Volume One: The King’s Mandate Chapter Three: The Sword Disciple Takes Up the Blade for the First Time

"Xiao Yi, go hang these on the wooden pole in front of the shop."

The five-year-old child struggled to carry several swords, biting his lip as he made his way from the backyard to the front of the shop, a sheen of sweat already forming on his brow after only a dozen steps.

Inside, the weapons shop sold nothing but roughly made iron implements. Suspended from a wooden pole across the entrance, about two meters high, hung all manner of blades, spears, and halberds, clattering noisily whenever the wind stirred them. On either side of the doorway, stone pedestals displayed the latest designs in traps—hunters heading into the mountains often stopped by, purchasing these tools.

For those without coin, fresh game caught that day was accepted as barter; the shopkeeper allowed it.

The father’s surname was Willow, so naturally the child was called Willow too—a name unique in Mountain Town. The shopkeeper’s surname was Summer, with the single given name Chill. That, too, was unique in Mountain Town.

In the ten years since he had arrived, nearly all the resident hunters had come to know him. Whenever a new errand boy appeared, they couldn’t help but comment, “Old Summer, that child isn’t some romantic debt of yours, is he? Look at those eyes—just like yours when you first came!”

“A relative’s child,” Summer replied, his mustache quirking upward with every change in expression. “Saw I had enough to eat, so they sent him to me to raise. There’s fighting down south—it’s tough there.”

Each morning, the child would remove the door planks, hang the sign, then head to the restaurant next door to buy breakfast. The town’s fare was mostly honest, hearty meat dishes—meat pies and broth in the morning, just to his liking.

Whenever Summer rose from bed, he would invariably meet the child returning from his exercises, drenched in sweat and heading straight for the backyard to wash up. “If you wish to learn the sword, I’ll teach you. But you must come to me formally as a disciple.”

Here, becoming a disciple meant offering tea to the master and kowtowing three times—a simple enough ceremony. The child didn’t hesitate, changed into clean clothes, and returned to the hall to kowtow properly three times.

“You must think carefully. One day, I will kill you,” he said, holding the hot tea above his head, then placing it before Summer.

Summer’s mustache twitched upward as he set down his meat pie, took up the tea, and drained it in one gulp. “If you have the skill, cut me down with a single stroke. Today, Willow Xiao Yi acknowledges me as master; I will teach him the Celestial Frost Sword Art. May the founder above send true spirit to guide us.” When he had finished, he recited a few more words honoring the founder and the sword spirit, then helped Xiao Yi to his feet.

“From now on, your training will double. When you can lift the stone pedestal at the door ten times in a row, I’ll teach you swordsmanship.” With that, he returned to his meal, paying Xiao Yi no further heed.

The master was his father’s killer, and the disciple harbored the desire to one day take his life. Around noon, Summer would saunter over to the forge, sprawling carelessly before the anvil.

Gazing at the blacksmith, who was resting, Summer produced the King’s Token and slapped it onto the anvil. “Can you find a way to melt this down for me? It’s bad luck to keep it.”

He cared nothing for its value; to him it was just a hunk of useless metal.

The blacksmith, Yuan Qingtai, picked up the token and studied it. The King’s Token, worn by time, bore many scars. “Better to make a sword. I’ve plenty of bright silver sand this time.” The two were old acquaintances; hearing this, Summer rose to leave.

Just as he reached the door, Yuan Qingtai tossed him a package. “Deliver this for me in three days. The address is inside—it’s a customer’s order.”

Many had tried to melt down and reforge the King’s Token before, including the founding emperor of the Iron Dynasty. But when Yuan Qingtai cast the token into the forge, a resonant dragon’s cry rang out from within, shaking the air.

As the flames scorched it, the token swiftly began to melt and lose its form; when its original shape was gone, a golden dragon’s shadow burst forth, flying straight toward Yuan Qingtai.

“With my blood, I subdue the dragon’s soul!” Yuan Qingtai spat a mouthful of blood onto the dragon’s head.

Dragon soul and blacksmith wrestled before the forge; the dragon soul, struck by blood, slowly dissolved. The token in the fire warped as the soul was melted by blood. Yuan Qingtai struck his chest, spat another mouthful of blood, and grew visibly weaker.

All night, the forge blazed. At dawn, as Willow Xiao Yi opened the shop as usual, he discovered a sword lying at the door, sheathed in a scabbard engraved with peach blossoms.

“Master! There’s a sword at the door!”

“It’s yours—my gift to you!”

That day, the forge next door remained closed. That night, Xiao Yi tried to draw the sword in his room, but no matter how hard he tried, it would not budge an inch.

“How strange—it feels familiar, yet I’ve never seen it,” he thought. His master had once said that to be a swordsman, one must have a sword always at hand—never to part, never to leave.

Placing the sword at his pillow, Xiao Yi dreamed a long, vivid dream. He saw his father, and more than ten uncles, all smiling at him. Among them stood the blacksmith, his arms whole and his smile the brightest.

From then on, Xiao Yi spent his days minding the shop and practicing with blades in the backyard, though even after swinging the iron sword a few times, something always felt missing.

Summer came and went every few days—at first he returned in good spirits, but as time went on, he grew increasingly grim. No matter how Xiao Yi asked, he would not answer, leaving only one phrase: “Don’t you die before I’m the one to kill you.”

By the time Xiao Yi was ten, he could finally lift the stone pedestal at the door overhead ten times without effort. Summer handed him a sword manual—but it was not the Celestial Frost Sword Art.

“Why isn’t it the Celestial Frost Sword Art?”

“After much thought, it doesn’t suit you. This one isn’t bad.”

“Afraid I’ll learn it and kill you?”

“Watch closely—I’ll show you once.” Summer demonstrated the seven forms from the manual in a single, seamless flow. Each of the seven forms branched into seven more, making forty-nine in all, endlessly cycling through offense and defense.

Xiao Yi watched, dazzled. When he tried the first move, his sword struck the stone wall, chipping the blade.

“The cost of the sword comes out of your allowance,” Summer said, sheathing his blade and humming a tune as he sauntered out. Each night after closing the shop, he would practice a few moves in the backyard—none of them from the manual.

It took Xiao Yi three months to master the manual’s first form—a simple forward step and thrust.

Summer corrected him for three months before allowing him to proceed. “Give it another ten years, and you’ll be ready for revenge.”

His father’s murder, after years together, now seemed increasingly mysterious to Xiao Yi. In his spare time, he loved listening to the storyteller at the town gate. The storyteller had three tales, told over and over, always new to passersby, who rewarded him with a meal.

During tea breaks, the storyteller would share life’s wisdom with Xiao Yi—how the world was treacherous, people even more so, and that one should guard against becoming a tragic figure in a tale.

But in Xiao Yi’s fifteenth year, the storyteller’s corpse was found—pinned to the old locust tree with a sword.

It was Summer who went to collect the body, seeming dazed all day, muttering under his breath.

That night, Xiao Yi again dreamed the strange dream—the blacksmith was joined by the storyteller, both smiling at him. At the edge of the dream, a blurred figure began to take shape, resembling Summer.

Xiao Yi woke in fright, sweat-soaked, rolled out of bed, and rushed to the door.