Since ancient times, the Song family of Dayuan had produced famous swordsmen. Before the establishment of the great cultivation clans, the clan’s ancestor built Ruijian Pavilion at the foot of the Yantai Mountains. There, he developed the basic forms of the five sword styles, which were passed down through the generations of sword-masters that followed. During the Great Demonic War, Ruijian Pavilion’s cultivators made a name for themselves by turning the tide in a great battle, and the gods granted the Song clan stewardship over Dayuan as one of the five great cultivation clans. They built an abode for themselves atop the mountain peaks overlooking Anfeng City, where they could better cultivate and watch over the region from above.
The Yantai Mountains were not particularly tall, their highest peaks only brushing against the bottoms of low-hanging clouds as the breeze carried them across the plains. It was for this reason that the residence of the clan’s main branch, situated at the tallest of the mountains’ summits, was named Jieyun Hall. The architecture wasn’t particularly extravagant, but it was hardly austere. Though the Song clan rarely entertained guests, one visiting Jieyun Hall would certainly come to the conclusion that both the main hall and its courtyards were sufficiently opulent for the seat of a major cultivation clan. The atmosphere of Jieyun Hall was tranquil and quiet, broken only by the sound of cultivators practicing in the Sword Hall just below the tallest peak.
Of course, there was a difference between tranquility and deathly silence— a difference that couldn’t be more apparent than when one happened to pass by Jieyun Hall’s east courtyard in the years following Anfeng City’s calamity. The east courtyard had been occupied by the clan’s heir ever since Jieyun Hall was first constructed. For five years now, ever since the end of the war, it had been still and silent as a tomb. Leaves hardly dared to fall, and the breeze hesitated even to ripple the glassy surface of the pool within the courtyard walls. The only one to enter or leave during these past five years was the clan leader, once each month— aside from those times, the entire courtyard remained firmly sealed.
Then, one day, a servant happened to glance into the courtyard as he passed by, and noticed that the door of the house was open. He caught a glimpse of a young man dressed in white inner robes, lingering on the edge of the pool and staring down into the water. Without wasting a moment, the servant turned around and rushed back to the main hall to alert the clan leader.
It didn’t take long for the news to spread like wildfire through Ruijian Pavilion.
As soon as he heard what had happened, Song Weicheng hurried to the east courtyard. He and his newly-reemerged eldest son then disappeared inside the house for quite a long time. As the news spread across the mountaintop complex, everyone who was able to began to gather near the east courtyard, hoping to confirm with their own eyes that the young master had indeed emerged from seclusion.
They wouldn’t have to wait for too long— just after nightfall, a sudden alarm went up through Ruijian Pavilion. A signal flare had been launched into the sky from the city below, where some of the clan’s juniors had been attending the annual festival to commemorate the end of the war. It was a rare thing— no, it was unheard of in the present day— for a distress call to come from within the city. Usually, there was no mundane threat that even the most junior cultivation disciple couldn’t handle. This meant that something big had happened. Those gathered around wondered if they should enter the forbidden east courtyard to inform the clan leader.
Before anyone made a move, though, the doors to the house opened. The entire east courtyard was suddenly suffused with golden light as an elegant young man standing atop a shining sword flashed by, falling like a star from the heavens toward the city below.
The following day, the sound of the qin could once again be heard from the east courtyard. Those who passed by could see that the color had finally been restored to that place which had lain dull and silent for so long.
To the casual listener, the music that floated through the crisp mountain air sounded pleasant enough. Perhaps a little uneven at times, but not too far out of the ordinary. But to anyone who had studied the qin, it was apparent that many notes were played incorrectly. The sound was of someone who had only recently picked up the instrument for the first time, rather than a young master who had once been hailed as a prodigious talent in all things and who had been taught by the world’s greatest masters from the moment he was old enough to pluck a string. To some, this was puzzling— for others, it merely caused them to shake their head and lament the misfortune.
