Chapter 27: The Greatest Diligence Is Devotion

In the small courtyard of the Sun family, the young man wielded the Yama Resonance Blade, each movement striving to mirror the form precisely.

Sun Longhu observed the youth’s motions, occasionally calling out guidance: “Use your waist! Let your legs take root in the earth. The greatest taboo for those who use the blade is an unstable stance.”

With Sun Longhu’s shouts, the young man continually adjusted his posture, gradually capturing seven or eight parts of the true form.

Only when the youth completed a full set of the blade techniques did Sun Longhu nod in approval and say, “For the blade-wielder, footwork is essential. Gaze far, surpass distances, let your eyes be quick and your hands nimble. Advance, retreat, dodge, and turn—let the blade follow the body, seeking perfect harmony between man and sword.”

By now, the young man had practiced the routine three times and was drenched in sweat.

In a hoarse voice, the youth asked, “Longhu, how do you think I’m doing with the blade techniques?”

“Not bad. I’ve taught you all the moves. Now you just need to practice diligently. In three or five months, you’ll make real progress.”

Having spoken, Sun Longhu glanced up at the sun, which already blazed high in the sky—it was now midday.

Noticing that villagers were returning from the eastern fields, they realized the morning had quietly slipped away.

Sun Longhu said, “Brother, it’s already noon. Why don’t we eat first, and practice again this afternoon?”

The young man, panting, sheathed the Yama Resonance Blade and smiled, “Longhu, you should help Uncle Sun in the fields this afternoon. I’ve got a good grasp of the blade’s secrets now. I’ll practice on my own.”

“Very well.”

Sun Longhu nodded, and the youth raised his hand in farewell.

Exiting the Sun family’s courtyard, the young man kept his eyes fixed on the blade in his hand.

The hilt of the Yama Resonance Blade was adorned with a large ring, a feature of ring-hilted sabers. Inside, the dragonfinch motif was cleverly carved, hiding a mechanism. He wondered how Sun Longhu had managed to make the dragonfinch sing, using some subtle force.

Clearly, his own skill was lacking. So, the youth resolved to make the dragonfinch ring his first goal—to one day master the art so that the dragonfinch within the ring would spin and hum softly.

Carrying his blade, the young man left the Sun family courtyard, unaware that two pairs of eyes were watching him from behind.

It was Carpenter Li and Hu Su. They had returned while the youth was practicing, hoes slung over their shoulders—both men of means, unused to the harsh midday sun, and so they had fled the fields early.

Gazing at the youth’s departing back, Carpenter Li asked, “Hu Su, how do you think young Zhong is progressing in his martial arts?”

Hu Su snorted, “He’s frail by nature, not suited for martial training. He’s got some talent, quick to understand, but he’s too old to lay a proper foundation. I doubt he’ll ever amount to much.”

Carpenter Li shook his head. “I disagree. Look at him holding the blade—he’s strikingly similar to General Xu, with much of his father’s bearing.”

At the mention of Xu Qiandao, Hu Su was at a loss for words—he held great respect for the general, his equal in skill.

“It’s often said that greatness comes late. I think Zhong’s intelligence will see him succeed sooner or later. In these times, there are those who grow young again, and children of eight who can slay veteran swordsmen. If Zhong is simply a late bloomer, why shouldn’t he succeed?”

Perhaps feeling the heat, Carpenter Li shrugged off his long robe. Hu Su quickly caught it for him.

Carpenter Li turned toward his own courtyard, reciting as he walked, “If I, like you, become accomplished late, let others mock me as they will; I will savor the spirit of the ancients. Let us never forget our original ambition, and together seek to leave our mark for posterity. If a man can be thus, what cause is there to lament his life?”

The plaintive tone was hard to decipher—was it for Zhong Ming’s sake, or was he lamenting his own lack of recognition?

Greatness achieved late—was it Zhong Ming who deserved the phrase, or Carpenter Li himself? Who could say?

Seeing how highly Carpenter Li regarded Zhong Ming, Hu Su sighed and muttered, “Master Zhong, oh Master Zhong, may you one day fulfill your lord’s hopes.”

...

The young man knew nothing of this. He hurried home and cooked a quick pot of beef porridge, downing three large bowls.

Martial training is a pursuit for the wealthy, for it consumes vast strength. Diligence is essential, but so is good food. Fortunately, with the beef sent by Yang Yanlang, the youth could nourish himself.

After lunch, he took up his blade again, binding the scabbard to the blade with hemp rope, and practiced with the scabbard on.

The sheath was made of real leather with a black iron lining—not light by any means. The youth reasoned that more weight would bring better results.

In the small fenced courtyard, he wielded the blade, each slash seeking greater perfection.

He lost all track of time, practicing until sunset. Only when his body trembled and he could no longer lift the Yama Resonance Blade did he finally stop.

Sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard, he found his hand shaking so badly he could barely hold a teacup—half the tea spilled out.

Classic overexertion—his muscles had begun to spasm from extreme fatigue.

