Spring chill

On the seventh day of the vigil, the last sheet of yellow spirit money burned out before the grave, turning to wisps of smoke that drifted away.

Loa knelt before the grave and kowtowed three times. His forehead rested against the cold earth, and he did not rise for a long time. For seven days, he had kept watch over this mound of fresh soil, saying little, coming every dawn and leaving after sunset. Grandpa Mund had visited him several times, bringing food, sitting with him for a while, and sighing a few times.

On the last day, Linley came too.

He stood beside the grave, looking at Loa. Without a word, he took two still-warm buns from inside his clothes and set them beside Loa. Then he walked a little farther away and began practicing his punches. Punch after punch struck the air, stirring dull gusts. The sound was especially clear in the quiet graveyard, like a kind of silent yet steadfast companionship.

After finishing a set, he walked back and patted Loa on the shoulder.

"Let's go," he said.

Loa nodded. The two walked back to town in silence, one behind the other. As they neared the smithy, Linley stopped. "Tomorrow morning. Same place."

"Mm."

When Loa pushed open the smithy's courtyard gate, that sense of emptiness washed over him again. The furnace had gone cold. The bellows and anvil sat quietly beneath a thin layer of dust. Loa stood in the courtyard for a while, then began cleaning.

He swept the courtyard, wiped down the tools, and sorted through the odds and ends Old Jack had left behind. There were not many things, but every one bore traces of the old man. The chipped earthenware bowl was the one he had always used. His palm had worn a hollow into the polished hammer handle. The half-basket of coal piled in the corner was the last he had added.

Loa put things away one by one, moving very slowly. By the time he finished, darkness had fallen. He lit a fire and cooked a simple meal of porridge and pickled vegetables. He sat alone at the table to eat. The place opposite him was empty.

That night, he lay on his little bed, staring at the ceiling. It was quiet outside, quiet enough to hear the distant stream flowing. Old Jack was gone, and the house seemed to have grown larger all at once, and colder too.

Early the next morning, before the sky was fully light, Loa appeared in the courtyard on time.

He did not begin strenuous training immediately. Instead, he stood quietly for a while, closing his eyes and steadying his breathing. The cold wind cut across his face like little knives. Slowly, he opened his eyes and drew his sword.

It was still the iron sword he had forged himself, its blade gleaming a cold, hard blue-gray in the morning light. He tightened his grip on the hilt and began with the most basic opening stance.

Straight thrust, diagonal cut, block, turn.

His movements were not fast, but every stance was executed with exact precision. Power rose from the soles of his feet, passed through his waist and hips into his shoulders and arms, and finally poured into the sword's tip. His gaze was focused, his breathing steady, as though nothing around him existed except the sword in his hand and the rhythm of his body.

He recalled scraps of things he had happened across online in his previous life-about swordsmanship, about mastering one move well enough to succeed anywhere, about practicing a simple thrust to its utmost limit. Those hazy fragments of memory intertwined strangely with this world's battle aura training and the experience he had gained from life-and-death combat.

After finishing the basics, he began practicing Gale Thrust.

He no longer pursued flashy variations, nor did he deliberately seek the greatest possible power. He practiced only this one move. Every day, over and over, driving himself to the limit.

He practiced against the old locust tree in the courtyard. Its trunk was already covered in sword marks of varying depths, the deepest allowing the tip to sink half an inch into the wood. He stood at a fixed distance, steadied his breathing, focused his mind, and thrust.

Thrust, withdraw. Thrust again, withdraw again.

At first, he pursued speed. Fast, faster. Sword light flashed through the morning mist, its path almost impossible to follow. But he soon discovered that speed alone easily became scattered and unsteady. His thrusts did not travel straight enough, and their power was not concentrated enough.

He slowed down.

He broke Gale Thrust into countless tiny movements: pushing off the ground, twisting his waist and hips, extending his shoulder and arm, and making that final minute adjustment of his wrist. Facing empty air, he repeated this broken-down sequence again and again, feeling every contraction and relaxation of his muscles, feeling whether the path his strength took through his body was smooth and efficient.

Ten times, a hundred times, a thousand times.

It was maddeningly tedious. But he persevered. Old Jack was gone, and there was no one left to push him, but the string within his heart was drawn tighter still. With every thrust, he seemed to see the old man's silently watching eyes, hear the dying howls of that wild boar in the mountain forest, feel the rough charcoal pencil tucked against his chest, and sense that cold yet searing desire deep within-to grow stronger, to live forever, to never again let everything he cared about be taken away so easily.

Winter passed and spring came. The snow melted.

The old locust tree in the courtyard put out tender green buds, and flecks of green once again dotted the withered yellow grass. Loa's training never stopped.

He began trying a new method.

A spring breeze blew past, shaking a few early young leaves from the locust tree. They drifted gently down. Loa fixed his eyes on one of them, lowered his body slightly, gathered his strength, and thrust!

The sword tip flashed like lightning, piercing the exact center of the falling leaf and leaving a tiny hole. The leaf did not even tear apart at once. Instead, the sword carried it some distance before it slowly slipped free.

He withdrew his sword and watched the falling leaf, his gaze intent.