This young master had been in seclusion for five years, but it would be far more accurate to say that he had been in recovery. Instead of passing that time in closed-door cultivation, as many believed, he had instead spent much of it unconscious, fading in and out of awareness at best. As a matter of fact, until recently, his body and mind had both been broken nearly beyond repair. Any bouts of wakefulness he experienced were passed in a nightmarish haze, and the young man himself was unable to discern dreams from reality. It was just a few months ago when he first found himself fully awake. At that time, aside from a few indistinct fragments, he remembered nothing of the past five years, of the war and its end, or even of his life before that point. He sat up in a bed he did not recognize, in a room he did not know, clutching at his head with fingers that felt stiff and unfamiliar as he frantically tried to catch hold of those ephemeral wisps of information and weave them into something coherent— but the gaps were too broad and the memories too indistinct and far between.
He knew his own name— Song Dian, courtesy name Mingzhen. He knew that he was the son of a righteous cultivation clan, but he could feel that the meridians in his body were severely damaged, as though he had been cultivating a heretical path. He assumed that this house, this room, and this bed were all his own, but not a single item seemed familiar to him. Even when he tried to conjure up the faces of his family members into his mind, it was as though he were looking at reflections on the surface of rippling water.
Song Mingzhen was left quite distressed by all of this, going from calm and drowsy to agitated in a matter of moments. It was fortunate that Song Weicheng’s monthly visit was taking place that same day— before Song Mingzhen was overcome by his own distress, the clan leader arrived and was able to soothe his son’s agitation. Song Weicheng sat with him for awhile, inquiring after his wellbeing, answering his questions, and examining the state of his body and mind. Once it became clear that Song Mingzhen had truly recovered his lucidity this time, the clan leader explained the events of the past several years in full.
Eight years ago, the cultivation world was attacked by a group of rogue cultivators that called themselves the Nameless. These attacks led to a vicious and bloody conflict between the five great clans and the heretics. During this conflict, Song Mingzhen fought on the front lines, personally saving thousands of cultivators and common people alike. He became a beacon of hope, winning great renown both for himself and his family all throughout the world. Then, by some terrible twist of fate, the leader of the heretics had come to possess an ancient demonic tool— one of a few powerful artifacts created thousands of years ago in the age of the gods, which had been sealed for centuries to protect the world from their devastating power. With this weapon, the Great General of the Nameless launched a direct attack on Ruijian Pavilion— an attack which would have decimated all of Anfeng City and brought Dayuan, and perhaps even the world beyond it, to ruin. To protect the people, Song Mingzhen had thrown himself directly into battle with the Great General, armed only with his sword and his cultivation against a madman wielding an ancient demonic tool. Though in the end he prevailed, destroying that bloodthirsty heretic, he took a blow from the ancient weapon in the process which nearly cost him his life— resulting in the past five years of seclusion and recovery.
Song Weicheng told him of the great calamity that had befallen Anfeng City that day, the terror it struck into the hearts of the people, and the countless lives saved by Song Mingzhen’s heroic conduct when he landed the final blow that destroyed the Great General of the Nameless.
Perhaps this act of heroism had earned him a measure of good fortune— Song Weicheng arrived at the scene after the battle was done and the dust settled, fully expecting to find the corpse of his son who had given his life in battle. By some miracle, though, Song Mingzhen had survived, albeit barely. What was even more miraculous was that, despite being fractured and broken, his body, mind, and cultivation had all been more or less salvageable, and that he had now woken up, and was carrying on a conversation.
After hearing of the past, Song Mingzhen spoke slowly and carefully of the endless sea of darkness and nightmares he had found himself wading through in his unconscious state. He brought forth the small fragments of information he could recall, and his father arranged them into something far more coherent, allowing Song Mingzhen’s agitated mind to settle.
Though he still had many unanswered questions, and though he still felt unsettled here in his own house, in his own body, he found himself reassured that his current condition had been the result of an act of heroism, rather than the turn to darkness he had feared— and he was even more reassured to hear that his actions in the past had succeeded, that the war was over, and that the people of Anfeng City were safe.
As the next few months passed by, Song Mingzhen gradually recovered his strength. He spent many hours in quiet meditation, calming his mind and attempting to restore his cultivation. Before the calamity, Song Mingzhen had already attained a high level of cultivation for his age. During the war, he had reached the peak of Zhuji stage, and was a half step away from forming a jindan. Now, though, his foundation had been severely damaged, so he returned to basic techniques in order to stabilize and restore his cultivation base. Song Weicheng guided him through this process, then left him to closed-door cultivation. As one day turned to the next, Song Mingzhen found the pain in his body lessening, the erratic flow of his meridians slowly evening out as he drew in spiritual qi from his surroundings, condensing it to restore his foundation. With each cultivation cycle he completed, he found himself rising up further and further from the mire he had been trapped in— nonetheless, he found that there was still some disharmony in the Dao within his body and mind, and his memories remained fragmented. Eventually, Song Mingzhen came to accept the fact that there were some things he would not be able to restore so easily.
