Chapter 11: The Scabbard

Yi Xuefeng snatched the sword off the ground in a fluster and hurled it behind him without looking; the blade landed squarely back on the weapon rack, swayed twice, and went still.

Paying no mind to the silent youths around him, he braced a hand on the Barrier platform and dropped lightly off the stage, running straight toward Ning Yu.

The crowd was still wondering what he meant to do—then they followed his course, saw the frost-faced Ning Yu beneath the tree, and understood at once.

Coming down from the stage, the blue-robed young man, his hand red, stared after Yi Xuefeng with a complicated look.

Ye Fangcao hurried after him. “Senior Martial Brother, are you all right?”

The blue-robed young man shook his head.

His fellow disciples stood there awkwardly. They had sworn up and down to teach Lin Fuyu a lesson—who’d have thought the man had the skill to make them howl without even drawing his sword? For a moment no one knew what to say.

After a long pause, one youth mumbled, “The Little Immortal Lord seems to be on good terms with Sword Venerable Ning. It’s only natural his swordsmanship should surpass ours.”

Everyone understood this was a step being handed down for the blue-robed young man to take, and chorused their agreement.

But he frowned. “No. He genuinely can’t use a sword.”

He had noticed certain telltale signs while Yi Xuefeng traded blows with Ye Fangcao. But on reflection—Immortal Lord Linfan was one of the finest Sword Cultivators in the Three Realms. How could his son be unable to so much as hold a sword?

But then Yi Xuefeng had proceeded to thrash him one-sidedly…

At that thought, his face warming slightly, the blue-robed young man revised it: in their exchange, he could clearly sense that the aura radiating from the man was nothing like what a swordsman’s should be.

A collective silence fell.

The swordless Yi Xuefeng raced up to Ning Yu and tilted his head back to look at him. “Sword Venerable, what brings you here?”

Ning Yu stood a head taller; looking down at him from on high, his pressure was suffocating. “To watch you make a fool of yourself.”

Yi Xuefeng protested, “I won.”

Ning Yu: “Hah.”

Yi Xuefeng’s eyes flicked toward Ning Yu’s waist again, and guiltily he sent a transmission to Qieyun. “Ah? Ahh? Which part gave me away? What I said back there? It’s been so long—can he really tell?”

Qieyun’s voice was deadly serious. “I think he definitely can.”

Yi Xuefeng’s heart lurched. This was about to go badly!

Ning Yu had been watching him with a heavy face all this while, his expression dark to the point of frightening—though perhaps that was just Yi Xuefeng’s guilty conscience. Ever since reuniting with Ning Yu, the man’s face had never once been anything but foul.

Beyond that one sentence, Ning Yu said nothing at all, and the silence was eerie.

The longer the silence stretched, the more guilty and uneasy Yi Xuefeng grew, the hand hidden in his wide sleeve rubbing at his inner cuff without pause.

The youths at the Training Grounds all lived in terror of that god of slaughter, Sword Venerable Ning, and had long since melted away without a sound. All around was dead quiet; a breeze brushed past their faces. It had rained too much these past few days—even the wind carried the crisp scent of raindrops mixed with earth.

Yi Xuefeng steeled himself, lifted his head, and said with forced calm, “Sword Venerable, was there something wrong with what Fuyu said just now?”

Ning Yu frowned. “Hm?”

“Those words of guidance just now…”

At that, Ning Yu gave a cold laugh and said mercilessly, “You can’t even hold a sword properly. Where do you find the face to instruct others?”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

Scolded as he was, Yi Xuefeng still imperceptibly relaxed. So Ning Yu didn’t remember those words at all.

Which made sense. Ning Yu had lived so many years and instructed countless juniors; he’d said such things to others before. Yi Xuefeng had just pieced together fragments and invented the rest—he shouldn’t be able to tell.

He’d barely exhaled when Ning Yu suddenly asked, “Where did you learn that trick of striking a man’s hand with a sword hilt?”

Yi Xuefeng’s breath caught.

That’s what he cares about?

“Dad,” Qieyun groaned, “when are you ever going to break this habit of hitting people’s hands with a scabbard? Back at the Immortal Grand Assembly you went around whacking everything in sight, and all these years later you’re still doing it? Have you never heard of growing up? Your son is very disappointed in you.”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

He wished he’d never fathered this unfilial child.

