Patience, Three of the Seven Weapons

The third in a series of seven weapons. When Baye closed the page, his knuckles made shallow marks on the cover of "The Book of Swords". He sat in the old wicker chair by the window three hours in advance. The Blue Mountain coffee in front of him was cold and refilled, and then refilled and cold. On the empty seat opposite, the sword energy was licking his sword like a snake's letter. "Xiao Xia, give this gentleman another cup of hot food." The boss, Lao Zhou, wiped the glass and glanced at the broken sword wrapped in red cloth on the wall. "Those who wait for the knife are most afraid of getting angry." Bayeux lowered his eyes and stared at the coffee stains at the bottom of the cup. Three kilometers away, Zi Jue's high heels were running through the water at the subway entrance; two kilometers away, when she took off her lounge apron, the sound of the scabbard scraping against the bar counter was like some kind of signal; one kilometer away, she stopped in the shadow of the corner of the cafe, and the feeling of the knife was peeling away the heart of his sword inch by inch - he could feel her irritability, like the tip of a knife being pulled by a string, stabbing back and forth in the obsession of "must win". The wall clock struck nine. When the door was pushed open, the wind blew in the rain. Zi Yao's black trench coat was dripping with water, the ends of her hair were stuck to the side of her neck, and the knife was hidden in the leather bag she wore diagonally. She sat down opposite him and tapped her fingertips on the table: "Are swordsmen so eager to die?" Baye looked at the flash of the knife in her eyes and suddenly smiled: "During the three hours you asked me to wait, didn't you wait for me? Waiting for this knife to see if it can cut the chain around your neck."