Chapter Seven: The Storm Subsides, the Sword-Cutting Technique

"Exhausting your body—do you really feel hungry after training?" Lin Shan shifted the topic abruptly.

"So, what do you want me to learn?"

"Practice this book—'Wind and Cloud Breath' and the Sword Interception Technique," Lin Feng said, pulling a small black book from his chest and tossing it to Shan.

Lin Shan held out his hands, watching as the book traced a perfect arc through the air. He caught it swiftly, but as soon as he gripped it, his expression changed—the book was unexpectedly heavy, causing his arms to tremble.

"When you’ve mastered the first half, come find me. I’ll give you a sword."

"You have five days. Defeat Lin Ruoxi for me. If you fail, I’ll tell her that you let others learn the secret manual I gave you, and then, under the accusation of 'stealing martial arts,' she’ll kill you openly. You’ll die branded a thief—your name cursed for generations! Heh heh..." Lin Feng gave a sinister smile, whispering close to Shan’s ear.

Even Lin Ruoxi, clever and mischievous as ever, seemed unmoved, as if she hadn't heard a word.

"Hurry up and practice. I’ll check your progress in five days. Ruoxi, come here for your training!" Lin Feng brushed past Shan, beckoning to Ruoxi without turning around.

"I found you an opponent a few days ago. He’ll return to our little town in five days for a bout. His family is renowned in the martial world—I’ve seen his skills, and he’s a cut above you. If you don’t master the Soul-Stirring Sword, you have no chance. If you lose, until you reach mastery, I won’t let you step outside, not even once!"

"Can I choose not to spar?" Lin Ruoxi protested, her face forlorn. She didn’t want to train, didn’t want to fight—she just wanted to go out and play.

"Then I’ll let Shan leave right now!"

"No—please, don’t!"

"I’ll train seriously, all right?"

As their voices faded into the distance, Shan cursed Lin Feng inwardly—this old fox, threatening him just to make his daughter train properly, caring nothing for dignity.

But if he truly couldn’t beat Lin Ruoxi, would he die for it?

He watched them leave with cold eyes, his heart heavy. Life near the forbidden grounds was always dangerous, but at least he lived freely. Now, under someone else’s roof, threatened and coerced—the feeling was intolerable.

Shan clenched his fists in silent anger, watching Ruoxi’s retreating figure, wondering if he could defeat her. Lin Feng set so many trials for him, an outsider; surely he invested even more in his own daughter. Yet, from their conversation, and from what he’d overheard before—Hao Tian had mentioned Ruoxi sneaking off to play again—he drew a conclusion: Lin Ruoxi had no real interest in martial arts.

Perhaps their earlier rivalry was born of misunderstanding. Shan had sensed something unusual about Ruoxi—a presence that made her wary. She treated him differently than others, else why bring him home, inventing so many seemingly flawless excuses?

In the end, it was his own reasons that forced him into things he didn’t want to do.

For Ruoxi, for strength—and most importantly, to survive.

He pinned his hopes on this "manual," black cover, white lettering, three bold characters on the front: "Wind and Cloud Breath." Shan’s eyes flickered as he noticed, beneath the title, the words "Lin Feng… author!!"

Returning to the west wing, Shan impatiently opened Wind and Cloud Breath.

"If you reach mastery, you can break mountains and seas!"

Could it shatter the Kilimanjaro range? Or merely break a stone?

He eyed the white stone before him, muttering to himself.

The second page was a large sheet, inked with bold, flowing strokes.

"Pulse surges into the fist, blood swells, the lower body stable as a mountain, a thunderous strike to the head—"

What kind of technique was this? The meridian route seemed off.

Shan frowned deeply at Wind and Cloud Breath, realizing he couldn’t decipher it with his current knowledge.

He flipped through several more pages—just a handful of phrases, with no instructions on how to channel energy.

As Shan puzzled over this, his eyes brightened—wasn’t there a mural in the main hall? The mural had notes, perhaps they explained the technique’s circulation.

He acted at once, carrying Wind and Cloud Breath into the hall. Moving left to right, he studied each movement depicted. He seemed to understand how to practice.

"Pulse surges into the fist, blood swells"—single-handed fist, veins bulging, exerting all strength.

"Lower body stable as a mountain, a thunderous strike"—shifting weight downward, legs spread, feet pressed firmly to ground stability.

"Thunderous strike"—release energy outward in a forceful shout?

"Ha!" Shan tried the movements as instructed, feeling uncertain.

But he sensed no breath in his chest—was it in the second half?

He turned page after page—brand new, each fingerprint stamped forever on the paper.

He memorized every phrase, every line, committing the first half to memory.

Sword Interception Technique? Swordsmanship?

Was this the second half?

Staring at the bold words, Shan wondered—would it be life-threatening? Was this the method to cultivate inner strength?

Would training make him stronger?

Shan’s expression grew solemn as he contemplated the term "internal energy," uncertain whether to turn the page.

Outside, the trees swayed in the wind, leaves whispering. A sudden gust swept through.

Shan’s hair shifted in the spring chill—sharp and biting.

The pages before him fluttered in the wind, as if ready to turn.

"Shhh!"

The wind outside faded, and the pages stubbornly resisted, remaining unopened.

Shan exhaled, touching the pages with his right hand, holding the other side with his left, closing Wind and Cloud Breath.

"Forget it—bite off more than you can chew, I’ll master the first half before moving on," he muttered, glancing at the mural.

He practiced diligently several times, but felt no effect—no breath in his chest, no change in his body. His face clouded with frustration, eyeing Wind and Cloud Breath in exasperation.

Looking around, Shan pulled the manual from his pocket, scrutinized it, then ran inside to check his movements against the mural—identical, no mistakes. He scratched his head, sighing.

No, I have to ask Lin Feng—unless he’s playing a trick? But he didn’t seem that way.

"Never mind!"

Shan squatted in the courtyard, shaking his head helplessly.

That old fox Lin Feng said nothing, just tossed him the manual, surely expecting him to figure it out. Asking would only make him look foolish.

"Keep practicing!"

Shan’s frustration was quick to come, quick to go.

The dust on the ground swirled with his presence, rising as he trained according to the black book’s instructions.

The sun set, painting the landscape in brilliance.

"Young master Shan, it’s dinner time—you may eat now!"

In the midst of intense training, Shan recognized the familiar voice, stood up, let his arms hang, and wiped sweat from his brow.

Training finished.

Same place, same seat, same people—but Shan’s mindset had changed.

Lin Feng said five days—he wouldn’t bother Shan until then. Now, he could eat well, without worry, and train hard afterward.

He’d practiced all afternoon; picking up his chopsticks, his hands trembled and ached—muscle fatigue from first-time training, which would fade by tomorrow.

Yet after a day’s practice, his breath felt longer, he could persist further.

Breakthrough—only five days, he must defeat Lin Ruoxi! Otherwise, death awaited, and that was no joke.

Dinner was less sumptuous tonight, fewer dishes—likely the morning’s feast was for his welcome.

Shan consoled himself.

The food was delicious, but he ate quickly, leaving as soon as possible—dining with those who threatened his life, even the finest delicacies felt tasteless.

The sunset deepened. Shan wiped his brow, entered the bath.

The night passed in silence.