I had no intention of entering the martial world.

Chapter 9 You can think about it slowly.

That night, Lu Chenzhou slept very restlessly.

The hazy blue light kept replaying in his dreams, along with the image of a man in black with his body torn to pieces, and blood flowing with rainwater. But strangely, he wasn't afraid. The images were like looking through frosted glass—blurry, distant, and unable to evoke any emotional response.

He just felt cold.

It wasn't the cold of the rain, but a chill that seeped into your bones and couldn't be dispelled.

As dawn approached, the rain stopped. Morning light filtered through the cracks in the thatched hut, casting dappled patterns on the ground. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes and saw that Lu Jinghong was already up, sitting on the threshold, gazing absently at the distant valley.

The old man had his back to him, his shoulder blades protruding slightly from his blue robe, like two folded wings. His hair was gray, gleaming with a hazy gray light in the morning light.

At that moment, Lu Chenzhou suddenly realized that his master had grown old.

It's not about physical aging, but something deeper. Like an ancient pine tree growing on a cliff, having weathered countless storms, its roots deeply embedded in the rock, still holding up on the surface, but hollow inside.

He sat up and stretched his stiff shoulders.

"Awake?" Lu Jinghong didn't turn around. "Go to the well to fetch some water and boil some hot water to drink. Spring water is cold; drinking it directly will hurt your stomach."

Lu Chenzhou responded and picked up the wooden bucket, walking to the well. The well was deep, and the rope of the windlass was rotten; it took him a lot of effort to draw half a bucket of water. The water was clear, reflecting the sunlight, and he could see his own reflection—pale, thin, with dark red lines at the corners of his eyes like two eerie tattoos.

He scooped up some water and washed his face. The water was icy cold, making him shiver.

Lu Jinghong's voice came from behind:

"Shen Zhou, do you hate Zhao Wanshan?"

Lu Chenzhou paused.

hatred?

He thought about it carefully. Two years ago, on that afternoon in Qixia Town, when Jinxiuge was sealed off, he must have felt hatred. He could still vaguely remember that burning, fiery hatred, that desire to rush into the Zhao mansion and wipe it all out.

But now?

He touched his chest. It was calm there, like a stagnant pool.

"I remember," he finally said, "but I can't feel it anymore."

Lu Jinghong remained silent for a moment.

"So, do you want revenge?"

This time, Lu Chenzhou answered quickly: "I want to."

Why?

Why? Lu Chenzhou was stumped. Does revenge need a reason? The hatred for one's parents is irreconcilable; isn't that a matter of course?

But as he looked at his reflection in the well, at those unfathomable, emotionless eyes, he suddenly became uncertain.

If you can't even feel hatred anymore, what's the point of revenge?

A habit? An obsession? Or... simply because it "should"?

"I don't know," he said honestly.

Lu Jinghong finally turned her head and looked at him. In the morning light, the old man's eyes were complex, showing weariness, pity, and something else that Lu Chenzhou couldn't understand.

"Then today, I'll teach you one last thing." Lu Jinghong stood up and walked to the center of the platform. "I'll teach you how to grip a sword tightly even when you 'don't know' what to do."

He reached into the pile of firewood beside him and pulled out a three-foot-long wooden stick.

It's a very ordinary firewood stick, thick at one end and thin at the other, with the rough texture of tree bark.

"Come on." Lu Jinghong assumed a fighting stance. "Use the 'Seven Killings Style' you learned to attack me."

Lu Chenzhou put down the bucket and walked to the center of the platform. He stretched his wrists and assumed a "heart-penetrating" stance.

Then, he moved.

Without testing the waters or holding back, he went all out from the start. With a swift movement, he was already beside Lu Jinghong, his right hand, fingers like a sword, aimed straight for his ribs!

Fast, accurate, and ruthless. He had practiced this strike thousands of times.

Lu Jinghong didn't dodge. He simply flipped his wrist, and the wooden stick lightly touched the inside of Lu Chenzhou's wrist.

The force wasn't great, but the position was extremely tricky. Lu Chenzhou felt his entire arm go numb, and most of the force instantly dissipated, leaving his finger limply poking at empty air.

"Again," Lu Jinghong said.

Lu Chenzhou took a deep breath and changed his moves. Groin kick, throat lock, knee crusher... He unleashed the "Seven Kill Style" move by move, each one sharp and ruthless, aiming straight for vital points.

