The sky was grey, a deluge raining from the heavens. The world was quiet and cold, people staying inside, enjoying the cozy warmth of their favorite chairs, the loving warmth of their friends and family. The streets were empty, the evening gloomy enough that the streetlights, unbidden, sputtered, flickered, then came to life, yellow stars casting their muted gold into the dark.
Footsteps splashed in puddles; a girl looked down, to see her reflection, dimmed by the occluding clouds, distorted by the rippling water. Rain and sleet splashed about her feet, on her coat, pouring off her umbrella, the melancholy tears of the sky.
A bell chimed, a door clicked open, and the girl stepped through, water dripping off the length of her coat, folding her umbrella, wet with rain, then setting it in a plastic bin.
The old man behind the counter glared over the top of his book at her, old, scuffed boots resting on the cluttered, scratched mahogany countertop.
Some sort of sword, probably from some movie, hung over his head, a decoration. It was fairly simple, with a steel blade, a leather-bound hilt, and a metal crossguard. Below it hung a short cloth scabbard.
“Ah. It’s you. Here for your books, I assume.” His glare became marginally softer as he recognized her.
She nodded.
The old man grunted softly as he swung his weight off the desk, the chair beneath him creaking in protest at the treatment.
“Okay... you’re the girl with the... uh... old books... right?” The old computer next to him on the desk whirred as he started it up. Dusty, dirty, still running Windows XP, it seemed... pretty old. Just like the man.
“Yes.” Her voice was soft, like the light splash of rain on grass.
The old man squinted at her. “Hmmm.”
He paused. “You... uh... what’s your name again?”
The girl smiled. “I’m Evelyn.”
He frowned, then squinted harder. “Evelyn, hmm? You don’t look very strong.”
“I-” An awkward silence filled the air for a moment, as Evelyn tried to think of something to reply with.
It was broken as the old man shrugged. “Ah, whatever. I’ll be right back.” Mumbling to himself, fumbling at his key ring, the old man popped open a door to the back of the dusty shop.
The door shut, taking warmth with it, leaving only silence in its wake. It was a fake silence, lying over the drum of rain on glass. It was a fragile silence, easily breakable, like glass, like ice.
And yet... it was numbing. It was cold and quiet and still. The store was frozen, dead, ghostly. The air felt like snow, settling in layers on cloth, skin, and bone, freezing all that it touched.
The cold surged through rain and cloud, through wood and stone, through flesh and blood, through mind and memory, through heaven and earth, flowing through the very essence of the world.
It was the cruel chill of death, of stillness, of silence, of loneliness, the empty coldness of the lost.
Evelyn shivered.
She pulled the black coat tighter around her skin, saving a modicum of warmth. She flicked open her phone. The weather in Beijing was... negative 4.5°C. That was... about 20°F.
It wasn’t really that cold.
She shivered again.
Or maybe it was.
**
In another time, another place, a thousand miles and a thousand years away, thunder hung over empty plains, a blue scar crossing the skies, connecting heaven and earth for an instant, an aeon, a shard of time, caught and spread across eternity.
A man stood under the gray clouds, his hand outstretched, pointing towards the clouded sky.
In the distance, a mountain rumbled. In the distance, a sea roared. In the distance, a storm howled. In the distance, a star shone amongst the heavens.
A sword appeared in his outstretched hand. It was simple, a long blade, a leather bound hilt, a metal crossguard.
He gazed across the plains, his eyes seemingly taking in all under the lonely heavens. The whirling wind, the seething sea, the rumbling mountains, the uncaring, noble stars, he saw all.
He saw all, then sneered and brought the blade down.
A sword-light flared across the plains, like the silver moon rising over a boundless horizon, like the reflection of the stars in the still water of a pond.
A furrow split open, a hundred thousand li long, absolute might ripping the land to shreds, stretching far off into the distant horizon.
In the distance, a mountain splintered and shattered. In the distance, a sea split and boiled. In the distance, a storm stilled and screamed. In the distance, a star dimmed and fell.
