Basic Swordsmanship, Part 1

Easier said than done—she still needed a sword to get by for now.

Wei Yue glanced at the plum branch in Su Qing’s hand. “Let me borrow that.”

The branch was the one that fell into Su Qing’s lap while she slept.

Su Qing nodded. A gentle force lifted the branch from her hand, floating between them.

Wei Yue’s hand moved, and materials poured from her storage pouch. A ghostly flame of pale light surged from her ethereal form, enveloping the branch, twisting and melding it. When the light faded, a wooden sword hovered in the air.

It flew to Su Qing’s hand, its touch warm and smooth. She marveled, “This is forging?”

“Yes,” Wei Yue said. “This plum tree, born of heaven and earth, brims with spiritual energy. Perhaps, lingering in the Sword Tomb, it’s absorbed a trace of sword intent. Until you forge your own, use this.”

Su Qing hadn’t expected to get a sword. She caressed it fondly. “Thank you, Senior. I’ll treasure it.”

The sky was bright.

No time to return to the dorm, Su Qing planned to eat breakfast and head to class.

The freshman curriculum was straightforward: Basic Cultivation (I), Basic Swordsmanship (I), Basic Body Refining (I), and Basic Sword Flight (I). Electives included Weapon Maintenance and Spiritual Nurturing.

With a sect year being so long, classes were spaced out—sometimes one per week or month. The Lingpass notified students of schedules.

Today, Su Qing had only one class: Basic Swordsmanship (I).

Its flexibility thrilled her.

The class was held in the Sword Trial Forest, cleverly positioned beside a bottomless cliff on one side and the cafeteria on the other.

This meant she could dash to eat right after.

Perfect.

Despite some hiccups at the Sword Sect, Su Qing adored the cafeteria.

It was spacious, with ample tables and chairs—never a seating issue except at peak lunch hours. No air conditioning, but some method kept it cool in summer, warm in winter, sparing her from sweating through meals. Thoughtful.

The staff were great too—generous with portions, never skimping, even adding extra meat if needed.

Most importantly, the food was delicious, varied, and affordable. Take today’s breakfast: a balanced spread of starches, proteins, and vitamins, served in small, steaming dishes for students to choose freely.

Su Qing budgeted twenty spirit seeds daily: four for breakfast, ten for lunch, six for dinner.

Sticking to her four-seed breakfast limit, she picked a plate of meat buns and a bowl of century egg and lean pork congee.

One bite of the bun explained its popularity. The dough was soft and fluffy, the filling hearty, a perfect pairing. The juicy broth was sweet and savory, bursting like a spring. Su Qing barely caught it with her mouth to avoid a mess.

The congee suited her perfectly—thick, each rice grain bloomed, with finely chopped egg and pork melting instantly, blending rice and meat aromas. She squinted in satisfaction. So comforting.

After the meal, she felt ready to take on ten foes.

Returning her tray, she headed to the Sword Trial Forest.

As class time neared, the paths filled with students. The Sword Sect didn’t enforce uniforms, so attire varied wildly.

Most kept it modest, unlike some second- and third-years she’d seen in the cafeteria, whose styles ranged from “free-spirited” to, frankly, tacky.

She spotted Tang Yueling from afar, her red robes vibrant and unmistakable, surrounded by five or six similarly dressed youths, chatting animatedly. The three Tang girls who frequented their dorm were among them, forming their own clique.

No sign of the Red Rust Sword—likely stored in Tang Yueling’s pouch.

Su Qing glanced over and blended into the crowd’s middle.

She looked for Tianning but found no trace. Freshmen usually moved as dorm units, but Su Qing didn’t push it.

A quarter-hour later, just past dawn, the instructor arrived.

A female cultivator in a plain, tidy Taoist robe, her only adornment a sword at her waist. Short, slightly hunched, eyes downcast, she seemed painfully shy.

She looked young and unremarkable.

Unremarkable, yes, but in the cultivation world, youthful looks didn’t mean youth. Higher realms extended lifespans, time flowing differently for immortals than mortals.

Yet this woman’s clear, dodging eyes lacked the seasoned calm of experience, suggesting true youth.

When she tried to control the crowd, she struggled.

“Um, students, please quiet down…” She used an amplification talisman, her voice clear but trembling faintly, betraying nerves. “I’m your teaching assistant for this class, Qin Hao. I’ll guide you through your first lesson.”

Basic Swordsmanship (I) was mandatory for all freshmen, drawing two thousand students—two thousand pairs of eyes and mouths.

Some could command crowds with inspiring charisma, exuding leadership. Qin Hao was not one of them.

Su Qing could tell: she might have social anxiety.

Lacking the commanding aura of great sword cultivators, Qin Hao faced a challenge: “Where’s Elder Qingfeng? Isn’t he teaching us? We enrolled for his guidance!”

If Su Qing were in her shoes, she’d avoid explaining to dodge a trap of self-justification. But Qin Hao, flustered, said, “Elder Qingfeng only teaches inner disciples now, since two years ago… Don’t worry, I’m his disciple. I can handle the basics.”

From nearby chatter, Su Qing pieced together that inner disciples were chosen after four sect years from outstanding graduates, personally mentored by elders—akin to other sects’ inner circles.

She got it: like grad students and advisors.

Qin Hao was Elder Qingfeng’s grad student, subbing for him with freshmen.

Made sense. In college, Su Qing had often seen professors send grad students to teach when busy. They taught well, their expertise far above undergrads.

But some students pressed. “Elder Qingfeng’s ranked thirteenth in the Sword Pavilion, his Tyrant Sword unmatched. What qualifies you to replace him?”

Su Qing couldn’t guess the challenger’s motive, but no one intervened. Many, though inwardly scoffing at the impatience, were curious how the young teacher would respond.

In cultivation, the teacher-student dynamic often mirrored predator-prey, one mountain overshadowing another. In this ancient setting, sect hierarchy mattered more than Su Qing had imagined.

“It’s not replacing, just subbing,” Qin Hao said, uneasy. “And, well, for a basic class, having Elder Qingfeng teach would be a bit wasteful.”

“What’s that mean? If the Sword Sect doubts our talent, why let us in?”

The words were harsh, and the speaker seemed to regret them. After all, Qin Hao, despite appearances, was likely Nascent Soul or higher.

Oddly, she didn’t react much, just looking thoughtful.

Silently, she drew her sword.

It was long—nearly five feet—slender, silver-white, resembling a sleek metal rod. Without its ebony sheath, few would recognize it as a sword at first glance.

The challenger retreated into the crowd. “What are you doing? I just spoke the truth—”

His words were cut off by Qin Hao’s thunderous strike.

She tossed her sword skyward, hands forming seals. White-purple lightning arced like a dragon, coiling around the blade. The clear sky turned ominous, clouds gathering, thunder rumbling.

Su Qing looked up. Was it going to rain?

But those in the know were stunned: her strike stirred the heavens, yet why was such a sword cultivator unranked in the Sword Pavilion?

The unranked Qin Hao soared, her thunderous sword flying to her left hand. With one swing, a crimson-white lightning dragon roared in her sword’s direction.

One tree, two, three—a hundred and eight!

The dense bamboo forest was pierced, a scorched path carved through. Vegetation turned to ash under the dragon’s heat.

The air grew hot, the scent of char spreading.

Qin Hao pointed at the path, friendly but firm. “If you don’t want my class, leave through there.”