The Xi River, which ran through the Tai Kun Mountain Range, froze over in the depths of winter. A group of young Qingxiao Sect disciples lay on the ice, peering through holes at the torrent below, their eyes fixed on the rushing water.
On a nearby rock, a young male disciple of the Qingxiao Sect was practicing his swordsmanship. It was Liu Jie, one of the Qingxiao Seven Sons.
These youngsters came from villages at the foot of the mountain and were all related to the Qingxiao Seven Sons. Liu Jie had specially brought them here today to relax.
If they managed to catch some fish, that would count as a contribution from the youngsters.
Snow fluttered down as Liu Jie's swordplay flowed with graceful ease. Each stroke seemed as effortless as running water, carrying its own distinct charm.
Among the Qingxiao Seven Sons, he had never stood out. Even in the sect as it was now, he had little prestige. Yet he had never complained; in fact, he rather enjoyed his peaceful life.
He lacked the exceptional abilities and resolve of Huang Shan and Yu Lin. He liked a quiet life and disliked going down the mountain for experience. At most, he would spend some time in his village.
The title of the Qingxiao Seven Sons had long since been taken over by those who came after them. Younger disciples preferred hearing new stories. Liu Jie walked among the sect without standing out from ordinary disciples, and no one recognized him. Only the children in the village still looked up to him, still revered the Qingxiao Seven Sons.
As Liu Jie practiced his swordsmanship, he suddenly noticed someone approaching through the distant snow haze.
At first, he paid no mind, but as the figure drew closer, a nameless unease