Qieyun feared Ning Yu, yet for some reason an instinct told him that even if Ning Yu lost his mind and slaughtered the whole world, he would never lay a finger on Yi Xuefeng.

Blind as that confidence was, it made him believe that even if Yi Xuefeng’s identity were exposed before Ning Yu, there’d be little real danger.

Half-spectating, Qieyun said, “Let’s see how you talk your way out of this one.”

Yi Xuefeng’s silence had stretched too long; Ning Yu had long since lost patience, and he lowered his eyes lazily. “Hm?”

Yi Xuefeng dreaded that impatient “Hm?” more than anything—it meant his Senior Martial Brother’s patience was gone, and one more wrong word would earn him a verbal flaying.

Thoughts whirling, he drew a deep breath, raised his eyes, and said quietly, “It was… it was Qieyun who taught me.”

Qieyun, just settling in to enjoy the show: “…”

Utterly dumbfounded.

Ning Yu glanced down at the Qieyun Sword on his waist sash, brow furrowing slightly.

The more Yi Xuefeng turned it over, the more coherent the story sounded, and he busily embellished it with shameless fabrications. “He’s always egging me on to hit people on the back of the hand—says it doesn’t hurt much, leaves no marks, and still teaches them a lesson. And besides, a spar between juniors should end at first touch. Using a Spirit Sword like Qieyun would be bullying, so I used the scabbard instead. No one gets hurt.”

Qieyun: “…”

I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me, will you shut your mouth!

If Ning Yu ever learned he was the one corrupting Cold Huai River’s Little Immortal Lord, he might very well crush Qieyun into a lump of scrap iron barehanded.

Qieyun trembled in terror.

The perpetual gloom on Ning Yu’s face seemed to ease considerably. A certain terrifying thought that had been circling his mind instantly dissolved into smoke.

He’d thought himself thoroughly mad—mad enough to glimpse a shadow of Yi Xuefeng, for one instant, in that effortlessly elegant young swordsman.

If it was Qieyun—who had followed Yi Xuefeng for years—who taught him such dirty tricks, well. That made sense.

Ning Yu was silent for a long while before nodding. “He’s right.”

Yi Xuefeng blinked, not quite following. Shouldn’t Ning Yu be flying into a rage and directing his fury at Qieyun? Why was he approving of such a humiliating tactic?

Qieyun, by contrast, let out a vast sigh of relief. No more being roasted over ice and fire.

Ning Yu’s eyes narrowed slightly. He drew out Qieyun, pressed two fingers together, and drew them along the hairpin-sized sword. The blade transformed in an instant into a black Discipline Ruler the length of a forearm.

Meeting Ning Yu’s eyes, Yi Xuefeng was suddenly seized by a very bad premonition.

Ning Yu said, “Hold out your hand.”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

He turned to bolt, but Ning Yu caught him by the collar and yanked him back with effortless ease.

Ning Yu’s voice grew colder still. “I’ll say it once more. Your hand. Out.”

Yi Xuefeng wanted to cry but had no tears left. There was no escaping, so he could only obediently extend his palm upward, gazing at Ning Yu with pleading eyes.

Ning Yu was immune to such pitiful displays. The Qieyun Sword tapped lightly against his palm. “Striking someone’s palm with a scabbard as a form of discipline—that’s a first for me. Since you refuse to learn your lesson, allow me to try it myself.”

Because of his bond with Lord Linfan, Ning Yu could neither beat nor kill Lin Fuyu, and scolding bounced off the boy’s thick skin without effect—it had long given Ning Yu a headache.

He’d been wondering how to handle this catlike, unmanageable young man. Seeing his enthusiasm for hitting hands with a scabbard had given him the idea of a new form of discipline.

Striking the palm. It didn’t hurt overmuch—but for disciplining a proud, arrogant youth, it was superb.

At those words, Yi Xuefeng hastened to declare, “I’ve learned my lesson! Extremely well learned! Adoptive Father! Adoptive Father!”

The merciless Adoptive Father stood by his convictions. The Qieyun Sword fell like a gust of wind, faster even than Yi Xuefeng’s own strikes had been, landing on his palm with a “pa!”

Yi Xuefeng: “Ah—!”