Then came the day of the festival.
On that day, exactly five years after he had nearly lost his life, Song Mingzhen opened the doors of his house and stepped out into the courtyard. The mountain breeze rippled through his hair, a faint autumnal fragrance enveloping him as he stood, watching leaves slowly twirling through the air and drifting down to float atop the surface of the pool. Song Mingzhen stood transfixed for awhile, relishing in the sensations of the outside world he had forgotten he longed for.
He hadn’t been outside for long when Song Weicheng found him. Father and son spent many hours in the east hall discussing Song Mingzhen’s recovery and his progress in cultivation. This time, he found it much easier to speak, as though his voice had been half-sealed before, and the seal had now been released. Though his emotions were still somewhat troubled and he was prone to agitation, what had once been a gale had now calmed to an intermittent breeze. Song Weicheng felt his pulse, then he released a long sigh. Relief washed away the anxious furrows from his brows, and the clan leader suddenly appeared several decades younger than before. Song Mingzhen couldn’t help but wonder if the strands of silver woven through his hair had appeared during the course of the last five years.
“It seems that your spiritual base has been restored,” Song Weicheng declared as he released Song Mingzhen’s wrist. “This is very good.” There was a softness around his eyes that Song Mingzhen hadn’t seen before, and the young man was unable to keep a small smile from forming on his own lips as he bent his head in acknowledgment.
“It is all thanks to my father’s care and guidance,” he replied.
Golden afternoon turned to evening as Song Weicheng continued to examine his son’s health and cultivation, regaling Song Mingzhen with tales of his childhood all the while. Song Mingzhen’s mother had died not even a year after his birth. She had been treasured greatly, and after her passing, all of that love had been given to the young boy whose eyes were the same as his mother’s. Song Weicheng had spent every moment he could spare at his son’s side, personally teaching him everything from swordsmanship to calligraphy to diplomacy— naturally, there were ten thousand stories to tell about the boy’s early youth, many of which caused the now-grown Song Mingzhen to flush slightly in the face. It seemed he had always been someone with a heroic temperament, but he hadn’t taken so much care with his words or deeds as a child. Anyone would be a little embarrassed hearing about how they had once gone out to the town square playing as a hero of the gods, brazenly asking everyone in sight if they had seen any demons that needed to be defeated, all while holding a wooden sword that could hardly do more than bruise a man’s knees.
The conversation between father and son would be cut short, though, by a golden firework exploding in the night sky— it was a distress signal from the city.
Song Mingzhen leapt to his feet, seized with a sudden and all-consuming urge to take action. He begged his father to allow him to go investigate. Song Weicheng hesitated for a moment, but finally he nodded his head. As soon as permission was given, Song Mingzhen leapt onto his sword and rushed off to the city.
Though many of his skills had eroded to some degree after five years of recovery, it seemed that his martial talent remained quite impressive, and he had no trouble commanding his Chengxiao sword now that the bond had been restored. Even after five years, he didn’t have much difficulty subduing the attackers in the market square, and found his own movements to be graceful and instinctive.
Once the civilians had cleared out of the market square with the help of Ruijian Pavilion’s cultivators, Song Mingzhen surveyed the area. It turned out that the only casualties had been among the cultivators, and the common people had escaped unscathed. On one hand, this was relieving, on the other hand, it was somewhat troubling in its own right— when Song Mingzhen had arrived, the market stalls had been set alight and the crowd had been in a state of panic. It was no accident that they had all managed to escape. Whoever had launched this attack must have been specifically targeting the cultivators— a strange motive, when launching an attack on a heavily-populated area.
The worst part of it all was that after Song Mingzhen had finished examining the fallen cultivators, he turned around to see that the attackers he had rendered unconscious had all vanished into thin air. There were no tracks to follow, and he hadn’t even noticed any movement— but even after he combed through the nearby city streets, Song Mingzhen was unable to find a single trace of them. He had hoped to bring them in for questioning, in hopes to discover the motives of this attack and who was behind it, but with no trail to follow, he gave up searching and returned to Ruijian Pavilion’s grand courtyard.
