Black Snake crouched on a high branch, imitating an old farmer by tucking his hands into his sleeves.
Once the chanting stopped, human-shaped sources of warmth filed out in twos and threes, dispersing to their quarters.
Black Snake thought it was nice to have one more thing to do every day.
He could not understand it, but found its rhythm and sound peaceful and soothing. It had become one of his few pleasures besides breathing in rain and mist. He had forgotten when he began to enjoy it. He had tried to chant along, too, but could not master the complicated sounds and could only follow along in his mind.
Moonlight illuminated the overlapping roofs, and the Daoist temple gradually quieted. The night was cold. Occasionally, a Night Owl's cry cut through it. Candlelight shone through the window lattices, casting warm yellow squares onto the stone paving outside.
After lingering a while, he was about to return to his cave and keep refining the details of his form when he saw someone push open a door and step outside.
The figure stood motionless beneath the moon, holding something long.
Black Snake recalled the valley where he had lived for so long, and the old man who had forced him to flee for his life. That old man had carried something similar on his back. Passing travelers of the martial world had called it a sword.
The Female Daoist stood on a raised terrace. Her opening movement was extremely slow, as though the mountain's chill had gathered at her sword tip. Her sleeves billowed, and her movements gradually quickened. Her figure crossed the shadows of bare branches, and as she twisted, the hem of her blue robe suddenly bloomed outward.
At one instant, the blade sliced through the air, giving off