Snowing

Ning Yun paused, then continued, "Although Junior Brother Guo hasn't reached complete Bright Force, he's been at the major accomplishment stage for some time. His boxing is solid, and he's steady by nature. He won't get flustered and make mistakes once he's on the platform."

Zhao Yan closed the old booklet on the table and pushed it aside. He lifted the tea that had long gone cold and took a sip. The brew was cold and bitter. He frowned and set it down. "I thought you'd name A-Qing as the third person. You've always thought the most highly of him."

Ning Yun gave a bitter smile and shook his head.

"Junior Brother Xu..." He lowered his gaze to his slightly lame left leg, choosing his words carefully. "Master, Junior Brother Xu has only been at the martial hall for a little over two months. You know how martial arts are—no matter how great one's talent, it cannot stand against the tempering of time."

"At the Laba Meeting, the disciples sent by every martial academy will almost all have reached complete Bright Force. Some completed it last year and have trained for a full year, waiting for this very day. No matter how formidable Junior Brother Xu is, his realm is what it is. He still has some distance to go before reaching complete Bright Force."

Zhao Yan said nothing. He merely tapped the tabletop twice with his fingers.

Ning Yun raised his head, his voice dropping even lower. "This disciple isn't saying Junior Brother Xu isn't good enough. On the contrary, I think he's the best prospect our martial hall has seen in recent years. But precisely because he's such a fine prospect, we mustn't rush him. If..." He did not continue. His master understood what he meant.

Zhao Yan remained silent for a long time. He picked up and set down that bowl of cold tea again, and the tea sloshed within it, nearly spilling over.

Everything Ning Yun said was true. Xu Qing had been at the martial hall for just over two months, yet he had already achieved minor accomplishment in Bright Force. Zhao Yan had witnessed that progress with his own eyes.

Every morning, he guided Xu Qing through stance training. Every afternoon, they exchanged moves one-on-one. Zhao Yan fed him punches, Xu Qing caught them and struck back. In that back-and-forth, he could clearly feel that this disciple's fists carried far more weight than those of an ordinary Bright Force martial artist.

It was not hollow brute strength, but solid power erupting from the depths of his muscles and bones, like an old tree's roots coiling deep into the earth, unfathomable in their depth.

Zhao Yan had taught martial arts for so many years and seen no small number of Bright Force disciples, yet none had possessed such strength at Xu Qing's stage.

But no matter how powerful Xu Qing was, he had only achieved minor accomplishment in Bright Force.

Between minor accomplishment and complete Bright Force lay more than a difference in strength. There was also the richness of one's vital blood, the endurance to last, and experience in adapting on the spot.

Talent could not make up for such things. They required time, day after day of sweat, punch after punch of tempering.

At the Laba Meeting, the disciples from the other martial academies would all have reached complete Bright Force. If Xu Qing, with only minor accomplishment in Bright Force, went up there, he would be at a disadvantage no matter how heavy his fists were.

Another concern lay hidden in Zhao Yan's heart, deeper and heavier, like a thorn embedded in flesh. Ordinarily, he barely noticed it, but at the slightest touch, it hurt.

He and Yu Tai of the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy had been bitter rivals for more than a decade. From the day Chu Sheng defected, that enmity had been forged—an inextricable knot.

Yu Tai always wore a genial smile, but beneath it, he was more sinister than anyone. Every one of his disciples had been instilled with the idea that "there's no need to show mercy when fighting people from the Zhao Family Martial Hall."

If an ordinary disciple of the Zhao Family Martial Hall stepped onto the platform, Yu Tai would not go too far before the county magistrate and the other officials.

But if the one standing on the platform was Xu Qing, Zhao Yan's personal disciple, Zhao Yan dared to say with certainty that Yu Tai would have the people from the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy strike without mercy.

Ning Yun's leg had been deliberately broken by someone from the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy during the martial examination. That match had ruined Ning Yun's entire life.

He could not let Xu Qing walk the same path. At the very least, before Xu Qing had truly grown strong, he could not allow him to face such uncontrollable dangers.

"You're right." Zhao Yan sighed. He lowered his head, not daring to look at Ning Yun. He feared Ning Yun would see what was in his eyes... guilt and heartache. He had always kept them buried in his heart, yet they still surged forth without heed.

"Wu Mingyuan, Chen Wang, Guo Huan." Zhao Yan murmured the names once. "It's decided, then. The three of them will represent the martial hall at this year's Laba Meeting."

Ning Yun answered softly, picked up the teapot, and refilled Zhao Yan's bowl with hot tea.

Steam rose, blurring Zhao Yan's face.

"Master, the tea is ready. Drink it while it's hot," Ning Yun said with a smile, his tone exactly as usual.

Zhao Yan lifted the tea bowl and took a sip. This time, it was hot. The bitterness had faded, and a sweet aftertaste rose, thread by thread, from the root of his tongue down his throat.

Holding the tea bowl, he turned his gaze toward the window.

The old locust tree's branches were bare, like an old man's fingers—withered and cracked. Yet he knew that when spring arrived, it would sprout again. New leaves would grow, lush and green.