The courtyard was quite large, but every corner of it was full of people. Several of his clan’s juniors were going around and checking the townsfolk for injuries and making sure that all parents and children were properly reunited. When they saw Song Mingzhen arrive, they seemed surprised to see him— ah, that makes sense, though. After all, he had suddenly come out to the city without any notice, after five years without being seen even once. He did his best to maintain an air of business-as-usual, updating the cultivators on the results— or rather, lack thereof— of his search through the city, and instructing them to continue patrolling regularly until the ones responsible for the attack had been apprehended. Even though none of the citizens had been harmed, it would still be best not to take any chances.
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It wasn’t difficult for Song Mingzhen to step back into a leadership role, and the golden-robed cultivators readily obeyed his every word, quickly working their way through the crowd to gather reports of all injuries sustained during the attack— mostly minor burns or bruises and bumps from all of the rushing to and fro— and organizing their patrols for the night. The people of Anfeng City, upon seeing that their hero truly had returned to them, gathered around, each individual wishing to come forward and thank him, or praise him, or express well-wishes. Some even offered him gifts— usually nothing more than a small trinket or two that they had gotten earlier that day from the market, but each was presented with the reverence of a worshiper making an offering to their god.
Song Mingzhen found himself feeling quite overwhelmed by all of the attention. Even after what he had been told, he hadn’t expected that he would be such a grand celebrity, and he wasn’t quite sure whether or not he liked it. Still, he did his best to politely decline as many of the gifts as he could, and to acknowledge each and every person who came up to him— even if he might have preferred to return to Jieyun Hall as soon as possible.
Just as he was contemplating how he might reasonably extricate himself from this situation, he heard the clear voice of a youth calling out over the crowd: “The crisis has been averted! All those awaiting treatment for injuries should remain here. Everyone else, return to your homes! Ruijian Pavilion’s cultivators will patrol the city streets throughout the night, so no harm will come to anyone.”
The crowd that had gathered around Song Mingzhen slowly began to thin out, people leaving the courtyard with their families, though a few still remained behind, lingering and milling about uncertainly— likely still a bit anxious about going back out into the city, which was understandable enough. Song Mingzhen continued to accept the plucked flowers that the children offered him and gave them little pats on the head in return, finding it somewhat easier to breathe now that the crowd wasn’t pressing in on him from all sides. Then, he suddenly felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder.
A prickling feeling like thorns of ice laced from his shoulder down to his fingertips. His heart lurched into his throat and he spun around, instinctively taking a defensive stance.
The person who had laid a hand on him turned out to be a youth of about sixteen, just a bit shorter than he was, with features that looked seven parts of ten similar to Song Weicheng’s. He wore the embroidered golden robes of the Song clan’s main family, and upon seeing the startled look in Song Mingzhen’s eyes, he quickly withdrew his hand and stepped back, surprised by the reaction.
“Ah… forgive me, it only seemed like Xiongzhang was getting a bit overwhelmed by the crowd. Why don’t you hurry along with me?” he said, tilting his head toward the mountain gate, beyond which were the stone steps that led up the mountain to Jieyun Hall.
This person was the same one who had sent away the crowd— he must also be Song Mingzhen’s younger brother, Song Minghan. Like everyone else in Song Mingzhen’s life, his face, the sound of his voice, and the relationship between them seemed to have been lost to his memories. Nonetheless, there was nothing overtly untrustworthy about the boy, so Song Mingzhen nodded his head and followed him up the mountain.
“Fuqin told me that you had recovered,” Song Minghan said, going on to explain how Song Weicheng had sent him down with a small group of cultivators to assist his brother, only for the matter to have already been taken care of by the time he arrived.
Song Mingzhen listened to him talk— the boy had a natural friendliness and agreeable demeanor that set others at ease, and of course his own brother wouldn’t be an exception to that. As he spoke, Song Mingzhen noticed that there was a soft smile on his lips and a brightness to his dark eyes that mirrored their father’s expression earlier that day almost perfectly. Song Mingzhen couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble his condition had caused his family to endure… no doubt this little brother of his, who would have still been very young back when the calamity happened, had spent these five years wondering if he would ever see his elder brother again.