This was difficult. The leaves drifted along uncertain paths, moving slowly but unpredictably. The sword tip had to locate and pierce its target in an instant, with extreme speed and exceptionally steady control. It demanded a high degree of coordination between sight, mind, and hand.

At first, landing one or two hits out of ten thrusts was already a good result. But he did not lose heart.

Every day, when the spring breeze shook leaves loose, he practiced. His eyes followed a leaf, his body adjusted its stance, and he judged its path, anticipated where it would fall, then thrust. Failure, adjustment, another failure, another adjustment.

As spring deepened, the tree grew more leaves, and more fell. Sometimes a gust would send seven or eight drifting down at once. Loa moved through this chaotic "rain of leaves," thrusting, trying to catch a particular target or pierce several leaves in succession.

His sword grew faster and more accurate. It was not blind speed, but speed guided by clear purpose and precise control. The sound of the tip piercing the air gradually changed from a sharp whistle to a shorter, more concentrated hiss.

Life in town also returned to its old rhythm with the spring breeze.

Without Old Jack, the smithy was much quieter. But the neighbors in town had not forgotten the boy who had suddenly lost his only support.

One morning, after finishing his sword practice, Loa found a small basket of tender wild greens, still wet with dew, on the stone steps outside the courtyard gate. He did not know who had left it.

Two days later, Old Brown the cobbler arrived carrying a cloth bundle. He pushed open the gate and, without saying much, set the bundle on the table and unfolded it. Inside was a brand-new pair of cloth shoes with thick, layered soles and close, even stitching.

"Try them on. See if they fit." Old Brown rubbed his hands. "Your Grandpa Jack used to help me mend my shoe lasts. He even gave me pointers on my craft in the early days. Take them and wear them."

Loa thanked him. Old Brown waved a hand and left, his back bent.

Some days later, Loa discovered several loose roof tiles that let in a little water when it rained. He was wondering how to fix them when Uncle Pete, the mason from the east end of town, arrived with a ladder over his shoulder.

"Move aside, lad." Uncle Pete's voice boomed. He deftly set up the ladder and climbed onto the roof. After a morning of clattering work, he had relaid the loose tiles and sealed the leaking gaps tightly with fresh mud. When he finished, Loa brought him water. He gulped it down and wiped his mouth. "Your Grandpa Jack once made my boy a fine cleaver for cutting firewood. Sharp and sturdy, it was. This little job was nothing."

Even Aunt Anna, the usually rather sharp-tongued owner of the general store, silently gave Loa an extra small handful when he came to buy salt one day, muttering, "You're still growing. A little more salt will give you strength."

These small kindnesses nourished him silently, like spring rain. Loa rarely said much, but quietly remembered them all. He still rose before dawn every day to practice his sword, tended the smithy during the day, took on simple repair jobs, and occasionally went into the mountains to hunt small game. Life was hard and spare, but he could keep going.

In its simple way, little Wushan Town sheltered this boy who had lost his closest family, keeping cold loneliness from swallowing him completely. As Loa walked along the flagstone streets, listening to familiar greetings and watching cooking smoke curl upward, some cold, hard corner of his heart seemed to soften slightly in the warmth of everyday life. He treasured this peace, this warmth within an ordinary life. This was the world he knew, a world with warmth.

Before he knew it, Loa was ten and a half.

The "martial battle aura" he had cultivated through long, arduous practice-his own name for that unique thread of energy within him-nourished his body day and night without cease. He could feel his muscles and bones growing sturdier, his muscle fibers becoming denser. His strength, speed, and endurance were all improving steadily and solidly.

One evening, he finished his last sword routine and stood in his closing stance. Heat steamed from his body, and sweat ran down the firm contours of his muscles. He clenched his fists, his knuckles crackling softly. Drawing a deep breath, he felt the energy within him circulating with increasing ease and fluidity, as though it could unleash even greater strength at any moment.

The peak of a rank-two warrior, complete and flawless.

He could clearly sense that threshold-the threshold of a rank-three warrior. The barrier already seemed very thin. All he needed was an opportunity, a moment of insight, or enough pressure to pierce it.

He looked up toward the west. The setting sun dyed the clouds along the horizon magnificent shades of gold-red and deep purple, their splendor carrying a faint tremor of unease. The evening wind swept through the mountain forest, bringing distant, indistinct whimpers like those of wild beasts.

Loa frowned slightly. For some reason, he had lately felt a persistent, vague unease, as though beneath the peaceful warmth of life in town, something was brewing and gathering out of sight.

He shook his head and suppressed that inexplicable feeling. Perhaps spring simply made people more prone to brooding.

He turned and went back into the smithy to light a fire and cook. Cooking smoke rose once more from the chimney that had stood quiet for so long, mingling with the peaceful evening haze above the town.

Night deepened, and stars dotted the sky.

Loa lay in bed with his hands behind his head, listening to the rustling leaves outside the window and the occasional bark of a dog. The town slept, quiet and peaceful.

But he knew this tranquility would not last forever. Deep in his heart, the flame of his desire to grow stronger, to transcend the ordinary and live forever, burned ever more fiercely. And this world had never held only warmth and peace.

The storm had yet to break, but its winds were already rising.

He simply did not know how fierce the coming storm would be.

The boy closed his eyes and sank into sleep. In his dreams, sword light cleaved the long night.