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Chapter 8
Yan Zhengming polished his wooden sword with a silk handkerchief deliberately, while watching his junior brothers practicing swordplay. Junior brothers’ swordplay was literally a joke to him. Except that Li Yun’s was presentable, the other two were basically having fun with the wooden swords, just like big apes playing two rods. But their master was still correcting their gestures of holding a sword. One moment he said to this one, “Wooden swords don’t hurt, but real swords and sabers do. To deal with weapons, you can’t be too careful — Cheng Qian, don’t push your finger against the blade. The nerves of your fingers are linked with your heart, can’t you really feel that pain?” Next he turned to another. “There is a saber weighing three hundred Jin [1] in East Sea, which you hold with both hands. But this is a sword, Xiao-Yuan. I suppose you are not practicing swordplay, but rather forging iron.” And sometimes he would have to roll up his sleeves and run about to stop Li Yun’s making trouble. “Knock it off! Hey, mind your sword! You’re poking your eye.”
… To say “unbearable to the eye” was to praise these brats. Young master Yan looked around and laid his eyes on Cheng Qian, taking a few more looks at the kid. He was well aware that he was a man-about-town, still he deemed it appropriate as he didn’t perform any inhuman acts, and his behaviors hindered n.o.body. So he felt no qualms of conscience and never repented. He even intensified in accordance with timing and mood. In addition, young master Yan also acknowledged he was somewhat shallow — he had a clear estimation of himself that he was hugely short of both acquirements and moral qualities. Such being the case, he wasn’t in a position to demand them from others. Consequently, the only way he had left to differentiate his likes from dislikes was to judge by appearance. According to this standard, people of Han Yuan’s kind were unpardonably evil in his eyes. “Judging by appearance” was Yan Zhengming’s iron-forged principle. However, he had made exceptions for two: one was his master, the other was Li Yun. Even though his master looked as though he was replete with vices, young master Yan was willing to excuse that. After all, he had been cultivating with him for eight years; he was, as it were, spoiled by his master, and was emotionally close to him. As for Li Yun… however sightly he was, Yan Zhengming was absolutely irreconcilable with him — that guy was a b.l.o.o.d.y nuisance! In the case of Cheng Qian, Yan Zhengming was, in actual fact, fairly fond of him. Otherwise he wouldn’t have given him candies upon meeting him — something seldom happened as the cycas blossoms — the pity was that his third junior brother didn’t appreciate his kindness. While junior brothers were running around making a racket, Yan Zhengming just stood there absently, idly carrying his wooden sword. He was mulling over the standstill of his sword skills. It was eight years since Yan Zhengming began learning swordsmans.h.i.+p from his master. But he barely made it to the third form. Although the opening move his master performed was like Five-Animal Exercises (aerobics) aimed for the middle-aged and elderly, there was no absurdity in the sword art itself. Unlike the nescient little beggar Han Yuan, before Yan Zhengming was initiated into Fuyao Sect, his parents had employed the best professional to teach him swordsmans.h.i.+p. Even if he wasn’t skillful, he wasn’t blind either. The Fuyao Wooden Swordplay had five forms in total, namely, “the Roc’s Long Flight”, “Seek and Pursue”, “Backfire”, “Decline from Prosperity”, “Return to Trueness”, with twenty-five moves for each, producing countless variations. As his age increased, Yan Zhengming often had an illusion that this set of sword art was all-embracing. To pause and reflect, he found from every point derived infinite possibilities. But his master never shed light on them. He’d only demonstrate the basic moves, and all enlightenment came with Yan Zhengming’s own efforts and digestion. Yan Zhengming had made several attempts to ask his master why he wouldn’t go into particulars about these ingenious moves, only to let him get away by playing the fool. Yan Zhengming pondered for a while. Then he stood up to go through the third form, “Backfire”. It was inglorious and embarra.s.sing to say that he had been stuck in the form for a good two years, even if he wasn’t a pursuer of literary or military accomplishments, and was merely an indolent teenager. The name “Backfire” was honestly apropos. However many times Yan Zhengming had rectified his moves, he