Brewing medicine was a task that demanded the precision of threading a needle. Chen Ping'an performed it methodically, entirely absorbed in his work, a quiet joy radiating from the boy. Yet the girl in black lacked such patience. In truth, beyond swordsmanship and blade training, she had little interest in anything. Having left home at a tender age to roam the world alone, she had long since grown accustomed to a rough and tumble existence. The barren and humble dwelling of the boy did not make her feel out of place—for someone used to sleeping beneath the stars and braving storms, even the most refined individual would eventually grow indifferent to comfort.
She asked, "Is your left hand alright?"
Chen Ping'an, who had his left hand wrapped in cotton cloth, brought over a bowl of medicine with both hands. After she received it, he smiled and replied, "It's nothing serious. Before returning to the alley, I found some herbs, mashed them, and applied them to the wound. Back when I worked at the kiln, I often got cuts and bruises. This remedy never failed me. It was a secret recipe told to me by an old man at the Yang family shop. I once promised him I wouldn't pass it on, but if you think it might be useful on your travels, I could ask him for permission. I didn't see him at the pharmacy today—perhaps he had just stepped out."
As she drank the bitter concoction, her long brows—more akin to sharp blades than willow leaves—knitted ever so slightly, yet she finished it without flinching and returned the porcelain bowl to the straw-sandaled youth beside her. Muttering, she said, "You're a hopeless do-gooder. No wonder you're so dirt poor, always being taken advantage of."
Before Chen Ping'an could react, she added, "Don't mind me. I just speak my mind."
She likely didn't realize that this second remark cut even deeper.
Chen Ping'an opened his mouth but said nothing.
Wiping the dregs of the medicine from the corner of her lips with a thumb, the girl straightened her posture and said solemnly, "The sage presiding over this land—the teacher from your academy—though well-intentioned in covering for you, cannot shield you forever. Even saints have limits to their strength. And from what I gather, this Mister Qi is in a precarious situation himself—like a clay idol crossing a river, barely able to save himself. I, Ning Yao, remember even the smallest favor and repay it tenfold, but if anyone dares glare at me, I make sure they regret it for life!"
'Human effort has its limits. Repay kindness like a spring, revenge like thunder. A clay idol crossing a river…' At that moment, pride welled up in her heart. Surely, she thought, such words must sound learned and profound.
Unfortunately for her, next door lived a young man with no shallow knowledge of the classics. Twice a day, morning and dusk, her neighbor would recite the sages' teachings with unwavering resolve. According to Song Jixin, it was "to cultivate noble spirit."
So even if Chen Ping'an had never read a book himself, he had heard enough to grasp the flowery expressions of scholars. Even when the terms were obscure, context gave them meaning.
She stared hard at the boy, hoping to see shock, awe, or confusion. But Chen Ping'an merely looked at her with a face that seemed to say, "I understand, please continue."
Deflated, the girl's earlier radiance dimmed noticeably. Irritated, she said, "Let's say you saved my life. Later, I could kill Fu Nanhua of Old Dragon City or Liu Zhimao of Book Lake for you. But if you want both dead—if you want no loose ends—then you'll need to pay. We're just chance acquaintances; there's not enough sentiment between us to warrant that. So you'd need to offer a bag of refined gold coins as compensation."
She then pointed to one of the embroidered money pouches. "That one—I like it. The other two bags, with their coin styles meant for offerings or warding evil, are poorly cast and unpleasant to the eye."
Then, lifting her chin slightly, she declared, "If, beyond making this deal, you're willing to give me two more pouches of coins, I'll settle accounts with both Old Dragon City and Yunxia Mountain for you. But if I die at Liu Zhimao's hands, that's the end of it. I'm still weak—just stepped into the sixth realm of martial cultivation. As a warrior, my physical toughness hasn't yet reached a notable threshold. As for the fifteen-tier path of ascension, I've only made it to the Dragon Gate realm in the middle five tiers. Within my core, I have six visualizations, none yet brought to life, none having summoned the Celestial Maiden…"
At this, Chen Ping'an was well and truly lost.
The girl flushed with embarrassment and rage. Her low realm was a sore spot, and the look on Chen Ping'an's face—polite confusion, as if asking for another explanation—stabbed right at her pride.
Seeing her expression darken, even a fool would know to change the subject.
He quickly asked, "How is it that you were so badly injured before, yet now seem mostly healed?"
Her eyes lowered slightly, arms crossed, her voice hoarse as she replied, "I really was close to death. If not for Daoist Lu, I wouldn't have survived. Either way, I owe you a tremendous debt. I shouldn't have tried to exploit the situation, demanding three bags of refined coin. My life, Ning Yao's life, isn't something a man like Liu Zhimao can match. I was wrong. Forget what I said. Once I leave this town, I'll do what I can to help you resolve your troubles. But let me make one thing clear—I'll act within my limits. I won't knowingly throw my life away."
Perhaps it was because her apology was such a rare occurrence, her mood turned markedly sullen.
Chen Ping'an asked, "Which bag holds the offering coins?"
She pointed to one of the golden embroidered pouches.
Chen Ping'an took out three coins, held them in his palm, and with one sweep of his arm, pushed all three pouches toward her. Smiling, he said, "These are yours."
She stared at him, stunned, and only after a long pause did she murmur, "Chen Ping'an… were you dropped on your head as a child?"
He replied helplessly, "No. But when I used to herd cattle, I did get smacked in the face by their tails a lot."
Suddenly, the girl slammed the table and shouted, "Do you like me?!"
Chen Ping'an froze.
The girl grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. "Good taste!"
Then she bent her thumb, pointed it at herself, and declared with sparkling eyes, "But I won't accept. The man I, Ning Yao, will love must be the greatest sword immortal in the world—the strongest! No sage, no Buddha, no Confucian saint can compare. They will all bow before his blade!"
Chen Ping'an's face flushed. Scratching his head, he said, "You misunderstand. I don't like you…"
She raised a brow, thought for a moment, leaned forward, squinting one eye, holding up her thumb and forefinger with a small gap between, and asked, "Not even this much?"
Chen Ping'an replied firmly, "Not even a little. You have my word."
She retracted her hand and sighed heavily. "Chen Ping'an, even if you do manage to marry someday, your wife will probably be a bit slow in the head."
Chen Ping'an, sitting across the table, smiled brightly. "As long as she's a good person, that's enough."
To this, the girl had no comment.
Living aimlessly, content with modest peace, or chasing greatness and glory—as her mother once said, it all depends on one's fate. There's no absolute superiority.
Her father, however, held a different view. If something isn't meant to be, don't force it. But "don't force it" didn't mean "don't try at all." One should still make the effort. Whether one succeeds is another matter. Of course, he would never dare speak such thoughts in front of her mother.
Chen Ping'an asked casually, "Did you also come to our little town in search of destiny?"
She answered without hesitation, "I exhausted all the resources I'd gathered from my past encounters, and even cashed in a favor, just to secure the right to enter this town. But I'm not like the others—I don't care about fortune or fate. I only want someone to forge a sword for me, one that truly fits my heart. As for whether it's sharp or not, whether it can…"