Zixiao in Search of a New Master (1)

Lin Qianshuang was still lining up her words when Xiao Lanle’s crack about the male-lead’s tired “three-step seduction” made her choke on her own saliva. She coughed half a dozen times.

Maybe the author had grown lazy, recycling the same flirtatious routines; Qianshuang dimly recalled forum-basement otaku howling that Liang Aotian¹ needed only one sentence and three gestures to steal a girl’s heart. Hearing that trope thrown back at the hero, by the very supporting girl once scripted to adore him, made her stomach cramp from suppressed laughter.

Xiao Lanle’s gaze slid away from Qianshuang’s twitching lips. As though nothing had happened, she asked Zixiao, “Am I wrong?”

The remark hit its mark. Zixiao stared back, discomfited. The woman in front of her bore no resemblance to the spoiled, petty princess her master had described; every movement was measured, every syllable cultured, the bearing of a sect leader rather than a willful child.

“Miss Zixiao, while passing a village near Yanqing Mountain I heard news of some former fellow-disciples. You might wish to look, perhaps you’ll find them.”

Qianshuang gave a faint smile and lifted her eyes to the horizon; Liang Jingxuan would already be hunting the sword-spirit’s trail.

The sentence Qianshuang had just murmured to Zixiao was bait; the real audience was Liang Jingxuan. If guilt gnawed at him, sooner or later he would give himself away.

However often Zixiao was dazzled by Liang Jingxuan’s kingly aura, a few well-placed hints would still lead her to the truth.

While the others kept Zixiao busy, the sword-spirit’s protective barrier inside the mansion was being gnawed away. In the courtyard’s dry well, forest-green ghost-qi congealed into a tight knot of deathly energy. From the black depths came a ghost-infant’s fitful wail and the rasp of tiny nails scrabbling against stone, a sound that made every listener’s scalp crawl.

Lin Qianshuang narrowed her eyes, tilted her head toward the ruined gate, and said, “Our luck is abysmal. A grievance-soaked soul has been lurking here. After feeding on the divine sword’s aura, it’s on the verge of turning vicious.”

Xiao Lanle sensed the creature first. She swept her gaze over the Penglai Immortal Sect disciples and ordered, “Form the seal array. Trap that vicious ghost inside it.”

The disciples obeyed the order, pacing the interior of the mansion in formation while they sent sword-qi talismans circling in wary arcs. Chen Shangqing did not join them; he stayed where he stood.

Xiao Lanle gave him a sidelong glance. “They need you, Senior Brother Chen.”

Chen Shangqing remained motionless. “Chen only answers to the sect leader’s safety. The rest can manage.”

Xiao Lanle’s bright eyes dimmed; a cold smirk flickered across her face.

Chen Shangqing realized that Xiao Lanle didn’t seem to hear what he said. Following her gaze, he saw the Lord of Tianshu City leaning close to Senior Sister Lin, their whispered exchange almost cheek to cheek… No wonder Junior Sister Xiao looked jealous.

He had never known how to offer comfort, and now he was even more at a loss.

Chen Shangqing remembered that Junior Sister Xiao had once been just as close to the Tianshu City Lord. The feelings among those three twisted and shifted like smoke; he was never the sharpest where affection was concerned, and now he was even more hopelessly lost.

Mu Weiyin slipped an arm around Lin Qianshuang’s shoulders. Noting the bewilderment on the younger woman’s face, she clasped her wrist, lifted the Thousand Rain Sword, and began to instruct her: “Wild ghosts fall into four ranks: first, the white ghost that still breathes; second, the ghost whose reincarnation is already recorded; third, the baleful ghost that brings floods, ruin, and debt; fourth, the grievance ghost that freezes the bones and claims life. A vicious ghost is of the fourth rank, a bloodthirsty wraith whose mind remains sealed beneath a ghost cultivator. The Thousand Rain Sword is forged from Kunlun Mountain divine jade that dispels evil; it can ‘listen to the sound of falling rain’ and judge the ghost’s grade. Try it.”

“Listen to the sound of falling rain?”

Qianshuang did not understand the phrase, but she caught the more important message. “You mean the thing inside is no ordinary vicious ghost.”

Mu Weiyin nodded. “The mansion is noisy now. If you can pick out the ghost’s breath from among ten thousand sounds, you will have grasped the true essence of the Thousand Rain Sword.”

The fierce ghost within the manor was clearly out of the ordinary; Mu Weiyin would not be giving her a hands-on lesson otherwise.

When she activated the sword art, the aquamarine blade of the Thousand Rain Sword shimmered and a string of tiny characters floated to the surface.

Lin Qianshuang froze. She traced the incomprehensible script with her palm; the few words of Heaven’s Mandate Divination Mu Weiyin had left behind the day she departed were carved in exactly the same hand.

This sword’s origin was probably tied to Mu Weiyin.

She set the thought aside; locating the ghost breath inside the manor came first.

Qianshuang emptied her mind, closed her eyes, and merged her consciousness with the sword. She found herself standing in a vast, mirror-bright emptiness. From a bare bell-frame came the faint clang of chimes. Following the rhythmless notes, she walked forward. The ground quaked; rain began to fall from the blank sky. She tried to raise her sword to shield herself, but her hands were empty. When she tried to summon a wisp of demonic qi, nothing answered.

“Silly girl, what are you thinking? This is the spiritual space shared by you and the Thousand Rain Sword, how could demonic qi possibly work here?”

A familiar voice, one she had not heard in ages, rang out beside her, laced with laughter.

Lin Qianshuang’s pupils shrank; she lifted her head. Xuan Luowan’s left hand held a plain oil-paper umbrella above her, keeping the rain at bay, while her right arm cradled the Cold Cicada Zither. Tasseled ribbons fluttered among her loosened hair, and her white robes drifted weightlessly; brows curved in amusement, she teased her with a smile.