After just two sips of cool tea, the sound of hoofbeats arrived—it was Liang Yu returning on Fiery Cloud.

This time, Liang Yu was full of youthful swagger, galloping through the village in high spirits—a far cry from the awkward departure that morning.

He led Fiery Cloud into Zhong Ming’s courtyard, tied the horse, and flopped down beside Zhong Ming, gulping two cups of tea before saying, “Brother Ming, I’m back! Today I gave your horse quite a run, passed through the eastern market, bought joss paper, and paid respects at Shitou’s grave on the wild hill…”

He chattered on for quite a while before noticing Zhong Ming’s pallor—ashen as if stricken by illness.

Liang Yu panicked, placing his hand on Zhong Ming’s forehead. “Brother Ming, what’s wrong? Are you sick? Malaria?”

Zhong Ming shook his head at the barrage of questions, and pointed to the Yama Resonance Blade at his side: “Practiced the blade.”

“Practiced the blade?”

Liang Yu was stunned for a long moment before he understood, and began to scold, “Are you training or trying to kill yourself? You look like you’ve lost your soul.”

Exhausted in body and mind, Zhong Ming could not bear Liang Heizi’s chatter. He waved him off, took up his blade, and went inside.

Just now, all he wanted was a good night’s sleep.

Lying on his grand redwood bed, he drifted off within moments, faint snores rising from his lips.

He could count the times he’d snored in his life—he must have been especially tired today.

He slept straight through to the next morning. There was still beef porridge in the pot—Liang Heizi must have left it for him.

After warming the porridge and eating, the youth took up his blade and went out once more.

His body was sore and heavy, but it was only unfamiliarity—not enough to stop his practice.

In truth, training the blade was monotonous and wearying. More than once, he thought of giving up. But each time his childhood dreams of heroism came back to him, and he gritted his teeth and persevered.

Zhong Ming, having lived so many years, deeply understood: effort may not always bring reward, but without near-mad effort, the results you desire will never come.

Such single-minded diligence bordered on obsession. In just two days, Zhong Ming became a martial fanatic, intoxicated with the art of the blade.

Simple cutting techniques, practiced tirelessly—he trained from the courtyard to the great stone at the village entrance, from Yu Ni village to the eastern fields. If Zhong Ming was moving, he was training.

Soon, the whole village was talking—Master Zhong had become obsessed with the blade, training to the point of madness.

No matter what people said, the youth paid no heed—he simply kept swinging the Yama Resonance Blade.

Seven days passed in this manner. Old Sun could bear it no longer. One afternoon, returning from the fields, he saw Zhong Ming at the great stone near the village entrance, practicing.

By the village gate grew a scholar tree, lush and green, its tender shoots unfurling in the spring air.

Beneath the tree was a large stone, half as tall as a man.

In the shade, one youth, one blade, one stone, silently locked in practice.

The youth’s blade, scabbard still on, struck the stone again and again, leaving countless white marks.

On the shaded side, thousands of grooves marked the stone—at first shallow, but now, with each swing, chips of stone flew, testament to the youth’s progress.

At first, he had only practiced cutting air. But after two days, he grew dissatisfied and sought a real opponent.

He began by hacking the scholar tree behind him with the scabbard. By midday, the young shoots lay scattered, and the bark was split.

Only then did he realize his error—if he continued, he might well cut down the old tree.

Thus he began striking the stone with the scabbard instead. Stones, at least, lacked life; he could hack away in peace.

Watching the youth sweat and strain, Old Sun could no longer hold back and called out, “Zhong!”

Enthralled in his own world, the youth did not even hear him.

“Ah, this child—another day of this and he’ll truly be possessed!”

Old Sun had to step forward and place a hand on the youth’s shoulder.

The instant his hand touched, the youth’s shoulder jerked, and he spun, slashing at Old Sun.

The Yama Resonance Blade whistled through the air, and the dragonfinch within the ring spun suddenly.

A low, explosive hum burst in both their ears!

For more than seven days, the dragonfinch had remained silent in the youth’s hand. Now, with a single stroke, it sang—and that was not a good omen.

On the martial roads, it was said: when the blade rings, it is a death knell. If the Yama Resonance Blade’s dragonfinch hums, it means its wielder intends to kill!

The scabbard, wielding the force of shattered stone, crashed toward Old Sun’s head. But the old man’s eyes flashed cold, and with two withered fingers, he flicked out in a reverse motion, tapping the scabbard.

Silent as a ghost, his fingers intercepted the forceful stroke in an instant.

Those gnarled fingers, like dead twigs, seemed they would snap at a touch.

Yet those two fingers stopped the full force of the youth’s strike.

This was Zhong Ming’s finest cut in seven days—his most accomplished and instinctive, born of total immersion. It embodied the first glimmer of unity between man and blade.

But the youth’s eyes were lost and bewildered, unaware of what had just happened.

The dragonfinch motif at the blade’s hilt still spun, its cry growing more shrill.

Old Sun, holding back the blade with two fingers, sighed, “This is not the way to train with a blade!”