But Lu Jinghong simply stood still, and with the wooden stick in her hand, she could always lightly touch him just as he was about to unleash his power, causing all his attacks to crumble.

Like an adult teasing a child.

After twenty moves, Lu Chenzhou stopped. He was slightly out of breath, sweat beading on his forehead. It wasn't exhaustion, but frustration. Every punch and kick landed on empty air; that feeling of having nowhere to land was even more unbearable than a direct confrontation.

"Do you know where the problem lies?" Lu Jinghong asked.

Lu Chenzhou shook his head.

"Your moves are 'dead'." Lu Jinghong tapped his chest with a wooden stick. "Here, it's empty. You're just repeating actions, like a craftsman carving wood according to a blueprint. But killing isn't carving wood; it's living people against living people. You have to 'think'."

He paused.

"What I just used wasn't a technique, but 'intention.' If you want to rip out my heart, my intention is in your wrist; if you want to lock my throat, my intention is in your elbow; if you want to crush my knee, my intention is in your waist. Intention is the key to power. Otherwise, even the most ruthless technique is just a show."

Lu Chenzhou seemed to understand but not quite.

"How do I train my willpower?"

"Ask yourself," Lu Jinghong said. "Why did you make this move? Was it for revenge? To kill? Or simply because 'it was the right move'? Think it through, and your 'intention' will become clear."

Lu Chenzhou fell silent.

Did he want revenge? Yes. But why? Because of his parents? Because of the Lu family? Or because… if he didn't seek revenge, he wouldn't know what to do?

As soon as this thought arose, it felt as if a breeze was blowing through the desolate wasteland in my heart.

It's cold and empty.

"Continue," Lu Jinghong said.

Lu Chenzhou made his move again. This time, he didn't rush to attack, but instead listened first. He listened to Lu Jinghong's breathing, his heartbeat, and the subtle tension and relaxation of his muscles.

Then, he "saw." Not with his eyes, but with a more subtle sense. He saw Lu Jinghong's weight on his left foot, saw his shoulder blades slightly tucked in, and saw an extremely subtle, preparatory flip in his right wrist.

That "moment" came.

Lu Chenzhou moved. He didn't use any of the "Seven Killings" techniques; he simply took a step forward, his right hand outstretched as if to grab Lu Jinghong's wrist.

It was slow and clumsy.

But Lu Jinghong's eyes lit up.

He didn't use the stick to poke him, nor did he back away. Instead, following Lu Chenzhou's movements, he flipped his wrist and gently placed the stick on Lu Chenzhou's arm.

"Can you feel it?" Lu Jinghong asked.

Lu Chenzhou nodded. He had "sense" it for a moment just now. It wasn't a technique, but something fluid and alive. Like water, like wind, formless and intangible, yet undeniably present.

"This is 'intention'." Lu Jinghong put away the wooden stick. "Only when your intention has direction can my intention respond. Otherwise, it's just two pieces of wood colliding, just a contest of who is harder."

He paused.

"Killing is the same. You need to know why you're killing, what you're killing, and what will happen after you kill. Only when these 'intentions' come together will your sword have a soul."

Lu Chenzhou stood there, savoring the feeling from just now.

Mind... Soul...

He suddenly remembered the Azure Nether Sword Qi. Did that cold, sharp power also have "intention"? Did it choose him because its "intention" was revenge? Or was its "intention" something else entirely?

This question is too profound for him to figure out for the time being.

"That's enough for today." Lu Jinghong tossed the wooden stick back into the woodpile. "Take your time to think it over. If you figure it out, your sword will be complete. If you don't..."

He didn't continue, but simply shook his head and turned back to the hut.

Lu Chenzhou stood alone in the center of the platform. The morning light grew brighter, and the mist in the valley began to rise, flowing slowly like a white veil.

He raised his hand, looking at his palm. The scab at the base of his thumb had fallen off, revealing pink new flesh underneath. It didn't hurt, but he could feel the cold power slowly flowing beneath his skin.

Like a sleeping snake.

He clenched his fist.

Then, he walked to the edge of the cliff and looked down into the deep valley. It was shrouded in mist, its bottom invisible, with only the occasional bird calls as proof that life still lingered below.

He stood there for a long time.

Until the sun was fully up, golden light pierced through the clouds and fell on my face.

It was warm. But he couldn't feel it.

I just remember that this temperature should be called "warm".