It would be good to try to spend more time with him in the future.
“Thank you for your concern, xiao-didi,” Song Mingzhen replied, smiling a bit. “I am doing well. Although, I think there are quite a lot of things for me to adjust to.”
“Naturally,” Song Minghan replied. Then, a little shadow crossed his face, and he looked down. He paused for a moment, scuffing his foot against a small stone that had fallen onto the path. He rolled it back and forth, then kicked it off the edge. Song Mingzhen watched it skitter down the mountainside before it rolled into the underbrush below, vanishing from sight. Song Minghan sighed, then looked back up— and the smile had returned to his lips. “It’s good that you’ve finally woken up.”
It only made sense that things would be a little awkward between them. So long had passed since they were last face to face, so Song Minghan couldn’t say he was completely familiar with his brother anymore— and Song Mingzhen didn’t remember Song Minghan at all, save what he had already been told by his father. He felt a slight pang in his chest— even with this positive outcome, he had ended up missing a good portion of his little brother’s childhood. He probably wouldn’t have recognized Song Minghan even if his memories had remained intact— how could a round-faced ten-year-old child compare to the lanky, handsome youth that now walked at his side? It hardly mattered that he barely knew the boy at all, he couldn’t help regretting that he had missed all those five years, especially after hearing Song Weicheng recount how thrilled the younger Song Mingzhen had been to have a little brother to teach and play with.
They didn’t say much more as they made their way up the mountain. The immediate happiness at their reunion gave way to an odd sort of melancholy as the distance between the two who ought to be close became more and more apparent with each step they took. Song Mingzhen found himself more often than not looking upwards, marveling at the sight of the open sky above the mountains. He had spent the past few months in rigorous meditation, then five years before that in and out of consciousness, and before that was nothingness— it wasn’t just the faces of his family members that he had forgotten, but also the sights of the world around him, the very feeling of being alive. Standing out under the star-filled night sky brought about a familiar-yet-unfamiliar feeling, just the same as it felt to be conversing with a younger brother who had aged five years since they last spoke in a time forgotten to Song Mingzhen.
When they arrived at Jieyun Hall, each of the two brothers reported on the situation in the city to their father. Then, each one retired to his own courtyard once they were dismissed.
Song Mingzhen didn’t go inside immediately, instead sitting down at the edge of the pool. From the moment that signal flare had gone off until now, he had been filled with that all-consuming sense of urgency. Now that the crisis had been averted, he realized that his heart was pounding like a drum and the tips of his fingers felt numb and cold. It was a bit puzzling to him— the fight had been easy, with opponents who were far below his level even in his present condition. It hadn’t been too much trouble to interact with the people either, and though his reunion with his younger brother turned out to be a little more awkward than he would have hoped, it was hardly a disaster. Of course, there was still the matter of the vanished attackers— Song Mingzhen knew he had hit them hard enough that they wouldn’t be able to stand up for a few days, and yet they had disappeared without a trace. Perhaps that was what was causing his heart to feel so unsettled.
He took a few long, slow breaths, allowing the mountain air to fill his lungs and clear his head. Only once his heart stopped pounding did he return to his room— though he still found it completely impossible to get any sleep. He wasn’t particularly surprised, though, seeing as he had slept enough in the past five years to count for the rest of his life. Eventually, he sat up, lit a lantern, and picked up a book for some light reading, but found that the low light and his still-weary mind made the characters blur together on the page and left a throbbing headache behind his eyes. After that, he simply went back outside, lying down on his back next to the pool and watching the wisps of cloud float across the obsidian sky until dawn’s pale light painted it in streaks of gold and rosy pink.
The air was brisk and cold, and a light layer of frost shone on the blades of grass, but Song Mingzhen was quite comfortable all through the night. Aside from the many-layered robes he wore, he had spent the last few months restoring his cultivation, so the cold hardly affected him at all— at most, it served to clear his head and invigorate his senses. He got up that morning feeling quite a bit better than the night before, and thought to himself that perhaps this was what “back to normal” felt like.
