"1466..."
"1467..."
White snow reflected the moonlight, filling the empty courtyard with pale radiance. Dressed in a loose single-layer robe, Yang Ge stood in the snow, practicing Power Split Mount Hua over and over.
Step forward, swing the saber.
Withdraw the saber, guard.
Step forward, swing the saber.
Withdraw the saber...
The movements were simple, yet he performed them very slowly.
There was none of the thunderbolt speed and crushing force he displayed against an enemy!
Yet pure Blade Intent lay within each advance and retreat, each tightening and release, each breath in and out.
As a martial proverb said: practice a punch a hundred times, and the body's method will reveal itself.
Saber practice was no different.
When a long saber first entered one's hands, there was neither disciplined technique nor a feel for the blade.
A swing that missed, a swing that twisted the waist, even a swing that sent the saber flying from one's own hands-all were common.
After ten thousand swings, technique gradually settled, and a feel for the saber gradually emerged.
With each stroke, strength flowed throughout the body as smoothly as silk.
Wherever the edge reached, it gradually became an extension of the limbs, obeying as readily as one's own fingers.
Even the cold saber seemed to develop a warmth of its own...
Simply holding it brought familiarity, a sense of something to rely on.
After a hundred thousand swings, the moment one's hand gripped the saber, the mind seemed to flow through the arm into the blade. What a stroke unleashed was no longer merely strength, but one's own intent.
By then, the saber was no longer an external object.
Blade Intent and Blade Qi were no longer unfathomable fantasies, either.
Three thousand swings every day might be exhausting...
But for a scrap