failed to figure out where the rub was and couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something not right in his every move. Yan Zhengming stopped practicing, and scowled at his wooden sword. The waiting-on Taoist children and maids instantly rushed to fan him and wipe off his sweets. Unfortunately, this time they rubbed him up the wrong way. The young master just hit a bottleneck in swordplay, and was flighty and unsettled at the moment. Now being disturbed by the idiots, it was even harder for him to grab the trace of the indistinct inspiration. He swept his hand vigorously and raged, “Scram, don’t get in the way here! From now on, never come over when I was practicing swordplay!” The maid Yu-er asked timidly in a hurry, “Young Master, is that a new rule?” Where was the question coming from? It was only because young master Yan was so unoccupied that he always made trouble out of nothing and made many “rules” — such as clothes and shoes should correspond in color, when to comb his hair, how many times the table in his study should be wiped a day, he must have a cup of cold tea that catered to his taste before speaking in the morning… similar cases were numerous. Probably the emperor didn’t have so many bad habits as him. If the maid had been a bit less clever, she was unlikely to remember them all. Young master Yan’s countenance didn’t moderate. His upper lip touched his lower lip, and a new rule burst out of his throat. “From now on, don’t come over unless asked when I am practicing swordplay. — You make a spectacle of yourself!” Hearing his words by accident, Cheng Qian was surprised that his first senior brother actually knew the phrase “make a spectacle of yourself”. “Apprentice.” Muchun Zhenren who was instructing Cheng Qian hacked and said. Yan Zhengming turned around and his eyes fell upon Cheng Qian. The boy didn’t look straight at him, showing the typical manner of an inexperienced child from a poor family, as he lowered his head “sheepishly” and followed his master’s steps closely. … “sheepishly” having a dig at the sect’s funny incidents where it was concealed from view. Pointing at Cheng Qian, Muchun said, “Your second junior brother is too busy to take care of both. You take the job to instruct your third junior brother.” Actually, Li Yun was far more than busy! He was almost pulling down the pavilion with Han Yuan. Yan Zhengming didn’t sort his own problem out yet, and wasn’t in the mood to help others. Hearing the words, he frowned, and took advantage of his master’s indulgence to erupt all his impatient complaints at him. He hardly realized that Cheng Qian was way more resentful. Cheng Qian didn’t understand why master wouldn’t instruct him personally. What was first senior brother capable of, anyway? Teaching him how to make his nose look high-bridged in the mirror? Yan Zhengming ultimately showed due respect for his master in junior brother’s prescence. He swallowed his objections on the tip of his tongue, controlled his patience and inquired, “Master, I felt something wrong with the third form.” “What’s wrong?” Muchun Zhenren asked with a kind and pleasant countenance. Everything was wrong. The Qi didn’t circulate smoothly, and Yan Zhengming felt great resistance in his entire body as if rivers were flowing upstream. Although he understood that in his mind, he just couldn’t put into words that sort of mysterious and abstruse feeling. There was a host of words ready in his throat, but they somehow got lost on the way to his mouth. At last, Yan Zhengming ended up blurting out “It’s like… it’s not beautiful.” Cheng Qian once again confirmed that his first senior brother was a sheer blockhead wearing gold and silver. His master beamed and said equivocally, “More haste, less speed. You should wait a little.” The good-for-nothing master was always beating around the bush by talking far-fetched and dull nonsense whatever the question. Yan Zhengming had been used to this for a long time, but he couldn’t help acting in a pettish manner and pressed on, “How long do I have to wait?” “Until you are a few Cun [2] taller, perhaps.” Muchun Zhenren replied softly. Yan Zhengming: “…” There were always several days in a month when he felt like murdering his master. After finis.h.i.