At dawn, the sky had only just brightened. The mountains were thick with mist, the air fresh and clear. Morning dew gathered on flowers and leaves, round and plump, trembling gently, as though it wished to speak yet shyly held its tongue.
With a cotton cloth bundle tucked beneath his arm, Chen Ping'an chose a narrow path toward the back mountain and walked alone, his heart open and his spirit at ease.
Chen Ping'an stopped and turned around. A moment later, he saw a hunched old man striding toward him, a flowering branch broken off and dangling from one hand. In the eyes of ordinary people, when Sword Immortal Mi did such a thing, it was elegant and romantic. When the old cook before him did it, it carried the faint suspicion of an old man shamelessly playing the gallant.
Zhu Lian held one fist against his abdomen, while the hand holding the flowering branch tucked behind his back as though gripping a sword. Throwing back his head, he laughed loudly. "Better to arrive early than arrive at the perfect moment. And just like that, I ran into Young Master."
Young Master always handled matters this way—quietly, like spring wind and rain, yet swift and decisive as thunder and lightning.
Yesterday, he had decided to teach Cao Yin and Cao Yang fist techniques. This morning, he had come at daybreak.
People often mistook a journey through the world for nothing more than walking on two legs, a wanderer leaving home and crossing mountains and rivers.
But that was not so. Whenever one conceived of something and then brought it to fruition, that too was a long journey of the heart.
Chen Ping'an tucked his hands into his sleeves and waited by the roadside for Zhu Lian to catch up. Once