Longing

Orphaned when he was young, Lin Qiuxue was brought to the mountain sect by his master and became its most unremarkable disciple. His fellow disciples were all exceptionally talented, while he practiced the most basic sword forms day after day without ever mastering them. His master shook his head, his peers looked down on him, and eventually he was expelled from the sect without a single word of farewell.

After descending the mountain, Lin Han was left homeless and made a living writing letters for people. One day, he rescued an unconscious young woman from the rain and took her back to his shabby little hut to care for her. When she awoke, she introduced herself as Lu Gongxing, a merchant's child who had fallen on hard times and become destitute. They relied on each other to get by. Lin Qiuxue taught her to read, and she mended his clothes.

Little by little, Lin Qiuxue discovered that his heart no longer felt empty. One night, Lu Gongxing clasped his hand and said softly, "You never practiced your sword for anyone else." He froze, and finally understood that all he had ever wanted was someone who could make him put down his sword. Lin Han gazed into Su Wan's gentle eyes, and the wall of ice he had built over twenty years quietly melted. He picked up the rusty iron sword in the corner and slowly took up his stance in the courtyard. This time, the blade did not seek a fierce edge. It quivered with the night breeze, like a willow branch brushing the water. Su Wan stood leaning against the doorway, the moonlight silvering her silhouette.

Three days later, bandits appeared in the city. When the outlaws stormed into their little courtyard, Lin Qiuxue was standing between them and Lu Gongxing for the first time, sword raised. There were no dazzling sword techniques, only the basic skills he had honed for twenty years: block, thrust, turn. Every move was precise as if measured with a ruler, each arc of the blade protecting the person behind him.

When the last bandit stumbled away, droplets of blood clung to Lin Qiuxue's sword tip. Lu Gongxing reached out and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He suddenly understood that the simplest sword forms could summon tremendous strength when there was something to protect. In the morning light, the rusty iron sword reflected their overlapping silhouettes, like a faded ancient painting suddenly brought to life with color.

Theme: Do not believe.