The man started to laugh, then cut off, coughing.
Blood, gold in color, dripped out of the corner of his mouth.
“Fools.” His voice rasped, like the rasp of steel on stone.
A flash of silver light appeared on the horizon, accelerating towards him. A flicker of surprise briefly flashed across his face, but it was quickly suppressed by a look of derision and caution.
The streak slowed, and stopped about half a li away, before resolving into a figure, robed in turquoise-gold, standing on a sword of blackened silver.
The man’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, his voice ringing like thunder, across the plains, across the heavens, across the Myriad Worlds. “Oh? And what brings the venerable Daoist Ji of the Green Mountain here? Have you come to help me?”
The Daoist stepped off his sword and onto thin air as it shrank and returned to his hand. “Gao Yuhan. The Demon of the North Heaven Wastes.” He smiled and bowed. “Greetings, fellow practitioner Yuhan. This humble Daoist is merely here to request that you return the Inherited Heaven Sword to the sword sect of the Green Mountain.”
The demon, Gao Yuhan, sighed. He knew what was coming. He could not give up this sword, and neither could they, although for different reasons. Gao Yuhan raised his sword before him, its tip pointing straight up, a mighty tree refusing to bend in the wind.
“In this cruel world... justice is simply a word, I suppose.”
He pointed his blade at the silent Daoist, and smiled a savage grin, a brutal smile.
The storm clouds overhead opened up, rain drizzling down, the tears of the Heavens.
The Daoist sighed, his eyes downcast. “And so, you have chosen.”
He took a step forward, and the ground exploded. Invisible sword-energies, formed from mere intent and will, slashed deep furrows into the plain around the pair. The soil beneath the two churned into mud.
Gao Yuhan raised his sword, then brought it down. A simple, slashing motion, and yet, it carried with it all the weight of a mountain, the motion of a rushing river, the variability of the ever-changing wind.
Under the dim light of the gray clouds, the Daoist’s blade seemed to burn with the light of the rising sun, the light of dawn moving to strike down the mountains and rivers.
These supreme strikes met, and with a terrible roar, shook the world. Dust stirred up in windstorms a hundred thousand li away and mile-deep rents appeared in the land, forever changing the landscape. No more would this be a land of plains, but rather, canyons and mesas.
There was a footstep, a footfall, and a single breath. The dust moved and cleared.
The pair still stood, gazing at each other. Long sword-scars stretched away from them into the horizon.
Gao Yuhan raised his head to the heavens. “Elder, you are truly... worthy of your reputation.”
Daoist Ji smiled. “If I could not match a few words, then what meaning would all these years have?”
Gao Yuhan didn’t seem to even notice his words. “I wish... I could see the stars again. I wish... I could see her again. Alas...”
The Daoist’s smile faded. “An honorable wish... but in the end, it can only be a wish.”
The Demon nodded. "Of course... before I go, old man, can I trouble you with one last thing?
"Of course."
"When you return to the Green Mountain... if you would protect her... I would be... grateful."
Gao Yuhan sighed, then toppled backwards, breaking into countless particles of starlight as he hit the ground, a mighty mountain finally collapsing before the weight of the heavens, the unbending tree finally broken before the raging wind.
And thus, Gao Yuhan, Demon of the Northern Wastes, returned to the starry sky, fading away into history, leaving naught but a legend, a dream, and a broken promise.
**
The door to the back of the store clicked open, breaking the silence into a thousand pieces of ice and glass.
An old man stepped out, holding a bag of books.
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Evelyn reached out, taking the offered plastic bag full of books, then handing him her credit card to swipe. “Thanks. Well, have a nice night.” She took back her credit card, then turned towards the door. Outside was still darker than night, the shadows broken only by the occasional flash of lightning.
Evelyn picked up her coat and put it on. Black silk felt like velvety night on her skin.
The old man raised an eyebrow at the stormy sky, dark as shadows, as she reached the door. “Are you really gonna go-”
The door chimed. The old man sighed. “Millennials.” He paused. Looked around.
