The only way You Yuyao could describe how she felt right now was: absolutely wretched.
Her whole body burned and stung, especially her shoulders and arms — that dull, relentless ache of being struck over and over by a wooden sword.
And though Gu Chengming hadn't touched her face, her face hurt worse than anywhere else.
One breath ago, she had proclaimed before a crowd that the Huiyuan Sword Art was a toy technique for beginners — a useless sword art. The next breath, that very same "garbage sword art" had her pinned to the ground and thoroughly humiliated, without so much as a chance to fight back.
The forms he had used were nothing like the basic sword art she remembered. But she was a sword cultivator — she had eyes. There was no mistaking it. That was unmistakably the Huiyuan Sword Art's sword path; even the opening stance and the method of channeling force were identical.
A complete and total defeat.
You Yuyao had a temper, yes — but she wasn't the type to dig her heels in and refuse to admit a loss. The facts were right in front of her. Any further wriggling would only make her look worse. She'd already lost; was there anything more pathetic than throwing a tantrum after losing?
She bit her lower lip. It took a long moment before she could bring herself to speak.
"I… I underestimated the Huiyuan Sword Art."
Saying those words felt like it drained every last drop of strength from her body.
Gu Chengming heard her, withdrew the wooden sword from her throat, and gave a calm, unhurried nod.
"You're too kind."
Under normal circumstances, that would have been a perfectly ordinary conclusion.
But for You Yuyao, whose last line of defense had already crumbled, Gu Chengming's serene, unbothered demeanor was the final straw that broke the camel's back.
She wasn't unused to losing. But she had never lost like this — so suffocatingly, so humiliatingly. Beaten by someone everyone had written off as dead weight, using the most basic sword art imaginable, after she herself had started the provocation.
You Yuyao tried to push herself to her feet, to hold onto the last shred of dignity befitting a disciple of Jingshui Pavilion.
But when she tried to brace herself up, the searing pain in her arms wrenched an involuntary hiss from her lips. Her body buckled, and she collapsed back to the ground.
That fall knocked the tears loose.
You Yuyao panicked.
She didn't want to cry. It was too pathetic. She fought with everything she had to hold it back — sniffling hard, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.
But the tears came like beads off a broken string: the harder she wiped, the more they fell, and nothing could stop them.
You Yuyao wiped at her tears with one hand and glared daggers at Gu Chengming with both eyes.
Gu Chengming watched the scene unfold and was, frankly, at a loss.
He hadn't even hit her that hard. It was all superficial. Was it really worth crying over?
He had just opened his mouth to say something.
You Yuyao, as though she'd been stepped on, suddenly sprang up from the ground. Nobody knew where she found the strength — she ignored the pain all over her body, covered her face with both hands, turned, and bolted.
As she ran, she somehow still managed to throw back threats through broken, tearful sobs:
"Next time… next time I'll beat you."
The girl's stumbling figure crashed out of the training grounds.
Gu Chengming stood where he was, watching her flee in disarray, and let out a quiet sigh.
He'd made someone cry, but he felt no guilt about it whatsoever.
She had started it, after all. He had merely acted in self-defense — and taken the opportunity to defend the dignity of his own technique.
Besides, the most important thing was…
Gu Chengming opened the system panel. The moment he saw the string of notifications that had popped up, the corners of his mouth curled into an absolutely unhinged grin.
[The Huiyuan Sword Art witnessed everything.]
[It saw you stand up for it. Saw you step forward without hesitation and cross blades with someone on its behalf.]
[It saw you use its own — admittedly unspectacular — forms to defeat an opponent who had looked down on it, and make that opponent bow her head in acknowledgment.]
[It heard the words: "Apologize to the Huiyuan Sword Art."]
[It thinks: So it's true. There really is someone in this world who understands me. Someone who is truly willing to fight for me.]
[Huiyuan Sword Art Favorability +20]
[Current Favorability: Adoration (85/100)]
[Favorability Status Changed: [Like] → [Adoration]]
[Congratulations! The Huiyuan Sword Art's favorability toward you has surpassed 80 points. Special Bond Effect unlocked.]
[Fixed Attribute Points Awarded: Strength +2]
[Passive Trait Acquired: [Lucid Sword-Heart (Fragment)]]
[[Lucid Sword-Heart (Fragment)]: Your understanding of basic sword forms has reached the threshold of mastery. When using any basic sword art, power is increased, and there is a chance to perceive openings within an opponent's technique.]
Ha! This was the reward for being a dedicated corner-grinder!
