Chapter Nine of Tianmai

I originally wrote this story just because of an idea - what if a person's "waste" is not really a waste? Chen Qingshi has been a useless foundation in Qingshi Town for fifteen years. His Dantian is like a leaky vat and his spiritual energy cannot be stored. Everyone in the town told him: You can't do it. He believed it. I go up the mountain before dawn every day to practice swordsmanship, not because I think I can do it, but if I don't pour it out, even the wet mud at the bottom of the tank will dry up. Until the fragment of destiny in his chest, which had been sleeping for fifteen years, woke up. In the story, there is a black sword that has been beaten by a blacksmith for eighteen years. The scabbard is engraved with the word "ginger" - that is the surname of his mother whom he has never met. There is a 300-year-old well that dried up completely on the seventh day when the peach wood sword was inserted, and seven peach blossoms bloomed on the sword body. There was a father who made the cocoon out of a tiger's mouth by holding a knife. He had been anonymous for fifteen years. On the day his son left, he melted all the iron in the shop into a scabbard. What I want to write about is never the sudden emergence of genius. How could a person who had been oppressed by fate for fifteen years carve out his own life with one knife? Iron needs to be tempered many times, and so do people. If spiritual energy cannot be stored in the Dantian, it will be stored in flesh and blood. If flesh and blood cannot survive, it must be stored in bones. If bones cannot survive - Just keep it in your life. This is "Nine Chapters of Tianmai", a story about waste base, sword, and unwillingness to accept fate.