Her Goose Legs

Calling her Qi Tianning—Tang Yueling sure knew how to hit where it hurt. She knew how much Tianning despised the Qi Clan, and that surname.

Tianning’s beautiful face frosted over. “Can’t even control your own sword, yet you meddle in others’ affairs.”

Nice one, Su Qing thought, mentally giving Tianning a point. Bringing up the Red Rust Sword at this moment? She could jab at sore spots too.

The two stood ready to clash, neither yielding.

Tang Yueling locked eyes with Tianning, silently chanting a spell, ready to summon an artifact. Tianning’s hand rested on the Xuejin Sword’s hilt, poised to draw.

War was imminent.

If they fought, Su Qing figured the dorm would need rebuilding—again.

She had to step in.

Standing close, she spoke plainly, “I’ll be direct—”

“Are you snapping at each other out of concern, just awkwardly expressed? Or are you deliberately trying to hurt one another, making everyone miserable?”

“If it’s concern, please speak kindly. If it’s to cause pain,” she sighed softly, “…we’re not kids anymore. Is this really okay? We’ve only known each other a few days and barely understand each other.”

“Words thrown out carelessly, without knowing the full story, might lead to regret later. That’s my take.”

Her tone was gentle yet candid, not offensive but calming, her sincerity disarming anger.

The two froze, caught off guard by her bluntness in calling them out.

The tension held until Tang Yueling broke it, exasperated. “You’re not exactly normal yourself.”

How was she supposed to respond? She didn’t want to admit to childishness or claim concern for Tianning.

Tang Yueling could’ve snapped, “Mind your own business,” as she’d done before. She had the status to do so.

But deep down, she didn’t want to.

Maybe because Su Qing spoke with such earnest sincerity, genuinely considering everyone’s perspective.

Tang Yueling, not one for honesty herself, recognized the courage it took.

“…How am I not normal?” Su Qing asked, puzzled. *I’m the most normal one here, aren’t I?*

Tang Yueling snorted. Normal people didn’t meddle in Tang and Qi Clan affairs, trying to play peacemaker from such an awkward position.

Su Qing wasn’t close to them and lacked a prestigious background.

Even the impulsive Tang Shitao would only gauge her mood and say pleasing things.

But if Su Qing weren’t this way, she wouldn’t have stood up to the Qi Clan on selection day.

Wasn’t that why Tang Yueling respected her from the start?

She glanced at Su Qing’s calm face, raising her voice. “You’re just not normal.”

Su Qing shrugged helplessly. “I think I’m pretty normal, but think what you want.”

As Tang Yueling softened, the atmosphere eased. Fights—verbal or physical—needed two sides. If one backed off, the conflict fizzled.

Not wanting to be outdone by Su Qing, Tang Yueling tilted her chin at Tianning. “If I hit a sore spot, it wasn’t my intent. I just spoke the truth.”

Tianning, slightly taller, was unmoved by her haughty posture. She withdrew her hand from her sword, her expression still cloudy. “I spoke the truth too.”

Su Qing looked at Tianning. Even angry, her cold face was striking, her emotions making her seem more real.

“Quarreling can build bonds, but we’re strangers still. Save it for later. Tianning, leave the Red Rust Sword alone. Yueling,”—for fairness, Su Qing swapped names—“don’t meddle with the Qi Clan.”

“That’s it.”

She didn’t expect instant reconciliation, but mutual non-interference was doable.

Sure enough, Tang Yueling didn’t press. “I’ve got enough on my plate. I don’t care to meddle with you. Take your pile of spirit seeds—I don’t want Su Qing’s, so I won’t take yours either.”

Before Tianning could respond, Su Qing stuffed the seeds back into her pouch. “Don’t give them to her. If you do, I’d have to pay too, and I’m broke.”

Tianning seemed convinced.

Lips pursed, she murmured to Su Qing, “Thanks.”

Raised in the Qi Clan’s seclusion, rarely seeing outsiders, she wasn’t worldly but could sense kindness.

Su Qing smiled.

Tang Yueling held back her temper, not lashing out.

What was this?

After this brief clash, Su Qing had a read on their personalities.

Tang Yueling called the Red Rust Sword lawless, but she was just as fiery and direct. Yet she was kind—if spoken to sincerely, she’d listen, not unreasonable.

Tianning seemed cold and distant but was well-mannered, answering politely when asked. She didn’t bother others unless provoked. Easy to get along with. Beneath her refined exterior, Su Qing sensed a subtle, natural charm.

They were sixteen, seventeen—good girls. They wouldn’t stay enemies.