Then he sat back in his chair, which, as usual, was creaking in protest under his weight. His old eyes flicked around one more time, as if making sure that there really was nobody in the store.
In his wrinkled hands was an old, brown-bound book that seemed to flicker with its own dim radiance under the fluorescent glow of the store lights. He studied it, then turned to gaze at the door, the shutters still slowly swinging.
He gently turned the pages, gazing softly at familiar blank paper, parchment, filled with nothing but thoughts and memories.
“Here’s to you, old friend.”
There was a soft thump as he closed the book.
A pulse of silver light flared to the sky, and all of a sudden, the shop was empty, the chair creaking no longer, the closed sign flickering to life, the door locking itself.
The only thing left of the old man was a quiet whisper, hanging in the air, only ghosts and memories left to hear it.
“Who could ever see the sights... standing on the edge of eternity? And if someone could... would it be worth it?”
**
On the Sword Peak of the Green Mountain Sword Sect, there was a sword. There many swords, but this one was, in a way, special. It was also, in a way, not special. It wasn’t flashy, nor was it beautiful. In fact, it was rather ugly and simplistic.
It had a simple metal blade, a simple metal crossguard, and a simple leather-bound hilt. The only decorations on it was a single carving with four simple characters, translating roughly to: “Inherited Heaven.”
It had been at the very top of the peak, untouched, for many, many years now, ever since the venerable Daoist Ji had brought it back. All those who could even reach the top of the peak were rare, rare beyond words, and why would they, with their confidence and belief choose such a plain blade?
Thus it had remained, alone at the peak for countless years, waiting, waiting for its next owner, perhaps even its inheritor.
Until today.
Winter snow painted the mountain peak a picturesque white, just as clouds covered the mountain peak in a sea of fog. Above the foggy sea, the winter sun shone, burning dim, like a dying lamp as it approached the midwinter festival.
Liu Qingyun jumped over a large boulder in her way, accidentally knocking a pebble off the side of the mountain road.
She watched it fall out of sight, scraping off boulders, bouncing off craggy peaks, knocking against scraggly trees. She watched it fall, and fall... and fall.
The bottom was quite a ways away.
A soft, razor-sharp breeze blew a few particles of snow off the mountain top. Liu Qingyun reached up, and caught one, wielding her Qi to cover her hand. It was sharp, nearly sharp enough to cut through her layer of Qi.
Over countless years, the sword-intent of countless master swordsmen had accumulated on the Peak, imbuing everything on the peak with a razor sharpness. From the boulders to the pebbles, from the wind to the water, from the cold to the snow, all things cut, straight to the bone. Straight to the soul, in some cases.
Nobody guarded the Sword Peak. There was no point. It guarded itself. The very top of the Sword Peak was obscured by clouds of fog, formed from sword-intent so sharp that they could even cut the divine sense of all below the Divine Domain.
Now, to her, the bottom was long gone, but the peak was in sight.
Liu Qingyun ducked under a spinning leaf, aiming to decapitate her, and stepped onto the silver peak.
A breath of wind buffeted her, blowing out her fur cloak out on the wind, blowing her hair back in a hundred thousand strands of darkness.
Sword-intent snow settled among her hairs, upon her shoulders, on her cloak, then melted, bathing her in a sea of sword-intent that rushed into and through her meridians.
A bird, red in color, flew overhead. Liu Qingyun gazed up, briefly wondering what kind of bird could fly over the Sword Peak, fly over the Green Mountain.
Then her consciousness was swept away in the flood of sword-intent, of sharp, focused meaning, running through her meridians, through her soul, through her bones.
Images flashed through her mind; a sword soared to the white sky, sword-intent pierced the Ninth Heaven.
A thousand swords, a dragon formed of blades, flew over a limpid pond, a snowy city, a plain where the sun set.
They flashed by, faster and faster now, images flickering like snow blowing by on a breeze.
