Morning light spilled over the courtyard wall. Chen Wuya lifted his hand from the stone bench, his fingers loosening to reveal a wood-grain imprint in his palm. He did not rise, only lowered his head to look at the wooden plaque standing before the threshold—the words "May all of you strive for strength; only then can there be true heroes" had been bleached pale by the sun, its edges curling slightly.
The fire in the stove had long gone out, leaving only a trace of warmth seeping through the cracks between the bricks. He remembered dreaming of the snow in Valley of Broken Souls last night. Someone had called his name, their voice muffled as though through a thick layer of cloth. When he woke, his hand was still resting on the short blade at his waist, his fingertips stiff.
He rose and headed toward the vegetable patch.
The earth was damp, and several green shoots had grown another inch since yesterday. Squatting down, he gently brushed aside the dead leaves covering the tender sprouts, his movements slow and steady. The distant mountain woods lay silent, even birdsong sparse. The quiet no longer put him on guard. Instead, it was like a thin garment draped over his shoulders—close-fitting, yet not heavy.
Footsteps sounded behind him, light and familiar.
Bai Zhi carried over a bowl of water and set it on the stone table, its bottom tapping out a soft clink. "The wind is gentle today. Good weather for training."
Chen Wuya looked back, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Which form do you want to practice?"
She drew her flexible sword and spun it in a flourish. Its tip carved an arc through the air before settling at her side. "That 'reverse sweep like falling rain' you mentioned yesterday. I