In a quiet residence on Taoye Alley, an elderly man with kindly eyes and a gentle demeanor sat upon a rattan chair beneath the eaves. Beside him perched a playful, charming maid. She wore soft yellow embroidered trousers, over which fluttered a sheer, misty-green gauze skirt. As the old man recounted a tale, she listened attentively, fanning him slowly with graceful ease.
Suddenly, he spoke, "Taoya, the breeze—has it dozed off again? I'm not trying to frighten you, but had you been serving in a grand household outside this small town, such idleness would earn you punishment."
There was no reply. The old man, usually indulgent and kindly toward his servants, was about to make another lighthearted remark when his expression changed drastically. He looked up into the distance, his gaze turning solemn. Within the courtyard, not only did the fan in the young girl's hand fall still, but even the invisible wind itself seemed to have ceased.
The old man immediately held his breath, silently chanting incantations, slipping into a meditative trance, lest his years of cultivation be diminished by the brief reversal of time's flow. He sighed softly—so even Qi Jingchun, known for his unwavering adherence to propriety, had finally intervened. If so, then truly, the storm was fast approaching.
At the Iron-Locked Well, a burly young outsider crouched not far away, eyes fixed intensely on the water wheel. Yet the corner of his eye sneaked toward the silhouette of a buxom village woman who was bent over, hauling up a pail from the well. Her exaggerated curves—full hips and heavy bosom—were revealed in every motion, radiating a wild, harvest-rich allure that rendered her otherwise plain features strangely enchanting.
When the young man realized that the surrounding world had abruptly fallen into eerie stillness, he dared not move. Instead, he stared straight at the captivating scene, gulped surreptitiously, and quickly shifted to a different squatting position. No wonder his master had once said: women from the lowlands were like tigers emerging from the forest—fierce and draining one's strength. But once taken up the mountain, they became sovereign beasts, reigning supreme—and deadly. After a few drinks, the master always muttered that all heroes in the world would eventually fall prey to their own household tigress. Not a single exception.
Yet the young man thought that even a forest-leaving tigress was already formidable enough. Take that village woman, for instance—so ordinary in looks, yet bewitching enough to stir his heart. If she were to slap him without a word, he doubted he would dare retaliate. Perhaps, should she smile afterward, he might even find himself smiling in return.
Such thoughts dampened his spirits. He glanced down at his crotch with frustration and muttered, "Spineless—no wonder you've got no spine!"
Within Mud Bottle Alley, Song Jixin was leafing through an old, weighty county gazetteer. He had deciphered many patterns, such as how the book seemed to be updated roughly every sixty years. Thus, in private, he named it The Chronicle of the Cycle. Another trend he noted: once local youths were taken away by distant relatives, they rarely returned to their hometown. They seemed to prefer blooming beyond the wall, growing their families and forging legacies afar—some even becoming towering giants, deeply rooted elsewhere. So, he gave the book another nickname: The Book Beyond the Walls.
At present, the young man was reading a brief biography of someone named Cao Xi. The writing was notably terse—another hallmark of the gazetteer. He had read this page at least seven or eight times, already familiar with every line. Now, he only flipped through in leisure, picking out the strange and fantastical lives as though listening to tales spun by a storyteller. He did not care much for historical accuracy; he only remembered the man in official robes who, before heading to the capital for duty, had visited one night with utmost gravity. That man had told him to remember every name recorded in the book—hundreds, perhaps thousands—and to memorize their roots and familial ties in the town, especially those related to the Four Surnames and Ten Clans.
At this moment, Song Jixin sat motionless, like one of those broken clay idols lying forgotten in the southeast of town—toppled amidst weeds and mud, battered by the elements, yet forever unyielding. The beam of sunlight that slanted through the window onto his desk was unnaturally still.
In this entire house, the only things capable of movement were the maid Zhi Gui and a small, inconspicuous four-legged lizard. She had sensed something was amiss long ago. Her first impulse was to storm into the next courtyard and scold that stone-faced girl with a barrage of curses. But once she felt the presence of that sword, she dismissed the tempting notion.
She entered her young master's room, glanced at the pages he was reading, and grimaced upon seeing the name "Cao Xi." With a huff, she flipped a few pages ahead. When she found the section about "Xie Shi," a smile finally graced her lips. But soon, wariness returned. She flipped the pages back, wary of revealing hidden truths that could compromise her identity. Over the years, though her cunning young master had suspected her background, he had never found solid proof. Now, on the brink of success, she dared not slip.
She had often accompanied him to the local academy and found some sayings of the scholars there laughably pretentious—like "To sacrifice life in pursuit of righteousness." But others struck a chord, especially: "To journey a hundred miles, ninety marks the halfway point." It was a truth laid bare.
The sandy-hued lizard basking on the threshold was now completely still. As it ceased all motion, it revealed its true form—gleaming, translucent like glass, a divine body of dazzling radiance.
In the neighboring courtyard, the black-clad girl Ning Yao had entered a mysterious fetal breath state. She no longer breathed through mouth or nose, as if returned to the womb—her spirit withdrawn, her mind in perfect stillness. The sword in the snow-white scabbard, freed at last, slowly unsheathed itself. It fluttered around her like a tame bird, exuding both intimacy and grace, akin to the flowing elegance of a girl's fluttering skirt.
It did not flit about aimlessly, but rather traced mystical sigils in the air, carefully shaping an auspicious domain for its healing master. As expected, though the girl showed no signs of breath, spiritual energy surged around her, flooding into her body in torrents. Like a whale drawing water, she absorbed the world's primordial essence with abandon.
Thus, in this moment, the town's eerie silence stood in stark contrast to the vibrant surge within the residence.
By the creek outside town, a short and stocky man with bushy brows and fierce eyes pounded away at glowing iron with a hammer, shirtless and bare-bellied. Each strike sent sparks flying, dazzling the room with brilliant light. The countless motes of flame danced through the air like a grand display of fireworks, each swing a painting in motion.
Opposite him stood a petite girl with a neat ponytail. She wore a robe of yellow cowhide for protection—ordinary cotton garments would be riddled with burn holes in seconds.
Suddenly, all the fire-sparks froze midair.
The girl furrowed her brows. "Father?"
The man replied in a deep voice, "Your turn. Hammer the sword billet—and hone your spirit along with it."
She stepped forward, brushing aside the sparks with a casual flick. Her movement stirred the stagnant time-river, setting countless suspended flames clashing and colliding, turning the light into chaotic brilliance.
Compared to the town's meditative elders, tranquil as dragons in slumber, her every motion was fierce and domineering. Especially when she took the hammer—her strikes were swift, brutal, more feral than her seasoned father's.
And the sparks—millions of them—never faded, merely layered upon one another until they clustered like stars in a luminous galaxy. Within the sword-forging chamber, there blazed a constellation of a billion sparks.
The man's gaze was fixed—unyielding—on the glowing sword billet before him, burning like molten dawn...