Xu Qing was the same. The time had not yet come. But spring would always come.

It snowed.

Qinghe County's first snowfall came on the first day of the twelfth lunar month.

The flakes were small, fine and scattered, like grains of salt sifted down by heaven. They fell upon the ground and rooftiles, and before anyone could make out their shape, they melted into tiny droplets.

The weather was cold, and it was snowing. The senior and junior brothers in the outer courtyard had all retreated indoors. Some wrapped themselves in quilts and chatted, some huddled around the stove to warm themselves, and some simply burrowed into bed.

Yet Xu Qing still stood in the training ground, holding his stance and throwing punch after punch.

His fist wind exploded through the veil of snow with dull thuds. Snowflakes drifting before him were scattered in all directions by the force of his punches.

Snow settled on his shoulders, arms, and head, but before it could pile up, the heat radiating from his body steamed it into droplets.

His whole body seemed wrapped in a cloud of heat. Under the gray, overcast sky, a faint layer of white mist rose from him.

He practiced again and again. His fist force grew heavier and heavier, his vital blood more and more vigorous.

Snow fell upon him and melted. Then more snow fell, and melted again.

The patch beneath his feet on the blue-brick ground remained dry throughout.

Three snowfalls came one after another in the twelfth lunar month, each heavier than the last.

The first had been thin, as if heaven had scattered a layer of salt grains. It melted as soon as it touched the ground, leaving only damp traces behind.

The second snowfall came fiercely, drifting down like goose feathers. Overnight, it covered all of Qinghe County completely. The rooftops turned white, the treetops turned white, even the stone lions outside the martial hall turned white.

By the third snowfall, the wind had come as well. Snow borrowed the wind's momentum, and wind lent its might to the snow. Nothing could be seen in the vast white world. The flakes flew sideways, striking faces like needles.

On Laba Day, the wind stopped, and so did the snow. The sun, unseen for days, emerged. Its golden light spread across the courtyard, making the piled snow gleam so brightly it was hard to keep one's eyes open. The sky was as blue as if washed with water, without a single wisp of cloud. It was a rare fine day.

But Zhao Yan had no mood to admire the snow.

The disciples of the front courtyard had gathered together. Wu Mingyuan and Chen Wang stood at the very front, dressed in fitted martial clothes, their backs straight and their spirits high. But one person was missing—Guo Huan had not come.

Guo Huan held a post at the docks and did not live in the martial hall. Usually, whenever he came to train, he came and went in a hurry. Zhao Yan had just sent someone to summon him, but the result brought back was... Guo Huan had accidentally injured his leg while patrolling the docks last night. He could not come. He was already lying at home, unable to walk.

Zhao Yan's expression was unpleasant. Not the ugliness of furious rage, but a heavy darkness, like an overcast sky.

"Master, the docks are frozen over and terribly slippery. Maybe Junior Brother Guo was careless..." Seeing how frighteningly grim his master's face was, Chen Wang tried to console him. But even he felt there was little conviction in his own words. His voice grew softer and softer until it was nearly inaudible.

The docks were indeed icy. But Guo Huan had held his post there for over half a year and walked that road every day without ever falling. Yet he had fallen on the night before the Laba Meeting. And he had fallen with such perfect timing, injuring his leg. How was a martial artist with an injured leg supposed to take the platform?

Zhao Yan did not speak. He stood there, his gaze falling beyond the gate, then shifting to the snow in the courtyard, bleached white beneath the sun.

At the beginning of the twelfth lunar month, he had told Chen Wang to inform Guo Huan about taking part in the Laba Meeting.

Guo Huan had agreed readily at the time, smiling as he said, "Master thinks highly of me. I'll definitely fight well and won't bring shame upon the martial hall." But when Laba Day truly arrived, Guo Huan had been "accidentally" injured and could not come.

How could Zhao Yan fail to see it? Guo Huan was not injured—he was afraid. Afraid of those promising talents from the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy, afraid they would strike ruthlessly. He did not want to become the next Ning Yun. Even if the people from the Rushing Thunder Martial Academy would not care about an ordinary disciple like him, he still did not want to take that risk.

Zhao Yan sighed. The sigh was long and light, so light it was like wind blowing over snow, leaving not even a trace behind.

He did not blame Guo Huan. Strictly speaking, he and Guo Huan were not truly master and disciple. Guo Huan paid silver, and Zhao Yan taught him martial arts; money and goods exchanged hands, and neither owed the other anything. If there was any personal tie to speak of, it was only that Zhao Yan had recommended Guo Huan for his post at the docks. But there was no point in talking about that now.

Guo Huan was considering his own future. He did not want to invite trouble, did not want to be crippled or badly injured. That was only human nature, nothing to fault. If Zhao Yan had stood in Guo Huan's place, he might not have made a different choice.

But the feeling in his heart was beyond words.

It was not anger, not resentment, nor disappointment. It was coldness. Like standing in the snow in the dead of winter and having someone dump a basin of icy water over his head.

The chill ran down his spine, all the way to the soles of his feet, into the cracks of his bones.