
Slowly, slowly, he drew the iron sword from the crack in the stone.
This time, he didn't use force.
He didn't even think about the action of "thrusting." He simply looked at the empty air before him and imagined an enemy standing there — an enemy who must be killed, or else he himself would be killed.
And then — he let go of control.
His arm moved on its own.
It wasn't him commanding his arm. It was something inside his body commanding it. The iron sword traced an arc through the air — not fast, not powerful — but its trajectory was impossibly precise. As precise as if it were tracing a line that had already existed in the void since the beginning of time.
The tip of the sword stopped in front of a falling bamboo leaf.
The leaf touched the blade's edge.
It split silently into two halves, fluttering down to land at Jiang Buyu's feet.
Jiang Buyu stared at the two halves of the bamboo leaf. His heart pounded like a drum.
That strike just now — he had used almost no force. It wasn't strength driving the sword. It was something deeper — *Intent.* Sword Intent.
"Not bad."
Shen Qingci's voice came from behind him.
Jiang Buyu turned. She stood at the entrance to the training ground, a scroll in her hand, a faint expression on her face — not surprise, more like the certainty of *just as I expected.*
"That strike," she said, "was your Sword Seal helping you. Though most of its power has shattered and dissipated, the 'intent' remains. As long as you can touch it, recovering your martial arts is only a matter of time."
Jiang Buyu thrust the sword back into the ground and took a deep breath.
"Three days are up," he said.
Shen Qingci looked at him and nodded.
"The horses and supplies are ready. From Qingyin Pavilion to Falling Phoenix Slope in the Southern Wastelands — at a fast gallop, it will take half a month." She took a token from her sleeve and handed it to Jiang Buyu. "This is the insignia of Qingyin Pavilion. There are branch pavilions along the way where you can rest and resupply."
Jiang Buyu took the token and tucked it away.
"One more thing." Shen Qingci's voice suddenly lowered. "The truth about the Blood Moon Night… once you reach the Southern Wastelands, you may hear some… unpleasant theories."
"What theories?"
Shen Qingci was silent for a moment.
"Some say," she said, looking into his eyes, "that the ambush three years ago was no accident. That it was you yourself who betrayed Lin Xiyin."
The air grew very still.
In the distance, bamboo leaves rustled in the wind.
Jiang Buyu's expression did not change, but his fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword.
"What do you think?" he asked.
"I think," Shen Qingci said, "that if you truly had betrayed her, you would not be what you are now. You would not have woken up with your martial arts crippled, your memories gone, and her jade pendant still clenched in your hand."
Jiang Buyu released the sword hilt.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "What others say — it doesn't matter. What matters is that I will find her."
"And if she is already dead?"
"Then I will find the one who killed her."
With that, Jiang Buyu turned and walked toward the exit of the training ground. His pace was not fast — but every step was steady. He was already a different man from the cripple who couldn't even stand upright three days ago.
Shen Qingci watched his retreating back and said nothing.
The morning mist had dispersed. Sunlight fell across the blue stone training ground, stretching the gaunt silhouette long and far.
On the mountain path in the distance, a black steed stood ready.
Jiang Buyu swung himself into the saddle, pulled the reins, and glanced back one last time at Qingyin Pavilion nestled on the mountainside.
Then he turned his head and spurred his horse south.
The sound of hoofbeats shattered the quiet. Dust rose in his wake.
That direction — was the Southern Wastelands.
Falling Phoenix Slope.
Blood Eagle.
The first path to finding himself again.
What he did not know was that at the very moment he left Qingyin Pavilion, a letter had already been dispatched from the back mountain of Qingyin Pavilion, racing northward toward some unknown destination.
The letter contained only one line:
*"Target has departed. Heading south. Proceed as planned."*