Yin San carries the body of Yin San toward the town’s outer edge, his steps light and swift on the lush grass. The bright light from above casts a very long shadow of her small figure across the ground, which gradually fades as the light grows even brighter. Major events are unfolding across the continent, yet she does not turn to look back—only observing how the shade deepens and thins before her, finding this more captivating than any celestial phenomenon. No one notices her; no one sees that a subtle change has come over her expression. A small smile curls at her lips. Gurglings of cheers rise from among the peaks. The town seems to echo with festive murmurs. As the sky grows ever brighter and the sounds grow louder, so too does her smile bloom—growing fuller until the gentle dimples on her cheeks appear, adding a touch of charm. She is truly delighted, yet also somewhat wistful. If only she could live alongside such talents as Jingyang Senior Master—what a fortune that would be, whether in scholarly pursuits or any other path. Suddenly, the cheers from among the peaks fade away. Nothing surprising at all. This quietness carries with it a sense of heartfelt blessing—like the light that fills the world. Of course, there remains a lingering sense of melancholy. Jingyang Senior Master has ascended. Zhao Lamei finally turns and looks up toward the sky. She watches the growing fissure in the heavens fade, and the swordlight dimming until nearly invisible—her brows lift slightly, as though puzzled by the sight. Then she gazes at the body held in her arms, her smile softening into a quiet uncertainty. ... ... The mist carries a persistent dampness; streams often accompany it. Near Yujie Town lies a stream that flows with a light haze, winding through cliffs and gentle hills for many miles before entering another mountain’s wall. After passing through the mountains’ walls for some distance, the water broadens and the light brightens—there appears a stone room, its walls adorned with rare clear jade. The room is simple: one stone bed connected to the wall, two worn-out mat seats placed before it. A young man stands by the bed, arms folded, turning his head occasionally as the wind stirs his white robes. Lying on the bed is a person covered in blood—wounded all over, with cuts of varying widths and depths that cannot be easily distinguished as to what weapon caused them. His clothes are torn beyond recognition, though the fabric was once fine silk—the only intact piece being his belt, which hums with a faint aura of lingering energy. Crafted from the sinew of a spirit dragon, it remains whole, bearing a simple black wood plaque that appears ordinary in design. The man has no pulse; he is dead. Yet strangely, a deep mist clings to his face, veiling his features entirely so they remain unseen. Before the bed, the young man stands silent, lost in thought. After an indeterminate length of time, he finally speaks. “Truly… tedious.” His voice is clear and pure yet slightly rough, spoken slowly—like someone who rarely speaks. The light falls upon his eyes. They resemble a vast ocean: calm and clear at first glance, yet profoundly deep, holding within them countless storms and waves of emotion. There is confusion, anger, regret, weariness—and even an unexpected sense of maturity for his age. Then, after a moment, all the emotions fade away—leaving only stillness. As though the mist vanishes into the Nine Peaks, or as though the light poured from the heavens ultimately dissolves into nothingness. “I admire you—being able to rest so well. I, on the other hand, have been busy for years.” The young man speaks these words to the figure now lying still. His belt gently shifts—the wooden plaque vanishes. A flash of cold light departs from the bed, spiraling around his body before settling in front of him, shining brightly as it travels and then halting. It is a sword—about two finger-widths thick, roughly two feet long—smooth and reflective, yet somehow unlike any ordinary blade, imbued with an extraordinary presence. The young man raises his right hand; the sword descends automatically, making a soft sound as it wraps around his wrist, dimming gradually until it resembles a regular bracelet. He turns and walks to the stream’s edge, suddenly recalling the words once spoken by that person: “People cannot step into the same river twice.” Is this truly so? With this question in mind, he steps into the stream. ... ... The water flows through the mountains’ belly for many miles before emerging on the other side—rising as a narrow waterfall of over ten feet tall, impressive and beautiful. The young man descends along the stream’s edge from the cliff face, intending to walk on the surface—but his feet break through the water, plunging him into the lake. Only when he drifts deeper, touching the lake bed with his feet does he begin to understand what has happened—feeling a sense of astonishment. Yet he seems unable to express this surprise in any facial expression, merely gazing blankly ahead. The coolness of the lake water makes no difference; he opens his eyes and sees a stone at the lake’s bottom. He lifts it from the depth and walks forward with the current, gradually approaching the shore until he steps out onto dry land. A deep thud echoes—the ground trembles slightly, and ripples spread along the edge of the water—testimony to how heavy that stone must be. Now fully soaked, he feels uncomfortable, and at first intends to use his sword-light to dry himself—but finds no such light emerging. His dripping hair and wet clothes remind him clearly: it’s time to start a fire. Then he remembers—he has never lit one before. He tilts his head, recalling books read long ago, speaking slowly and with effort: “We need dry grass and branches of varying thickness.” Once the water from his left ear drains completely, he turns slightly to the right, searching through deeper memories: “If we don’t have firestone, then we’ll need crystal or a drill.” The banks are lined with trees. He walks into the woods, gently brushing against the branches—leaves fall swiftly and pile up in a small mound. He selects one smooth piece of wood, placing several layers of soft tree fibers beneath it. With a mere thought, his wrist bracelet reverts to the sword, hovering above the surface. The sharp edge of the blade presses through the fibers against the wooden surface—rotating at an astonishing speed, quickly sparking with flame, then rising into a steady glow of smoke, and finally igniting fully. Clothes resting on branches begin to steam. Watching the rise and variation in vapor patterns, he easily calculates that it will take three periods before his garments are completely dry. As for what to do during this time—no thought is required. All moments are dedicated solely to one purpose. He settles into a meditative posture, closing his eyes and beginning to practice stillness—an act that feels utterly natural. Yet as soon as he opens them again, he looks blankly around, wondering where the meditation’s entry phrase has slipped into memory. (End of Chapter) 5. Chapter Five: The Nine Peaks