Morning light fell upon the dead branch in the courtyard. Its twigs trembled faintly, as though answering some silent summons. Chen Wuya opened his eyes. The sensation of cracks lingering at his fingertips from last night had yet to fully fade, while the misaligned force within him was already flowing as naturally as a stream—unhurried, yet coursing through every limb and bone.
He slowly rose, padded over to the dead branch stuck in the earth, and bent down to pull it free. The wood was rough, its broken end jagged, but his grip was steady.
Bai Zhi emerged from the house carrying a bowl of clear water, which she placed on the stone table. She said nothing, merely glanced at him. There was neither doubt nor worry in that look—only a silent wait.
He knew what she was waiting for.
"I've decided." His voice was not loud, but every word carried clearly to everyone present. "I'm going to teach this thing to others."
Bai Zhi's brows twitched slightly as her gaze swept toward Mo Feng beside the weapon rack in the corner. Leaning against the rack with his folding fan half-open, Mo Feng raised his eyes at those words. "The 'thing' you mean isn't a set of moves. It's a way of thinking?"
"It's a way to live." Chen Wuya gave the dead branch a light shake. "Academies teach people to read the classics, escort agencies teach people to guard convoys, sword sects teach people to draw the sword. I can't teach those rules, but I can teach people how to draw one more breath beneath a blade, how to carve out a road no one has walked before in the depths of despair."
Mo Feng smiled, snapped his fan shut, and tapped it twice against his palm. "So you