The reconstruction of Qingxu Temple advanced slowly in an oppressive yet resilient atmosphere. The clanging of shovels against rubble, the labored breathing of those hauling heavy materials, and the occasional soft wails triggered by touching a fellow disciple's remains, all woven together into a heavy movement of music for those who survived the catastrophe. In this scene ofbusy and grief coexisting, one figure appeared especially silent and particularly noticeable.
That was Third Sister, Liu Yun.
Her left arm was still fixed with crude splints and cloth bandages, hanging in front of her chest. Her face was even colder and paler than usual, like frost that never melts throughout the year. She rarely spoke, even more economical with words than before. Those eyes, originally sharp as swords, were now deeper than the eye could see, as if freezing all churning emotions at their deepest point, leaving only a cold and ruthless calm.
She did not, like the other disciples, collapse in tears when touching memories during the rubble clearing, nor did she make any whimpering sounds when collecting bodies. She simply worked silently.
When hands were needed to clear the most severely demonic energy contaminated and most dangerous areas, she was always the first to walk over with her sword. The remaining sword qi, though not as sharp as before, still precisely cut through the entangled demon-infested vines and split the scorched black beams blocking the passage. Her movements were clean and decisive, without any dragging or slouching, as if she faced only ordinary obstacles, not the tragic scene soaked with fellow disciples' blood.
When disciples responsible for patrol vigilance grew slack due to exhaustion, her figure would silently appear nearby. She would not scold, only gazing coldly with those icy eyes until the other person shamefully straightened up, then silently turning to continue patrolling the next area. Her presence itself was like an invisible whip, reminding everyone that danger had not passed.
She turned her residence, a side hall barely cleared out with drafty walls, into a temporary affairs office. Besides necessary patrols and handling sect affairs (Senior Brother put her in charge of some law enforcement patrols and perimeter vigilance), she spent almost all her time there.
Night fell. Most disciples, from extreme exhaustion, had fallen into deep sleep, or sat around feeble campfires, relying on each other's body warmth and silence to ward off the chill and wounds in their hearts.
But in Liu Yun's side hall, there was often a dim light, as cold as her gaze.
It was not firelight, but the extremely faint spiritual energy radiance she summoned.
She sat cross-legged on a cold meditation cushion, fingertips of her right hand condensing threads of chilling aura, slowly and firmly tracing through the air. She was not cultivating some profound technique, but repeatedly and tirelessly outlining the basic sword technique opening form of Qingxu Temple.
Her movements were very slow, each trace seeming to bear immense weight. The left arm hanging in front of her chest sent waves of stabbing pain with her body's slight movements, fine beads of cold sweat appeared at her temples, but she did not even furrow her brow. Her gaze was terribly focused, staring fixedly at the trajectory traced by her fingertips, as if engraving this simplest, most basic sword form into her soul, into every inch of bone, every thread of flesh.
Occasionally, she would pause, picking up the sword that had accompanied her through the bloody battle, its blade covered with tiny cracks and its spiritual light faded. Using her only remaining right hand, she gently stroked the cracks on the blade with her fingertips. Her gaze would become momentarily dazed, as if through these wounds, she saw Master's heroic figure fighting alone with one arm at the mountain gate before finally dissipating into starlight; she saw Second Brother's resolute yet wild smile as he detonated all his dharma artifacts in the Black Wind Mountain Range; she saw countless fellow disciples falling around her, their blood staining the land she called home...
Whenever this happened, the icy calm around her would show a barely perceptible fluctuation, like undercurrents beneath the ice. But soon, she would fiercely close her eyes, take a deep breath of cold night air, and upon opening them again, her eyes held only harder ice.
She suppressed all the grief, all the anger, all the helpless pain of being unable to save them, beneath this seemingly endless, almost self-abusive cultivation and busyness.
Transform grief into power.
This phrase was fully embodied in her, yet carrying a heartbreaking heaviness. She was not forgetting, but remembering in another way, with almost cruel self-discipline, transforming this sorrow into the driving force supporting her to keep walking, supporting the sect's reconstruction, supporting future revenge...
On one trip to exchange medicine at the temporary medicine pavilion, Tang Xiaoqi saw from afar Third Sister practicing sword alone among the ruins. In the moonlight, her thin yet upright figure, those slow sword forms carrying a certain tragic meaning, and those eyes burning with dark flames beneath their icy seal all made his heart tremble.
He opened his mouth, wanting to say some comforting words, but found any language before Third Sister at this moment so pale and powerless.
In the end, he only silently lowered his head, holding Master's wine gourd in his arms and the pungent medicine he had just received, walking step by step back to his crumbling shelter.
He knew Third Sister did not need comfort. What she needed was time, power, a future where she could swing her sword toward the true enemy.
And the power contained beneath this silence was perhaps more terrifying than any wailing or confession, and more... firm.