+ng his words, Muchun left Cheng Qian to the sect’s “most precious treasure” and strolled back to the pavilion to enjoy his tea. Fuyao Sect followed consistently the ancient tradition that “the master teaches the trade; the apprentice’s skill is self-made”. Their nonprofessional master never displayed the slightest true ability. He only provided a theoretical framework, and whatever they filled it with. Yan Zhengming flashed an upset look at his cold third junior brother. But he had nothing to say to him. So he plopped himself down on a seat as if in a fit of pique, and lazily leaned against the stone table. Then a Taoist child came up, took away his wooden sword with both hands, and wiped it carefully with a white handkerchief. Maybe the Taoist child hadn’t even treated his own face so gently. Subsequently, young master Yan bounced up as if a corpse suddenly rose. He wrinkled his slender eyebrows and glared his displeasure at Yu-er. But he refused to give the hint and remained in silence. The little girl turned pale at once and was near to tears. In the end, it was Xueqing who was waiting for Cheng Qian that couldn’t stand watching and reminded her in a low voice. “The stone stool is cold.” Only then did Yu-er realize that she just now seated the pampered young master directly on the stone stool. The young master was blaming her for her negligence! She hurried forward as she wept, and placed three cus.h.i.+ons as quickly as a lightning, as if she had committed a crime for which she deserved to die ten thousand deaths. Yan Zhengming darted an another quick glare at her, and descended to take the seat reluctantly. Then he raised his chin towards Cheng Qian. “Go on practicing, I am watching. You can ask me if any problem.” Cheng Qian simply took his first senior brother as muddy air that obstructed his view. He didn’t even bother to answer, and made up his mind to take no notice of him so that he could fully concentrate on his wooden sword. Cheng Qian gained an extremely good memory through years of eavesdropping in the tree. Plus, his master’s demonstration was snailish. So his moves reappeared clearly in mind as Cheng Qian recalled. By virtue of his memory, he cautiously imitated his master’s shaky moves, and compared them with his own timely, in order that he could correct himself ahead of the gadfly behind him. His ability of imitation could even dwarf monkeys. Yan Zhengming was unconcerned at first, but gradually, his attention was drawn to Cheng Qian — this brat made bold to separate the moves of the first form on the basis of master’s mnemonic rhymes. He repeated the separated moves at his master’s slow pace. And when he got more familiar, his eyes suddenly sharpened. At the very moment, Yan Zhengming laid down his hand that was reaching for the teacup involuntarily — he found the vigor residing within the tip of the sword strangely familiar. This boy was modeling himself on Li Yun! After all Cheng Qian was only imitating, and considering his young age and lack of strength, he couldn’t inspire the same imposing spirit as Li Yun by a long shot. But with that vigor, his wooden sword made a sudden change — as if a piece of paper lying flat on the ground swelled into a solid. But the outline was still vague. Leave aside the fact that his swordplay couldn’t be mentioned in the same breath with Li Yun’s, it was arguable whether his basic moves were right or not. That moment gave Yan Zhengming an insight, however. He thought he might have seen the will of Fuyao Wooden Sword. Sword will was not a peach on the tree, nor a fish in the water. Without decades of unremitting efforts and without body and sword as one, it was impossible to form the sword will — in Cheng Qian’s case, however, of course he couldn’t possibly form the sword will just by making some simple moves. It would be good enough if he could hold the sword steadily and make sure it didn’t drop on his foot. But the young lad just stepped into an immortal sect, his frame of mind coincidentally corresponded to the first form “the Roc’s Long Flight”. Yan Zhengming bethought himself of the feeling when he saw talismans all over the mountain for the first time. That was fresh, curious, and full of irrepressible hopes for future… Perhaps that all didn’t amount to the “sword will”, but the Fuyao Wooden Sword happened to coincide with the wielder’s frame of mind, and automatically guided the wielder. Yan Zhengming jumped to his feet. Watching Cheng Qian’s practicing swordplay accidentally enabled him to touch the essence of the problem that had puzzled him for so long — the kaleidoscopic changes of the sword art, and why his master never explained — the sword art itself was alive, it explained. The reason why Yan Zhengming started to feel his ability fell short of his wishes from the second form “seek and pursue”, and why it became even more difficult to continue when he reached the third form, was now brought to light — it was because he knew neither the taste of seeking and pursuing nor the meaning of “backfire”. The wooden sword couldn’t guide him anymore.
