Chapter 101: Chapter Four: Teaching

Pei Ye walked out of the bathhouse feeling light, not seeing Zhu Gaoyang again, but Ming Qitian stood beneath the shadow of a tree by the county office, one hand holding a book, two fingers of the same hand gripping a pear.

Her other hand held another pear to her lips, already half-eaten.

Pei Ye walked over; this Sword Master had regained her original snow-white robe and jade-like bearing since appearing at Wangxi Slope last night. It was understandable she kept new clothes in her storage device, but there had been no chance to wash in the bathhouse yesterday—he wondered how she had managed it.

Of course Pei Ye would not ask such a blunt question; he simply said, “My apologies, Miss Ming, I kept you waiting.”

Ming Qitian shook her head and offered him the pear in her hand: “County Magistrate Chang brought it.”

Pei Ye took it: “Shall we go learn swordplay now?”

Ming Qitian nodded: “We need somewhere quieter. Where would you suggest?”

Pei Ye thought a moment: “Quiet… perhaps my courtyard?”

“Good.”

Pei Ye returned inside to gather his things, took up his sword, lifted the black cat, and walked with Ming Qitian toward his small courtyard.

Through streets and alleys, winding left and right, they finally returned to this familiar, long-absent lane.

This place was more than quiet—it was utterly silent.

The faded peach charms on the door had been entirely eroded by Dragon Saliva Rain; when Pei Ye pushed the wooden gate, the creak echoed strangely in the stillness.

“My home is humble,” Pei Ye said, glancing at the broken house and courtyard furnishings, slightly embarrassed. “But the space is adequate.”

“Enough,” Ming Qitian nodded slightly and went straight to the point: “Besides the sword art passed down by Elder Yue, what other sword techniques do you know?”

Pei Ye lifted his gaze, thinking: “I don’t think I know any others. I haven’t studied any other sword arts, Miss Ming.”

“How could you not?” Ming Qitian shook her head. “Anyone who learns swordplay, once they’ve mastered grip, must begin with at least one sword form as foundation and practice. Did you start learning that sword art from the very beginning?”

“Oh! No, I didn’t,” Pei Ye said, slightly embarrassed. “I did have a foundational sword form—it’s just the common Jianghu one, The Opening Sword. It’s very ordinary and simple. I thought—”

“You thought it wasn’t a real sword art?”

“I—” Pei Ye froze.

He certainly thought it was a sword art, but—

“Every person’s sword begins from the lowest point, Pei Ye. You are learning swordplay. You may be honest with me. Don’t be ashamed to reveal your humble, crude beginnings.” Ming Qitian regarded him calmly.

Pei Ye’s heart tightened.

Yes—if a boy from a martial school had asked him the same question, would he have dismissed The Opening Sword as unworthy? He would have carefully recounted every technique he had trained since childhood.

Only because the person before him was Ming Qitian had he instinctively hidden those “worthless” forms, believing only something like Snowy Night’s Flying Goose Stance could impress her or merit instruction.

It was like a poor boy, asked by a noble lady what games he played as a child, hiding his childish pleasures of urinating in mud and digging up some hobby closer to aristocratic tastes.

Such subtle thoughts vanished utterly under the reflection of the “Mirror of Ice and Clarity.”

“I’m sorry,” Pei Ye whispered.

Ming Qitian truly was a teacher who saw every detail. Pei Ye corrected his mindset and recounted to her, without omission, every sword training he had received since age nine—whether from the old man or from the martial school’s masters.

Ming Qitian listened silently, without nodding or shaking her head.

Even some of Pei Ye’s memories made his cheeks burn—he had once been obsessed with rumors of a swift sword that slit throats without blood, and every day he scattered a handful of willow leaves into the air, imagining them as enemies attacking from all sides, striving to pierce each one before they fell.

Missing one leaf meant being struck once; ten strikes meant death—but of course, he could revive or had a second life.

He practiced this game for four or five months, stripping the willows by his gate bare.

From this training all the way to his strike of [Snowy Night’s Falling Soul-Stunning Strike] in Xincang Mountain, Pei Ye’s sword narrative ended.

Ming Qitian listened carefully, then nodded: “Show me The Opening Sword.”

Pei Ye rose with his sword, stepped to the center of the courtyard, and performed the form with meticulous precision—this sword he had practiced countless times since childhood.

The Opening Sword, as its name suggests, was not truly a sword art—at least not one meant for combat.

It was created solely to initiate sword students; its movements were designed to help beginners master basic cuts, thrusts, and sweeps, and to learn their transitions—like practicing the character “ Yong ” in calligraphy.

Now, as Pei Ye executed each movement, he did so with perfect fluency, sufficient to meet the highest standard of any martial school.

When he finished the entire form, the final posture returned to his initial stance, sword held upright. Pei Ye exhaled softly; even this simple form, he had performed with utmost seriousness.

“This is The Opening Sword I learned, Miss Ming.”

Pei Ye watched the woman, anxiously awaiting her judgment.

“Terrible,” Ming Qitian said.

“.”

“But your talent is truly excellent,” Ming Qitian continued seriously. “You lack the most basic sword realm, yet you learned [Clouds Veil the Eyes, Feathers Lost] through a flash of insight alone—essentially flying before you could walk.”

“But we must still begin with walking,” she added.

Begin with walking? Had his eight years of sword training not even begun walking?

Then how could he be called talented?

Confused, Pei Ye asked outright.

“Have you never read The General Treatise on Swordcraft of the Six Dynasties?” Ming Qitian asked in return after hearing his question.

“. No.” Pei Ye wanted to scratch his head but held back.

What was that? Did sword training require reading books?

“What about other sword theory texts?”

“None, Miss Ming. What is a sword theory text?” Pei Ye asked bluntly.

For the first time, Pei Ye saw her delicate eyebrows slightly furrow.

“Studying sword theory requires long-term dedication. We can discuss it in detail later,” Ming Qitian flipped her wrist and produced a small booklet. “This is The General Treatise on Swordcraft of the Six Dynasties. Few words, but profound and high-level—it will be your first sword theory text.”

Pei Ye took it, bewildered, and flipped through two pages.

“You can finish this booklet in two or three days, but I need you to read it carefully, striving to deeply comprehend it. For a month, you may reread it repeatedly—preferably take notes,” Ming Qitian said steadily.

Then she hesitated, adding: “I will check on you when I return.”

“Ah?” Pei Ye stared blankly at the dense script in the booklet. At her words, childhood memories of school stirred—sudden panic rose in him. He instinctively raised his hand: “Miss Ming, I—I need more than a month. Could the check be delayed? I… I can’t read well.”

“Ah?” The woman tilted her head for the first time.

(End of Chapter)