A six-armed, three-headed being of an inconceivable size, dressed in a black robe, wielded six swords at once, unleashing blows of unimaginable power.
A Daoist gazed at a Demon, on an empty plain, under a shrouded sky.
A purple-haired youth swept his sword forward, time moving with it, pointing towards an oncoming army of Immortals.
A man held a sword that flared with light, piercing the starry sky to reveal the void beyond.
A god holding a sword faced off against another, one radiating a bloody red, the other radiating a fervent blue.
Eventually, the flurry of images slowed, then stopped, settling into ice, into memory, frozen forever in time.
Liu Qingyun sat down hard into the snow. Surprisingly, it didn’t cut her hands to bloody ribbons, nor her legs to scarlet shreds. Perhaps it was because of the sword-intent baptism?
She stood up, dusting snow off her hands. There before her, on the peak, was a single sword. It was plain, unadorned. Before, she might have scorned it, but now...
The sword called, and she answered. The next day, she stepped off the Sword Peak, carrying her sword on her back.
**
The rain poured down in curtains, splashing off a black umbrella in little rivers, waterfalls falling off the edges. The yellow light of electric lamps glimmered like gilded starfire, blurry and twinkling through sheets of water.
The wind bit and cut, like icy knives cutting straight through cloth, leaving no marks except a terrible cold deep within the bones.
A girl, with eyes that flickered like flames, stood alone under the gray, gloomy heavens. A velvet black buttoned coat adorned her thin shoulders; she held a stack of books, a fragment of long ago memory, a piece of the greatest achievements of past lives held in her supple hands. A pale glow, of starlight, of moonlight burned through her skin, unseen by all but ghosts and memories.
Lightning flickered and flitted amongst the melancholy rain, the somber clouds, instants among eternities. Thunder rumbled and crashed, like the rise and fall of waves on far away shores, the crumbling of a mountain, the toppling of a tree.
In a moment now, there would come a bus, an empty one. The girl would step onto it, and she would lose something in the doing of it. The flames would fade to embers, the stars would fade to silence, and the moon would fade to darkness, leaving only emptiness behind.
**
Liu Qingyun, the Exile, rested her sword, her burden, her companion on the leaf-covered grass. It was a rather simple blade, with a blackish-gray color, a metal crossguard, a leather-bound hilt. The only decoration on the blade were four characters, engraved directly into the metal of the blade.
She flicked her hand, and a few logs appeared out of the air, dropping onto the ground before her. With another flick, they ignited, the flames warming the chilly air around them.
Liu Qingyun stretched out her hands, and sighed in comfort.
As she gazed thoughtfully out at the falling leaves, her thoughts, inevitably, turned to autumn.
A long time ago, she had thought that autumn represented death. It was the dying season. Everything died in autumn, and only their corpses were left for winter. That was why autumn was so red and winter so bare. At least, that was what her mother had always said.
When she spoke of this to her master, he had said something about autumn being a part of the heavenly cycle, or saṃsāra, or something. She had never really listened to the old man... although now she wished she had.
Now she knew that autumn represented the passing of time. It represented inevitability. It represented sorrow. It represented fate. It would always come, and it would leave only silence and snow behind.
Her master had died amongst the autumn leaves, her father amongst the autumn storms, and her mother amongst the autumn snow.
Liu Qingyun hated autumn.
A flower petal blew in the wind, then another, then another.
As the wind grew stronger, the petals started blowing faster and faster. They spun and twirled, spinning into a storm of flowers, all the colors of the sunset.
Liu Qingyun sighed, then reached for her sword.
From amongst the falling leaves, a figure emerged. A veil hanging from a straw hat covered the woman’s face. She was garbed in an ancient style, the uniform of the disciples of the Green Mountain.
No sword hung from her back.
The two gazed at each other for an instant. Then, a sword coalesced into the veiled woman’s hands. It was thin and sharp, light and flexible. Orchids, roses, plum blossoms, all kinds of flowers were engraved onto its blade.