Yan Zhengming polished his wooden sword with a silk handkerchief deliberately, while watching his junior brothers practicing swordplay. Junior brothers’ swordplay was literally a joke to him. Except that Li Yun’s was presentable, the other two were basically having fun with the wooden swords, just like big apes playing two rods. But their master was still correcting their gestures of holding a sword. One moment he said to this one, “Wooden swords don’t hurt, but real swords and sabers do. To deal with weapons, you can’t be too careful — Cheng Qian, don’t push your finger against the blade. The nerves of your fingers are linked with your heart, can’t you really feel that pain?” Next he turned to another. “There is a saber weighing three hundred Jin [1] in East Sea, which you hold with both hands. But this is a sword, Xiao-Yuan. I suppose you are not practicing swordplay, but rather forging iron.” And sometimes he would have to roll up his sleeves and run about to stop Li Yun’s making trouble. “Knock it off! Hey, mind your sword! You’re poking your eye.”
… To say “unbearable to the eye” was to praise these brats. Young master Yan looked around and laid his eyes on Cheng Qian, taking a few more looks at the kid. He was well aware that he was a man-about-town, still he deemed it appropriate as he didn’t perform any inhuman acts, and his behaviors hindered n.o.body. So he felt no qualms of conscience and never repented. He even intensified in accordance with timing and mood. In addition, young master Yan also acknowledged he was somewhat shallow — he had a clear estimation of himself that he was hugely short of both acquirements and moral qualities. Such being the case, he wasn’t in a position to demand them from others. Consequently, the only way he had left to differentiate his likes from dislikes was to judge by appearance. According to this standard, people of Han Yuan’s kind were unpardonably evil in his eyes. “Judging by appearance” was Yan Zhengming’s iron-forged principle. However, he had made exceptions for two: one was his master, the other was Li Yun. Even though his master looked as though he was replete with vices, young master Yan was willing to excuse that. After all, he had been cultivating with him for eight years; he was, as it were, spoiled by his master, and was emotionally close to him. As for Li Yun… however sightly he was, Yan Zhengming was absolutely irreconcilable with him — that guy was a b.l.o.o.d.y nuisance! In the case of Cheng Qian, Yan Zhengming was, in actual fact, fairly fond of him. Otherwise he wouldn’t have given him candies upon meeting him — something seldom happened as the cycas blossoms — the pity was that his third junior brother didn’t appreciate his kindness. While junior brothers were running around making a racket, Yan Zhengming just stood there absently, idly carrying his wooden sword. He was mulling over the standstill of his sword skills. It was eight years since Yan Zhengming began learning swordsmans.h.i.+p from his master. But he barely made it to the third form. Although the opening move his master performed was like Five-Animal Exercises (aerobics) aimed for the middle-aged and elderly, there was no absurdity in the sword art itself. Unlike the nescient little beggar Han Yuan, before Yan Zhengming was initiated into Fuyao Sect, his parents had employed the best professional to teach him swordsmans.h.i.+p. Even if he wasn’t skillful, he wasn’t blind either. The Fuyao Wooden Swordplay had five forms in total, namely, “the Roc’s Long Flight”, “Seek and Pursue”, “Backfire”, “Decline from Prosperity”, “Return to Trueness”, with twenty-five moves for each, producing countless variations. As his age increased, Yan Zhengming often had an illusion that this set of sword art was all-embracing. To pause and reflect, he found from every point derived infinite possibilities. But his master never shed light on them. He’d only demonstrate the basic moves, and all enlightenment came with Yan Zhengming’s own efforts and digestion. Yan Zhengming had made several attempts to ask his master why he wouldn’t go into particulars about these ingenious moves, only to let him get away by playing the fool. Yan Zhengming pondered for a while. Then he stood up to go through the third form, “Backfire”. It was inglorious and embarra.s.sing to say that he had been stuck in the form for a good two years, even if he wasn’t a pursuer of literary or military accomplishments, and was merely an indolent teenager. The name “Backfire” was honestly apropos. However many times Yan Zhengming had rectified his moves, he failed to figure out where