Gu Chengming looked at the skyrocketing favorability and the newly acquired trait, and felt like his heart was blooming.
You Yuyao hadn't come here to provoke him — she was practically a walking gift basket!
Not only had she delivered a massive favorability spike, she had directly unlocked his Bond trait.
If a few more generous souls like You Yuyao came along, wouldn't clearing this solo route be as easy as breathing?
.........…
On one side of the training grounds.
On the second floor of an unremarkable watchtower, beside a railing with an excellent view.
An old man lounged against one of the pillars. He wore a battered, wide-brimmed bamboo hat and rough-spun hemp robes, and a dark-red gourd of wine hung at his hip. He held a few peanuts between his fingers, tossing them into his mouth one by one, squinting pleasantly as he watched the entire scene play out below.
From You Yuyao's provocation, to Gu Chengming drawing his sword, to the final resolution — he hadn't missed a single moment.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk…"
The old man chewed his peanuts, letting out a low rumble of indistinct appreciation.
"Interesting. Now that is genuinely interesting."
They had been separated by some distance, but within those murky, aged eyes, a shrewd and piercing light glimmered.
As someone who had been steeped in the sword path for several centuries, he had of course seen the subtlety in those last few strokes of Gu Chengming's sword.
That was undeniably the Huiyuan Sword Art — the most foundational, most ordinary, most worn-smooth-with-overuse beginner's technique imaginable.
And yet, in that young man's hands, this sword art had become something else entirely.
That clinging quality. That entangling quality. That mastery and application of momentum — these were simply not things an ordinary beginner disciple could possess.
One could even say that many of the so-called inner-hall elders of the Wenjian Sect likely did not understand the Huiyuan Sword Art as deeply as this person did.
Turning the mundane into the sublime.
This was not something diligence alone could achieve. It required talent — exceptional comprehension — and a sword-heart of uncluttered clarity.
"Without a doubt," the old man murmured, "a rough gem waiting to be cut."
He picked up the wine gourd, tipped his head back, and took a long swallow. The harsh burn of the liquor rolled down his throat, and he squinted in contentment.
He looked Gu Chengming over once more, carefully.
First Realm, Third Layer.
That level of cultivation, in a major sect like the Wenjian Sect, was the kind that settled to the very bottom — the sort that would be written off as dead weight and swept out the door.
And yet, the old man had spotted something extraordinarily rare in Gu Chengming.
That steadiness. That absence of arrogance or impatience. That purity of devotion to the sword path.
He clearly possessed a remarkable technique, yet was content to polish his foundations at a low realm. He clearly could have made a name for himself at any time, yet had chosen to conceal his ability until now.
If it hadn't been for that little girl pushing him too hard today, perhaps no one would ever have forced out his true capability.
Wasn't this the exact scenario those people — the ones who were always preaching "keep the sword sheathed, move only when the moment is right" — had been dreaming of their entire lives?
Keep the sword close to the body. Temper the spirit for three years. The day the sword is finally drawn, the world trembles.
"Heh heh…"
The old man suddenly broke into a decidedly mischievous smile, the wrinkles on his face crowding together.
From the look of things, none of the blind fools currently running the Wenjian Sect had spotted this rough gem yet.
Most importantly: he had spotted it first.
And he was not a member of the Wenjian Sect.
In fact, he and those stubborn old relics in the Wenjian Sect had quite a few long-standing scores left to settle.
"If I were to quietly poach this kid away…"
The old man stroked the sparse stubble on his chin, and a vision began to take shape in his mind:
Years from now, at some grand tournament between the immortal sects, Gu Chengming would appear out of nowhere representing his sect, and with a single sword stroke, cut down the Wenjian Sect's top disciple.
Then those old fossils from the Wenjian Sect would watch the scene unfold — would learn that this had once been their own disciple, someone they had dismissed as useless and overlooked — and one by one they would splutter and goggle with rage, regretting it down to their very bones, perhaps even vomiting three liters of blood on the spot…
The more the old man thought about it, the more brilliant the plan seemed. He couldn't help slapping his knee and letting out a strange, gleeful cackle.
Poach him! He absolutely had to poach him!
And he had to do it so cleanly, so invisibly, that those old bastards would be left swallowing their bitterness without a single word to say about it!
His mind made up, the old man had no more interest in watching the show.
He adjusted the bamboo hat on his head, tipped the last mouthful of wine down his throat, and his silhouette swayed once.
No ripple of spiritual energy. No whisper of wind.
He simply vanished from the tower floor, as though he had never been there at all.
All that remained was the empty wine gourd, swaying gently against the railing.
.........…
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