“Xiao Wan, you… woke up?”

“The pulse you share with the Thousand Rain Sword’s spirit disturbed the Cold Cicada Zither, so I followed the linked meridian to this spot.”

“My body is still phantom; I cannot yet appear in the world.”

Xuan Luowan closed the umbrella and shook off the strange blue raindrops clinging to it, her lashes lowered to veil the feelings in her crimson eyes. I have been watching you, always by your side, Shuangshuang.

You just weren’t aware of it.

More blue drops fell from the glassy sky. Xuan Luowan spun her plain umbrella over their heads; the blue spray leapt across the vacant bell-frame, and a row of crimson chimes appeared, yet the sound came from elsewhere.

“Hear the source. As the rain arrives, pick an empty rack and alight. The bells run from red to violet to show a ghost’s grade; the moment they both glow and ring, the sound has flashed into form.”

Mu Weiyin’s voice drifted from the outer world into this mind-realm.

“Shuangshuang, do not let the blue rain touch you or it will force your divine sense out. The rain chooses its listener, so stand here, let the sound guide you, and I will hunt the source.”

When she finished, she became a white fox, sprang lightly onto the rack, and sat swinging her two fluffy tails. Propping a paw beneath her chin, she tilted her head and smiled at her.

Lin Qianshuang felt her heart jolt beneath those inherently seductive fox eyes. A blush climbed her cheeks; she gave a light cough. “All right, I’ll trouble you, Xiaowan.”

Raindrops struck the pale umbrella overhead at brief intervals, and she had to pinpoint the exact source of the sound the instant the chime rang and the drop fell.

Amid the clamor, Qianshuang realized that the bell tone was only a faint thread inside the tangle of music she had heard on first entering.

Another drop burst on the umbrella with a sharp patter, and the bell’s location shifted again.

The change blocked her tracing of the sound; she steadied her mind and kept listening, sorting noise after noise.

After several misses, she found herself locating the source faster and faster, always a heartbeat before the next drop struck.

Another burst of rain crackled against her face. In that instant Lin Qianshuang located the source of the sound; she snapped her eyes open, yanked the pale umbrella from above her head, and spun it toward one point.

“Xiao Wan, there!”

The white fox clamped her teeth on the umbrella’s handle and sprang to the bell frame Qianshuang indicated. A dark-purple chime rocked into view, clanging. The plain umbrella, unable to endure the downpour, melted away between the fox’s jaws.

Dark-purple grade, three low tones, two high. According to the primer the Thousand Rain Sword had passed to her, this vicious ghost should be a ghost infant: more lethal, gluttonous, and ruinous than most.

Penglai Immortal Sect’s formation might not hold it long.

Lin Qianshuang’s thoughts drifted, yet her gaze slid unbidden to a certain spot. When their eyes met, both women smiled at the silent teamwork they had just pulled off and, still yards apart, mirrored a triumphant high-five.

Xuan Luowan floated on one foot atop the bell rack, Cold Cicada Zither cradled in her arms, watching quietly without stepping nearer, as though waiting for Qianshuang to speak first.

“Xiaowan, I’m leaving. I will claim the Tianshu Mirror sooner or later. Until we meet again.”

Lin Qianshuang held her eyes a heartbeat longer, then turned away.

“Shuangshuang, don’t force yourself into corners.”

Luowan hugged the zither and called after her, gentle face framed by red eyes that flashed with unmistakable resolve. “I’ll be waiting, next time, for us.”

The Cold Cicada Zither slipped from the meditating woman’s grasp, fell, and melted into a ribbon of silver light that darted into her storage jade slip.

Lin Qianshuang opened her eyes. Mu Weiyin, still behind her, closed both hands over hers and guided them along the blade.

“You’ve met the thing in the mansion,” she said softly. “It is the purple-tier vicious ghost you ‘heard’ inside the Thousand Rain Sword. The summit of sword-cultivation is man and sword as one. If you want your demon infant to advance, you must cultivate together with the sword until you give birth to your own sword-spirit.”

“My own sword-spirit?”

Qianshuang tilted her head. “Ah Yin, where’s yours?”

“I never formed one,” Mu Weiyin answered, unruffled. “When I first entered the sword-dao, the seniors at Yixiang Tower loved to tease me for it.”

She finished with a small smile. “Sword-spirit or none, the path is still the path. As long as the heart keeps searching, another gate always opens.”

Zixiao seemed to have been eavesdropping for quite a while. She cut in: “A Tribulation-Stage sword cultivator who never birthed a sword-spirit? That’s absurd. My late master swore a sword immortal without a spirit can’t survive the heavenly tribulation, ascension is impossible.”

Lin Qianshuang glanced at Mu Weiyin; in the novel Mu Weiyin had indeed stalled at that stage for centuries, as though she were simply marking time.

A dense blend of ghostly qi and corpse death-qi rolled toward them.

Zixiao rose from the stone lion; she felt a vicious ghost sizing her up, the black mist searching for a chance to swallow her whole.

The Penglai disciples’ formation collapsed at first contact, just as Mu Weiyin predicted. It didn’t last a single tea’s brew.

“Are all of you protecting me?”

Zixiao stared in surprise at Lin Qianshuang, Mu Weiyin, and Xiao Lanle, all poised to shield her, and exclaimed in astonishment.

Mu Weiyin turned her head and stated the facts calmly: “You’re a newborn sword-spirit; you can’t fight a ghost-infant that has simmered in resentment beneath an ancient well for centuries. If you don’t want to be devoured, stand with us.”

Zixiao snapped her whip, furious at being underestimated, then laughed back: “Watch me prove my strength.”