Not long after waking up, he was summoned to the main hall for a discussion. The cultivators who had fallen victim to last night’s attack had been brought back to Jieyun Hall for examination. It turned out that most of them had only been injured, and would recover with treatment. The most concerning matter, though, was that the one who had been killed had not been wounded by any ordinary weapon— he had been killed by a spiritual blast to the chest. Even though the young man hadn’t been exceptionally talented, he was still a cultivator. The fact that someone had managed to murder him with a single spiritual blow meant that at least one of the perpetrators of the attack would have to be a powerful rogue cultivator— one who had reached early Zhuji stage at the very least.
Most rogue cultivators that the clans apprehended were only Ningqi stage at the highest— just one step up from an ordinary mortal. This was the earliest that one could actually be considered a cultivator. A mortal who had reached Ninqgi stage had perceived the Dao, and as a result they had gained a spiritual sense and could properly practice spiritual cultivation. A Ningqi stage cultivator would slowly learn how to manipulate the spiritual qi that flowed through their body, and could open up their spiritual apertures to receive a greater volume— but their power was limited to the scope of their own physical forms, and could not be used externally. They could move faster, jump higher, and heal more quickly than mortals, and they would retain their youth for longer, but that was the extent of their abilities. Even when it came to something like talismans, they would only be able to use one that had already been drawn by a higher-level cultivator. If a mortal swordsman or martial artist faced a cultivator in Ningqi stage, then with sufficient skill they would be able to prevail— or at least, they might succeed in holding out until help arrived. At Ningqi stage, it would become apparent that one had begun to cultivate, but they would not yet pose a severe threat— and most could not progress beyond that stage, or were apprehended before they could.
While one could feasibly perceive the Dao without the backing of a lineage or cultivation clan, ascending to Zhuji stage was another matter entirely. The second major stage of cultivation was far more difficult to attain, but those who did cross that boundary were exponentially more powerful. While they were not quite able to level mountains or reverse the flow of rivers, you also couldn’t guarantee that small hills and little streams would be safe. Even one who had only just surpassed the Zhuji stage boundary was already ten times stronger than one at peak Ningqi, and that power would only increase from that point onward. Killing someone, with a single blow was well within the skillset of a powerful Zhuji stage cultivator.
Most importantly, though, an ordinary person would be completely helpless against a Zhuji stage cultivator— so it was absolutely imperative that such people, operating outside of the clans’ jurisdiction, were quickly dealt with.
But it was no simple matter. Even many orthodox cultivators failed to reach this level of cultivation within their lifetimes, and only those who were truly exceptional would be able to ascend the next major boundary and form a jindan. Song Mingzhen himself was already considered the greatest prodigy of his generation, having reached peak Zhuji-stage at only twenty years old. His own cultivation was the result of a solid spiritual root, shaped by years of cultivation and guidance and unlimited access to the best places in the region to cultivate, and tempered by the fires of war. Without all of these factors, he surely wouldn’t have reached his current level of achievement— and even most of those belonging to the great clans did not have such advantages.
Rogue cultivators lacked all but potentially the last factor. It was one thing to perceive the Dao and reach Ningqi stage, it was another matter entirely to enter one of the three-thousand paths and build a foundation. Without any guidance or lineage to speak of, these paths were exceedingly difficult to find. Most of the rogue lineages had been wiped out for at least five hundred years— thus, the only hope for a rogue cultivator to enter the Dao was to somehow stumble upon their own way in. Those who were not part of the great clans were forbidden from accessing any of the places in the world where large amounts of spiritual qi had condensed, and it was almost impossible to find any but the most basic— and often fraudulent— manuals or spiritual tools and elixirs. A rogue cultivator would need to have an exceptional spiritual root even to arrive at the Zhuji stage boundary, and even if they found a cultivation path of their own they would almost certainly have to resort to dubious means in order to gain enough power surpass it. It was nearly impossible.
Because of this, Zhuji stage rogue cultivators only appeared once every great while, and when they did, they were always extremely exceptional. Apart from the members of the Nameless— that rogue sect that had sprung up eight years ago and launched the cultivation world into a war— there had only been a handful of Zhuji stage rogue cultivators recorded throughout history. Though many small heretical sects had sprung up during the war, clinging like barnacles to the power of the Nameless, they had all been completely eradicated by this point in time. It had been thought that those among them who had reached Zhuji stage had been either executed or imprisoned, with their spiritual power permanently sealed away.
