True fate rarely announces itself.
It arrives quietly—
when you notice details others overlook,
and in doing so, gain an opportunity no one else can reach.
The next morning, dawn broke pale and soft, like the belly of a fish.
Jiang Muchen awoke to a sound outside the window.
Sha… sha… sha…
Dull. Rhythmic. Repetitive—
like a blunt blade scraping again and again across stone.
He pushed open the wooden window. The morning mist had yet to lift. Outside the courtyard, a hunched figure swept the stone path with slow, laborious motions.
An old groundskeeper.
Hair white as dead grass. Spine bent so low it nearly brushed the ground. Each sweep made his entire body tremble, as though the battered broom weighed a thousand pounds.
Jiang Muchen watched for three breaths—then stepped outside.
"Elder," he said, bowing politely.
"I walked this path yesterday. It was already clean. Why exhaust yourself sweeping it every day?"
The old man didn't look up. His voice rasped like iron on sandpaper.
"Sect rules. Thirty paces around Clearheart Cottage must be swept clean before dawn. We don't sweep dust."
He paused.
"We sweep the heart."
"Sweeping the heart…" Jiang Muchen echoed softly.
He crouched down and gently took the broom from the old man's hands.
The broom was in terrible condition—half its bristles worn away, bamboo splintered, bindings loose.
This wasn't a broom.
It was an instrument of punishment.
"This should've been replaced long ago," Jiang Muchen said.
Only then did the old man lift his head. His face was lined like dried riverbeds, eyes cloudy—yet for a fleeting instant, a sharp glint flashed within.
"Replaced?" the old man snorted.
"Menial rules. A broom must be used three full years before replacement. This one's only at two years and seven months."
Jiang Muchen smiled, saying nothing.
He didn't sweep.
Instead, he closed his eyes.
At some point, the jade flute had already risen to his lips.
The sound began—soft and slow, like morning dew falling onto bamboo leaves.
Something strange happened.
Fine dust—too small for the naked eye—began to gather on its own, coalescing into tiny gray piles along the stone path.
The old man's eyes widened.
Sound… commanding dust?
But that wasn't all.
The melody shifted.
From the bamboo grove at the corner of the courtyard, three yellowed leaves drifted down. Jiang Muchen caught them, infused them with a thread of spiritual energy—and crushed them into fine powder.
From his robe, he took out a sewing kit Zhou Xiaohuan had forced on him "just in case." With needle and thread, he mixed the bamboo powder with spiritual energy, carefully mending the broom's cracked bristles.
He worked slowly. Precisely.
Half an incense-stick later, the broom looked reborn.
The bristles were full, firm, faintly gleaming.
Jiang Muchen handed it back.
"I reinforced it with bamboo essence and a bit of Dust-Condensing Herb sap from the Azure Nether Herb Valley," he said.
"Where this broom passes, dust won't settle for three days. You'll have it easier now."
The old man took the broom, weighed it in his hands, then swept twice.
Clean.
Even the deep-set grime in the stone cracks lifted away.
He stared at Jiang Muchen.
"Why," he asked slowly,
"help someone who sweeps floors?"
"It's not help," Jiang Muchen replied, lowering the flute.
"It's thanks."
He gestured around them.
"I slept well last night. This quiet path is part of that comfort. If I benefit from the peace, it's only right I contribute something in return."
He paused, then added gently:
"And when you sweep, your breath aligns with the broom, the broom with the ground, the ground with the wind. That's already unity—man and tool as one. The only thing holding you back… was the broom."
The old man fell silent.
Then—slowly—he straightened.
In that instant, the hunched figure became tall as a cliffside pine. The clouded eyes flared with piercing clarity.
"Man and broom as one," the old man repeated, voice now clear as ringing steel.
"I've swept these paths for sixty years. You're the first to see it."
Jiang Muchen bowed deeply.
"Anyone who takes sweeping to its utmost… cannot be ordinary."
The old man laughed—softly, meaningfully.
"My surname is Chen," he said.
"Given name—Sao."
"I've swept the stone roads of the Azure Nether Sword Sect for sixty years."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"Do you know why Swordmaster Jian Wuji insisted on bringing you here?"
Jiang Muchen's heart stirred.
"Please enlighten me."
"The Swordheart Clarity Pool," Chen Sao said quietly, gazing toward the main peak,
"is not meant for just anyone."
"In three hundred years, only seven outsiders have entered."
"Three survived."
"And the other four?"
"Two went mad. Two became… empty."
Chen Sao turned to him.
"The pool doesn't heal souls. It reforges them—with sword intent. For someone with a fractured soul like yours, it'll feel like needles stitching your spirit back together."
"Lingering pain like slow execution."
He leaned even closer.
"And at the bottom of the pool… lie things."
"The remnants of heart-demons cut down by past Sword Saints. If your mind wavers, those fragments will invade you."
"Best case—you lose yourself."
"Worst case…"
"You become someone else."
A chill crept up Jiang Muchen's spine.
"Then why let me enter?"
"Because Jian Wuji is gambling," Chen Sao sighed.
"Gambling that you endure. Gambling that once reforged, your soul will carry Azure Nether sword intent—and bind your fate to this sect."
"Gambling that one day…"
"You become another sword for us. Not just here. Across the Nine Provinces."
Silence.
"So," Chen Sao asked,
"are you afraid?"
"Yes," Jiang Muchen answered honestly.
"But I'm more afraid of walking a broken path for the rest of my life."
Chen Sao studied him for a long while.
Then he tossed over a wooden token.
Carved into it was a single character:
扫 — Sweep.
"Take it," he said.
"For three days before you enter the pool, come to my yard at dawn. I'll teach you a few… crude methods."
"No techniques. Just how to sweep. How to settle the heart."
"Whether it helps—depends on fate."
Jiang Muchen accepted the token with both hands, bowing deeply.
"Thank you, Elder."
"Don't thank me yet," Chen Sao waved him off, already hunching again.
"You fixed my broom. One broom's debt—three lessons. We're even."
He shuffled away, broom dragging softly.
Sha… sha… sha…
The sound carried a strange rhythm now—ancient, steady.
Later that morning, Qingluan arrived with breakfast.
Afterward, they headed to Sword-Storage Cliff.
Thousands upon thousands of swords embedded in black stone. Rusted. Gleaming. Broken. Whole.
When the wind passed, ten thousand blades cried out.
Jiang Muchen sat cross-legged beneath the cliff, sword intent tearing at his pores like needles.
But then—
The jade flute floated forth on its own, forming a pocket of calm amid the storm.
And in his chest, the wooden token grew warm.
Sha… sha… sha…
The sweeping rhythm echoed in his heart.
The sword intent began to align.
Order emerged from chaos.
Far away, Chen Sao glanced toward the cliff and smiled.
"Teachable."