the rub was and couldn’t shake off the feeling that there was something not right in his every move. Yan Zhengming stopped practicing, and scowled at his wooden sword. The waiting-on Taoist children and maids instantly rushed to fan him and wipe off his sweets. Unfortunately, this time they rubbed him up the wrong way. The young master just hit a bottleneck in swordplay, and was flighty and unsettled at the moment. Now being disturbed by the idiots, it was even harder for him to grab the trace of the indistinct inspiration. He swept his hand vigorously and raged, “Scram, don’t get in the way here! From now on, never come over when I was practicing swordplay!” The maid Yu-er asked timidly in a hurry, “Young Master, is that a new rule?” Where was the question coming from? It was only because young master Yan was so unoccupied that he always made trouble out of nothing and made many “rules” — such as clothes and shoes should correspond in color, when to comb his hair, how many times the table in his study should be wiped a day, he must have a cup of cold tea that catered to his taste before speaking in the morning… similar cases were numerous. Probably the emperor didn’t have so many bad habits as him. If the maid had been a bit less clever, she was unlikely to remember them all. Young master Yan’s countenance didn’t moderate. His upper lip touched his lower lip, and a new rule burst out of his throat. “From now on, don’t come over unless asked when I am practicing swordplay. — You make a spectacle of yourself!” Hearing his words by accident, Cheng Qian was surprised that his first senior brother actually knew the phrase “make a spectacle of yourself”. “Apprentice.” Muchun Zhenren who was instructing Cheng Qian hacked and said. Yan Zhengming turned around and his eyes fell upon Cheng Qian. The boy didn’t look straight at him, showing the typical manner of an inexperienced child from a poor family, as he lowered his head “sheepishly” and followed his master’s steps closely. … “sheepishly” having a dig at the sect’s funny incidents where it was concealed from view. Pointing at Cheng Qian, Muchun said, “Your second junior brother is too busy to take care of both. You take the job to instruct your third junior brother.” Actually, Li Yun was far more than busy! He was almost pulling down the pavilion with Han Yuan. Yan Zhengming didn’t sort his own problem out yet, and wasn’t in the mood to help others. Hearing the words, he frowned, and took advantage of his master’s indulgence to erupt all his impatient complaints at him. He hardly realized that Cheng Qian was way more resentful. Cheng Qian didn’t understand why master wouldn’t instruct him personally. What was first senior brother capable of, anyway? Teaching him how to make his nose look high-bridged in the mirror? Yan Zhengming ultimately showed due respect for his master in junior brother’s prescence. He swallowed his objections on the tip of his tongue, controlled his patience and inquired, “Master, I felt something wrong with the third form.” “What’s wrong?” Muchun Zhenren asked with a kind and pleasant countenance. Everything was wrong. The Qi didn’t circulate smoothly, and Yan Zhengming felt great resistance in his entire body as if rivers were flowing upstream. Although he understood that in his mind, he just couldn’t put into words that sort of mysterious and abstruse feeling. There was a host of words ready in his throat, but they somehow got lost on the way to his mouth. At last, Yan Zhengming ended up blurting out “It’s like… it’s not beautiful.” Cheng Qian once again confirmed that his first senior brother was a sheer blockhead wearing gold and silver. His master beamed and said equivocally, “More haste, less speed. You should wait a little.” The good-for-nothing master was always beating around the bush by talking far-fetched and dull nonsense whatever the question. Yan Zhengming had been used to this for a long time, but he couldn’t help acting in a pettish manner and pressed on, “How long do I have to wait?” “Until you are a few Cun [2] taller, perhaps.” Muchun Zhenren replied softly. Yan Zhengming: “…” There were always several days in a month when he felt like murdering his master. After finis.h.i.