It was incredibly worrying, therefore, that one such cultivator would appear now.
Of course, all of this did little good for Song Mingzhen’s mental state. Even after spending so long in recovery, he found that his heart was unsettled, and he was easily set on edge— the knowledge that a dangerous individual was lurking somewhere out in the world only served to increase his agitation. He had originally planned to focus on practicing his cultivation and martial arts between reports, discussions, and meals shared with his family, but ultimately he decided to turn to more soothing pursuits in his spare time. After a bit of searching, he unearthed a qin from where it had rested long-unused on a carved wooden table, wrapped in a silk blanket that had collected five years’ worth of dust.
He spent quite a while focusing on the feeling of the silken strings beneath his fingers, pressing lightly to familiarize himself with the tension and strength. When he actually attempted to play, he found that his movements were far from nimble— really, it felt as if he’d never touched the instrument before in his life. Song Mingzhen was baffled by how intact his combat ability and even his cultivation had been after waking up from his long recovery, while other skills seemed to have gone by the wayside. Fortunately, it was the most essential skills that he found easiest to pick up— it would have been a complete disaster if he had gone down to Anfeng City only to find that he had forgotten how to wield his sword. It was just a bit sad that his once-prodigious musical talent had fallen into disrepair along with his conversational prowess.
Nonetheless, Song Mingzhen was nothing if not determined. He might still be trying to pick up the pieces of who he once was, but he knew one thing for certain— he was the sort of person who always welcomed a challenge. And so, he was determined to regain every last one of the skills he had once had— not only that, he would also surpass his previous talent!
He spent many hours practicing, trying his best to remember any wisp of technique he had once learned and struggling through reading sheet music— something he knew for a fact should be far less difficult than it was. His attempts to play a proper song ranged from slightly similar to utterly unrecognizable. Not a particularly encouraging start, but a start nonetheless, he thought. After a few hours, Song Mingzhen wondered if this music practice was even more agitating than training for combat would have been, but he still found himself taking pleasure in the process. A little smile flickered at the corners of his mouth every time he played a note particularly sweetly, though the smile vanished when he inevitably fumbled over his own fingers once again.
Song Weicheng had dismissed him after the initial report and discussion, telling him that he would be sent for if his presence was required, and to do as he pleased until then. Song Minghan had also left Jieyun Hall to go supervise the patrols and investigations in the city, so it wasn’t as though Song Mingzhen could go find his younger brother to catch up with him. Instead, he spent those hours on his own, practicing the qin or reading through the books in his rather expansive library.
After a few days of this, Song Mingzhen was rather satisfied with himself— despite his early struggles, his playing had begun to steadily improve. Though it was still amateur at best, he no longer fumbled so many notes, and had even recovered a few more advanced techniques through successful and persistent experimentation. He also noticed that the feeling of the strings beneath his fingers and the warm notes ringing through the air had markedly decreased his agitation.
When one of the main hall’s servants approached him a few days after the attack, Song Mingzhen nearly began to brag about his accomplishments, and even came close to suggesting that he give a small performance. The grave, anxious expression on the servant’s face, though, brought all of the worry Song Mingzhen had been pushing from his mind flooding back in.
“What is it?” he asked, “Has something happened?”
“Gongzi’s presence has been requested in the main hall,” the servant replied. “A delegation from Yinshan has arrived, and they wish to discuss the attack on Anfeng City.”
Song Mingzhen blinked, thinking back through what he had been told of the current state of the world— Yinshan, the mountainous region to the west of Dayuan, was overseen by the Qin clan, who specialized in the creation of spiritual tools. They had sustained some of the heaviest losses during the war, so of course they would be significantly concerned upon hearing that there had been an attack on Anfeng City. Though Song Weicheng and Ruijian Pavilion had done their best to keep rumors from spreading, Anfeng City was a central hub of trade, commerce, and travel— so naturally, it was impossible to keep things completely quiet.
It was just a little unfortunate that they had come so soon, before the culprits had been apprehended.
Song Mingzhen sighed, pressing his fingers into his brow and lightly massaging away an encroaching headache. Then, he stood up.
“I understand,” he said, “Inform my father that I will be there shortly.”