The Qieyun Sword: “Ah—!”

Father and son, hearts joined. A moving sight to bring tears to the eyes.

“AAAHHH IT HURTS, IT HURTS SO MUCH!”

Yi Xuefeng clenched his teeth. His palm burned scarlet, but he refused to make a sound.

Ning Yu withdrew the sword and patted it slowly against his own palm. “That was for that offensive remark of yours.”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

The ruler rose and fell again—”pa, pa”—two more.

“And that is for defying your elders and twice attempting to steal Qieyun back.”

Yi Xuefeng: “…”

This damned, petty, vindictive bastard of a man!

After three strokes, his palm burned and throbbed. This spoiled body of Lin Fuyu’s had no tolerance for pain whatsoever; tears welled instinctively in his eyes, and only by force of will did he keep them from falling in disgrace.

When he finished, Ning Yu unhurriedly returned the howling Qieyun to his waist. “Do you know your wrongs now?”

Blinking back tears, Yi Xuefeng nodded.

“Will you dare again?”

Yi Xuefeng, beaten senseless, nodded on instinct. At Ning Yu’s “Hm?”, he shook his head at once.

Only then was Ning Yu satisfied. “Since you can’t use a sword, I’ll teach you myself, starting tomorrow.”

Yi Xuefeng froze, staring at him in horror. The tears brimming in his eyes slid slowly down his cheeks at the motion of looking up.

This shell of Lin Fuyu’s was coldly exquisite to begin with, and tears falling so helpless and fragile—if Sect Master Song, with her overflowing maternal instincts, had been here, she’d have been cooing comfort in an instant.

Sadly, Sword Venerable Ning was no ordinary man. At the sight of the youth’s tears, his brow only knit tighter. “Stop crying. Are you a man or not?”

Head drooping, shoulders trembling faintly, Yi Xuefeng answered in a thick, tear-choked voice, “Yes.”

Yi Xuefeng was far shorter than Ning Yu; with a mere dip of his head, Ning Yu could see the youth’s shivering body and the cowlick sticking up from his crown. When that tearful voice emerged, he found himself, for some reason, thinking again of the little tail that used to come scampering after him everywhere in his youth.

At the thought, an almost imperceptible flicker of pain crossed his eyes, and the disdain and aversion he’d felt toward Lin Fuyu faded with it.

“Enough.” For once in his life, Ning Yu yielded ground. “Don’t do it again, or I’ll—”

Halfway through, he realized he’d slipped into his habitual threat, frowned, and swallowed the rest. “Enough,” he repeated.

Ning Yu seemed born contrarian. All these years, all these experiences, and his edges and thorns remained sharp as ever, worn down not one whit. The gentlest, most comforting words of his entire life were these two: Enough.

Yi Xuefeng, sniffling softly, heard the words and, aggrieved, took a few steps forward and threw himself tentatively into Ning Yu’s arms.

Ning Yu’s heart was, at this moment, soft. Instinct made him want to refuse, but before his hand could rise, he sighed inwardly.

Fine. He’s only a child.

Let it pass just this once. Next time he wheedles, I’ll give him two more strikes.

Lighter ones.

So thought Sword Venerable Ning.

The “child” surnamed Yi sniffled as he leaned lightly against Ning Yu’s chest, his every breath filled with that crisp scent of the man’s, like something drifted up from the Yellow Springs of hell.

Yi Xuefeng nuzzled closer, then tentatively slipped a single arm around Ning Yu’s lean waist.

This Ning Yu could not abide. His eyes narrowed, regarding him dangerously. “Does your hand not hurt anymore?”

Yi Xuefeng snatched his arm back at once, tilting his face up, eyes brimming with tears as he looked at Ning Yu. He said softly, “Adoptive Father.”

Ning Yu met his gaze, and for a moment his mind went strangely blank—because in that instant, the look in the eyes of the person before him was achingly, perfectly like Yi Xuefeng’s.

He was just about to look closer when he felt a sudden lightness at his waist. The youth who had been so docilely nestled in his arms tore free and bolted backward without so much as a backward glance, gone in a flash of movement.

Ning Yu looked sharply—and the Qieyun Sword at his waist was nowhere to be found.

Ning Yu: “…”

That little wretch who dared play the pitiful orphan to trick him!