+ng his words, Muchun left Cheng Qian to the sect’s “most precious treasure” and strolled back to the pavilion to enjoy his tea. Fuyao Sect followed consistently the ancient tradition that “the master teaches the trade; the apprentice’s skill is self-made”. Their nonprofessional master never displayed the slightest true ability. He only provided a theoretical framework, and whatever they filled it with. Yan Zhengming flashed an upset look at his cold third junior brother. But he had nothing to say to him. So he plopped himself down on a seat as if in a fit of pique, and lazily leaned against the stone table. Then a Taoist child came up, took away his wooden sword with both hands, and wiped it carefully with a white handkerchief. Maybe the Taoist child hadn’t even treated his own face so gently. Subsequently, young master Yan bounced up as if a corpse suddenly rose. He wrinkled his slender eyebrows and glared his displeasure at Yu-er. But he refused to give the hint and remained in silence. The little girl turned pale at once and was near to tears. In the end, it was Xueqing who was waiting for Cheng Qian that couldn’t stand watching and reminded her in a low voice. “The stone stool is cold.” Only then did Yu-er realize that she just now seated the pampered young master directly on the stone stool. The young master was blaming her for her negligence! She hurried forward as she wept, and placed three cus.h.i.+ons as quickly as a lightning, as if she had committed a crime for which she deserved to die ten thousand deaths. Yan Zhengming darted an another quick glare at her, and descended to take the seat reluctantly. Then he raised his chin towards Cheng Qian. “Go on practicing, I am watching. You can ask me if any problem.” Cheng Qian simply took his first senior brother as muddy air that obstructed his view. He didn’t even bother to answer, and made up his mind to take no notice of him so that he could fully concentrate on his wooden sword. Cheng Qian gained an extremely good memory through years of eavesdropping in the tree. Plus, his master’s demonstration was snailish. So his moves reappeared clearly in mind as Cheng Qian recalled. By virtue of his memory, he cautiously imitated his master’s shaky moves, and compared them with his own timely, in order that he could correct himself ahead of the gadfly behind him. His ability of imitation could even dwarf monkeys. Yan Zhengming was unconcerned at first, but gradually, his attention was drawn to Cheng Qian — this brat made bold to separate the moves of the first form on the basis of master’s mnemonic rhymes. He repeated the separated moves at his master’s slow pace. And when he got more familiar, his eyes suddenly sharpened. At the very moment, Yan Zhengming laid down his hand that was reaching for the teacup involuntarily — he found the vigor residing within the tip of the sword strangely familiar. This boy was modeling himself on Li Yun! After all Cheng Qian was only imitating, and considering his young age and lack of strength, he couldn’t inspire the same imposing spirit as Li Yun by a long shot. But with that vigor, his wooden sword made a sudden change — as if a piece of paper lying flat on the ground swelled into a solid. But the outline was still vague. Leave aside the fact that his swordplay couldn’t be mentioned in the same breath with Li Yun’s, it was arguable whether his basic moves were right or not. That moment gave Yan Zhengming an insight, however. He thought he might have seen the will of Fuyao Wooden Sword. Sword will was not a peach on the tree, nor a fish in the water. Without decades of unremitting efforts and without body and sword as one, it was impossible to form the sword will — in Cheng Qian’s case, however, of course he couldn’t possibly form the sword will just by making some simple moves. It would be good enough if he could hold the sword steadily and make sure it didn’t drop on his foot. But the young lad just stepped into an immortal sect, his frame of mind coincidentally corresponded to the first form “the Roc’s Long Flight”. Yan Zhengming bethought himself of the feeling when he saw talismans all over the mountain for the first time. That was fresh, curious, and full of irrepressible hopes for future… Perhaps that all didn’t amount to the “sword will”, but the Fuyao Wooden Sword happened to coincide with the wielder’s frame of mind, and automatically guided the wielder. Yan Zhengming jumped to his feet. Watching Cheng Qian’s practicing swordplay accidentally enabled him to touch the essence of the problem that had puzzled him for so long — the kaleidoscopic changes of the sword art, and why his master never explained — the sword art itself was alive, it explained. The reason why Yan Zhengming started to feel his ability fell short of his wishes from the second form “seek and pursue”, and why it became even more difficult to continue when he reached the third form, was now brought to light — it was because he knew neither the taste of seeking and pursuing nor the meaning of “backfire”. The wooden sword couldn’t guide him anymore.