With time, they might even become friends. Who knew?

In college, Su Qing managed a six-person dorm with clashing personalities, smoothing over conflicts. If she could handle five, two was nothing.

For now, the issue was settled. Su Qing napped for half an hour in the dorm. After, she sat at her desk, opened her Lingpass, took out paper and pen, and studied swordsmanship and the *Clear Mind Technique*.

Daily practice of sword forms and the *Clear Mind Technique* supposedly eased Qi absorption, aiding entry into the Qi Refining stage.

A seasoned student, even as a “jock” now, Su Qing first tackled the material intellectually.

She memorized the *Clear Mind Technique*, reviewed the eight basic sword forms, and sketched stick figures to note key movements and tips. Ready, she grabbed Wei Yue’s wooden sword and sought a quiet practice spot.

Where you fall, you rise.

She chose the Sword Tomb’s platform.

Opening her Lingpass, she reviewed the sword form videos and notes, then mimicked the stances.

When her posture was correct, the Lingpass sensed it, logging a count.

Starting with the Draw form, she adjusted her arm angle and leg stance. After five minutes, she nailed her first correct move.

Once she got one, others came easier. She found her rhythm, achieving seven or eight successes in ten tries. After half an hour, she hit nine or ten.

She never thought she had athletic talent, but these forms came smoothly. Maybe Wei Yue was right—her injury from the Free Sword boosted her swordsmanship comprehension.

Soon, sweat soaked her, wetting her clothes, especially her chest, abdomen, and back, clinging uncomfortably. She paused, drank water, and walked circles to steady her breathing before starting round two.

She split the eight forms into four groups, practicing 200 repetitions per group, resting ten minutes between.

The first group took an hour, the second an hour and a half.

By then, she was panting, drenched like she’d been fished from water. Her thighs and arms, usually sweat-free, glistened, her shoulders and neck burning with pain.

Leaning against a tree, she was grateful for the light wooden sword. A real one would’ve immobilized her arms.

Resting made her feel heavier, tempting her to slack. Wiping her brow, she opened her Lingpass and kept going.

The third group took two hours. Fatigue deformed her moves, dropping her success rate to five or six out of ten, forcing more swings.

The fourth group was pure willpower. Night had fallen, her stomach empty, but she didn’t stop, fearing her muscles would quit after a break. She pressed on, determined to finish.

For the final group, she aimed for precision to avoid extra swings. Each move replayed her stick figures in her mind.

Her joints felt leaden, limbs burning, but it was the last group. *Finish, and you eat meat tonight,* she told herself.

Her mind blanked, body mechanically repeating forms. When she finished, she barely noticed.

This group took two hours but hit a 90% success rate—her best.

Panting against the tree, she brushed back wet bangs, grabbed her sword, and headed to eat.

Hurry—before lactic acid locked her arms, before her body gave out, she’d eat.

Post-workout, her hands shook, dropping food. Even lifting chopsticks, her arms trembled, spilling vegetables. She ate air.

This wouldn’t do. She considered abandoning dignity and eating face-first.

Too embarrassing, even among the sect’s eccentric seniors. She wasn’t ready to join their chaos.

She tried again.

Her arms burned, muscles too sore to move, like a taut string resisting.

Propping her arm on the table, she grabbed a second bite, leaning her mouth to the chopsticks.

Success. She’d found a dignified way to eat.

Her triumph was short-lived.

Attempting a fragrant roast goose leg, her chopsticks hit the bone, slipped, and—*whoosh*—the leg arced through the air.

“My meat!” Su Qing cried.

Her meat!

Her only meat, her drive to persevere. Losing this goose leg would ruin her day. She’d wake in the night, haunted by its loss!

She lunged, but post-workout soreness made her wince.

An orange blur shot from nowhere, leaping with improbable speed, snatching the leg midair and landing gracefully.

It was a cat.

No—a cat-shaped beast.

This wasn’t a cat but an orange, bloated worm. Its belly nearly dragged, cheeks jiggling, round as a ball, lacking any feline grace.

Su Qing wanted to move, but soreness stiffened her like a reanimated mummy. Helplessly, she said, “Kind cat, split it with me? I could only afford one.”

The fat cat, deaf to her plea, clutched the leg with its white-gloved paw, chomping the juiciest part, purring contentedly, “Meow meow~”

Like it hadn’t eaten in centuries, it devoured the meat in three bites, crunching the bones and swallowing, leaving not a shred.

“…We’re enemies now.”

With only one goose leg’s budget, Su Qing deadpanned, “I’m reporting you to the ugly cat bot.”