Chapter Forty-Seven: The Sword of the Commoner

“My understanding of the sword,” Feng Chuxun murmured to himself, unable to fathom why Shen Qingyun would suddenly ask such a question.

Shen Qingyun stepped back two paces and stood there quietly, waiting for Feng Chuxun’s answer.

“A noble among weapons—capable of slashing, chopping, thrusting, cleaving…” Feng Chuxun replied, “To me, the sword is simply a tool for defeating enemies, a weapon of slaughter.”

Upon hearing this, Shen Qingyun shook his head in disappointment. Feng Chuxun’s gaze sharpened as he asked, “Is something wrong with my answer?”

“For you, it may not be wrong. But for the sword, is that truly what it is?” Shen Qingyun said slowly. “There are many weapons of slaughter, not just the sword—sabre, spear, whip, halberd… all can serve to kill. Why, then, is it the sword for you?”

“Listen well. If you always understand the sword in this way, you will never be able to carve four identical sword marks with your blade.”

Feng Chuxun was silent for a moment, then performed the ritual gesture of seeking guidance. “May I ask, what is your understanding of the sword?”

“I do not have an understanding of the sword.” Shen Qingyun smiled faintly. “I am not one who wields the sword, so I cannot express to you my own comprehension.”

“Ah?” Feng Chuxun was startled. If even you do not wield the sword, then what am I to you?

“However, I can share with you the understanding of a friend of mine, what the sword meant to him.” Shen Qingyun spoke a single word: “Heart.”

“Heart?” Feng Chuxun was taken aback, looking down at his chest, feeling the powerful beat of his heart. Yes, I have a heart…

Shen Qingyun laughed helplessly and shook his head. “I do not mean your physical heart, but your heart for the sword.”

“Sword-heart?” Feng Chuxun tilted his head, clearly at a loss.

“Then do you understand sword-intent?” Seeing that Feng Chuxun did not know of sword-heart, Shen Qingyun switched to an earlier term—sword-intent precedes heart.

“That I know,” Feng Chuxun nodded. “Only those with extraordinary talent on the path of the sword may comprehend sword-intent. Yet none of them are willing to share how they gained it…”

“It’s not that they’re unwilling, but that they do not know how to express it,” Shen Qingyun shook his head.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because every heart is different, so too is every sword,” Shen Qingyun replied.

“How so?” Feng Chuxun was utterly confused.

“It is said that in ancient times, all swords under heaven were divided into three kinds: the Emperor’s sword, the Lord’s sword, and the Commoner’s sword. The Emperor’s sword is peerless, unmatched above or below, and none dare to defy its edge. It cleaves the clouds above and strikes the depths below. When this sword is unsheathed, all under heaven submit—this is the sword of emperors.”

Feng Chuxun was bewildered and asked, “And the Lord’s sword?”

Shen Qingyun continued, “This sword presses ever forward, unmatched above and below, and none dare contest its brilliance. When wielded, it carries the force of thunder, and within its fief, none disobey its command—this is the sword of lords.”

Feng Chuxun asked again, “And the sword of commoners?”

Shen Qingyun glanced at him, uncertain what was on his mind, but went on: “Swift as the wind, fierce as fire, striking necks above, livers below—thus it is against the enemy! When wielded, it is the weapon of a valiant man, breaking enemy lines and slaying foes. If fate is spent, then one should fall. This is the sword of commoners.”

Feng Chuxun fell silent. Now he understood, fully understood. The first two swords eluded him, but the sword of commoners—this, he comprehended. He had always seen the sword as a weapon of slaughter—what else could it be but the sword of commoners?

As if reading Feng Chuxun’s despondency, Shen Qingyun said, half in comfort and half in explanation, “My friend, too, began with the sword of commoners. But after a master’s guidance, he awakened and elevated his sword to a higher realm!”

Feng Chuxun looked up at him. There was no sorrow in his eyes, only a fiercer will to fight. He asked, “May I ask, where is your friend now?”

He wished to take that master as his teacher, to learn how to transcend the sword of commoners.

A shadow of pain and desolation flashed through Shen Qingyun’s eyes. He took a deep breath and answered slowly, “Dead…”

“Dead?!” Feng Chuxun’s voice was thick with disbelief. How could such a man have died?

But then, a faint smile appeared on Shen Qingyun’s lips. “Yet, in his final moment, he made his sword the sword of emperors. So, he must have had no regrets.”

Feng Chuxun was silent. Shen Qingyun slowly raised his hand, pointing to Feng Chuxun’s heart. “Whether your sword is that of a commoner or an emperor lies in a single thought. Your devotion to the sword must have its reasons. Think carefully—why do you wield the sword, and for what do you persist in wielding it?”

With those words, Shen Qingyun departed, leaving behind a pill of fasting.

Feng Chuxun lowered his head to gaze at the sword in his hand. For the first time, he was seized by doubt. Is the sword in my hand truly a sword? Then, he could not help but recall why he had taken up the sword in the first place.

For the sake of the sword, how much had he done?

Everything that had happened because of the sword played out before his mind’s eye. He had sneaked into the Sutra Pavilion to read every book on swordsmanship, and from that moment, he was hopelessly ensnared. As the memory returned, he murmured, “Was I right to do all this?”

Then, a flash of resolve lit his eyes. “For the sword, nothing I have done is wrong!”

In time, the books in the Sutra Pavilion were no longer enough for him. So he left the sect, facing the other four great sects and noble families, challenging every sword cultivator of his own rank, because he was dissatisfied with himself.

Could his sword remain at this level forever?

Unwillingness surged in Feng Chuxun’s heart. So he practiced, seizing every spark of inspiration to draw his sword and train.

Why wield the sword? Feng Chuxun already had an answer. His mother had wielded the sword—nothing more.

But now, Shen Qingyun’s words had shattered all that he had held fast to. Everything he had done seemed to be wrong.

Unnoticed, night had fallen. The fierce protests from his stomach pulled Feng Chuxun from his thoughts. Only after taking the fasting pill did the hunger subside.

He looked up at the pitch-dark sky. Tonight, there were no stars, just like his heart—black as night, unable to find a way forward. It filled him with despair.

“Mother, what should I do?” His eyes blurred, and his mother’s gentle smile appeared before him. Then, as if a mirror shattered, it fragmented into countless pieces.

Feng Chuxun cried out, “Mother, don’t—” Two streams of tears traced down his cheeks. His right hand lifted halfway, as if reaching for something, but in the end, he grasped nothing.

His right hand dropped lifelessly, and Feng Chuxun let out a chilling, twisted laugh. Yes, his mother was gone. She had wielded the sword in life, and he had only taken up the sword as a hollow comfort.

Now he saw clearly—he would have his revenge, and strike back at the cold-blooded Feng clan! His sword existed for vengeance alone.