Its name was the Flying Flowers Sword, which meant that this woman could only be one person- the current wielder of the Flying Flowers Sword, the current head disciple of Shangde Peak of the Green Mountain: Xing Yimu.
Liu Qingyun stood up, calmly dusting off her tunic. “Have you come to kill me, senior sister?”
The wind stilled.
Xing Yimu’s voice was eloquent and elegant, like a garden full of flowers. “I came to ask you some questions.”
Liu Qingyun focused on her. “Oh? Ask away.”
She nodded. “Junior sister, why did you leave? And why did you take the Inherited Heaven Sword with you?”
Liu Qingyun smiled bitterly, mockingly. “I left because I no longer agreed with the Sect’s policies. I took the sword because it is mine. Does that answer your questions?”
Xing Yimu’s blade traced the ground, leaving a long, winding cut on the ground as she stepped towards Liu Qingyun. “Why is the sword yours? Why do you not agree with the Sect? Even if you don’t agree, why leave? Just because your Master died?”
Liu Qingyun raised her blade. “This sword is mine because my Master left it to me. He was the one who brought it back, so it was naturally his, and now that he is dead, it is mine. As for why I don’t agree with the Sect? The Sect has grown old and corrupt, and the Elders that oversee it even more so. Also, if I had stayed, I suspect I would be a rotting corpse somewhere in the mountains by now.”
Liu Qingyun stepped back once. “Any more questions, Senior? Or should we just get to killing each other?”
Xing Yimu smiled behind her veil. “No more questions.”
Wildflowers bloomed along the cave floor, their roots growing into cracks, their beauty dazzling even the dull stone.
Inexplicably, the wind picked up, swirling around the trees, billowing through the flowers, eddying amongst girls’ hair.
The fire blew out, taking its warmth and possibilities with it to its cold, melancholy grave.
Flower petals spun around Xing Yimu as she struck out with her blade. The blade shone with serenity and inevitability; countless flowers and plants slowly eroding a mountain.
The sword-light like a storm of petals came closer and closer, approaching Liu Qingyun, who merely gazed at it. Just as it was about to touch her... she moved her blade.
For a moment, there was silence. For a moment, time stopped. For a moment, the world held its breath.
Then... there was light.
Had anybody been there, at the scene, unless they had stepped into the Divine, they would have no way of knowing what happened.
A wave of fire and Qi splashed outwards through the forest, blasting leaves off trees and incinerating everything around the girls for a hundred li.
For just an instant, all those with a hundred-thousand li looked up to see a second sun rising from the East, blazing even brighter than that which hung in the Heavens.
.....
As the light faded, two figures became visible. Xing Yimu’s veil had been scorched away, revealing her face, blackened with ash and soot, but otherwise unharmed. On the other hand, countless tiny wounds, burns and cuts, had opened up on her body.
These were mostly external- the true injuries had occurred inside her body. Her blood roared in turmoil, and her organs had been heavily damaged by the Qi passing through.
Liu Qingyun, however, was hardly injured. A few cuts had appeared on her face and body where the flower petals had passed by, but most had been burned into ash by the power of the blazing sun and the Inherited Heaven style.
Xing Yimu sat down hard onto the grass. Her eyes were like limpid pools, serene and calm. “Many years ago, my master told me that the Inherited Heaven style was the best sword style in the Green Mountain. I didn’t believe him. Now I do. I accept my defeat.”
Liu Qingyun raised her sword high.
Xing Yimu closed her eyes.
A maple leaf, somehow having survived the firestorm, blew by before Liu Qingyun’s eyes. She watched it for a little, then paused, then tossed the Inherited Heaven sword to the side, which started floating next to her, parallel to the ground.
Xing Yimu opened her eyes in surprise. “Why...?”
Liu Qingyun shrugged. “I suppose it’s because... autumn is the dying season.”
“And... I hate autumn.”
She stepped on her sword and disappeared.
In the far distance, a beam of light pierced the heavens.