Suo Qingjun Chapter 2
byCloud Flow Sword Shadows Lock the Crazed Strings
Late spring in Gusu City was soaked in moisture. The bluestone paths were polished bright by the morning rain, and willow catkins clung to shoulders with the soft stickiness unique to Jiangnan. Qing Feng’an, dressed in green cloth robes with a primitive scabbard on his back, looked out of place amidst the mundane bustle, his cold detachment making him seem even more like a solitary immortal. He walked slowly along Pingjiang Road, intending to take in the scenery of the water town, but at the end of an alley before a ruined opera stage, he heard the crisp clashing of blades.
Beneath the ruins of the stage, three burly men in black were besieging a youth in a plain white robe. The youth was only sixteen or seventeen, with a slender frame and a wooden sword in his hand. His moves were scattered but carried a desperate, reckless ferocity. Beads of blood seeped from his brow, and raindrops clung to his eyelashes, yet he bit his lip hard, his eyes shining with startling intensity—it was the madness of a cornered beast and the stubbornness of one who refused to admit defeat.
“Refusing a toast only to drink a forfeit!” the leader of the men in black roared, swinging a long saber toward the youth’s chest with heavy force. The youth dodged to the side, but the blade grazed his left arm. Blood instantly soaked his sleeve, yet he countered by pointing his wooden sword directly at the man’s throat. His “shatter like jade rather than remain whole as a tile” stance caused the opponent to hesitate for a moment.
Qing Feng’an frowned slightly. He was usually reluctant to meddle in others’ business, but seeing the youth’s stubbornness in the face of a dead end reminded him of his younger self, who had been single-mindedly devoted to the sword. With a slight shift in thought, his figure flickered, reaching the center of the fray like a clear breeze. He pressed his right hand forward, and a gentle yet irresistible surge of True Qi knocked the three men back several steps.
“Who are you? How dare you interfere with the business of Black Wind Camp!” the leader shouted, his voice blustering despite his internal fear.
Qing Feng’an said nothing, merely casting a faint glance over the three. That gaze was as calm as a cold pool yet carried an invisible pressure that instantly silenced the men. Shivering all over, they hesitated for a moment before fleeing in a pathetic scramble.
With the crisis averted, the youth’s hand gripping the wooden sword remained tense. He looked at Qing Feng’an warily until he was certain there was no ill intent. Only then did he slowly lower his sword and bow. His voice carried a faint, imperceptible tremor but was exceptionally clear: “Thank you for your help, Senior. This junior is Jin Xianling. May I ask for Senior’s great name?”
When the youth looked up, Qing Feng’an saw his face clearly. He had handsome features and pale skin, with a gentle smile playing at the corners of his mouth like the warm sun of a Jiangnan spring, appearing so well-behaved that one could not bear to be harsh with him. Only in the depths of his eyes was there a fleeting dark glint, so fast it seemed like an illusion.
“Qing Feng’an,” he replied faintly, his gaze falling on the youth’s bleeding left arm. “Your injury is not light. Follow me back to the inn to tend to it.”
A flash of wild joy crossed Jin Xianling’s eyes, but he quickly concealed it, lowering his head as he replied, “Thank you, Senior Qing.”
They walked in silence. Jin Xianling followed closely behind Qing Feng’an, his gaze constantly fixed on the man’s back with a heat that was almost greedy. From the first moment he saw this man, his heart had pounded uncontrollably—the fluid movements, the indifferent temperament, and that fleeting glimpse of brilliance when he struck had all left him madly infatuated. He told himself that such a person could only be his master, could only belong to him alone.
Back in the inn room, Qing Feng’an took out some Golden Sore Ointment and handed it to Jin Xianling. “Tend to it yourself.”
Jin Xianling took the medicine but did not apply it immediately. Instead, he dropped to his knees with a thud, looking up at Qing Feng’an with a gaze so earnest it was almost pious. “Senior Qing, this junior has been lonely and bitter since childhood, wandering everywhere. I have always wanted to find a master to learn from, but no one was ever willing to take me. Senior’s swordsmanship is superb. I beg Senior to take me as a disciple! I am willing to serve you devotedly and honor you, only asking for a bit of guidance!”
Qing Feng’an frowned slightly. He had never thought of taking a disciple. His journey down the mountain was a temporary measure, and he was meant to return to Qihe Peak after three years. Moreover, his heart was set on the sword, and he did not wish to be tied down by mundane affairs. Just as he was about to refuse, he saw Jin Xianling press his forehead to the ground, his voice carrying a sob: “If Senior refuses to take me in, my injuries will be hard to heal, and with no one to rely on, I fear I won’t live past three days. I have no way to repay Senior’s life-saving grace, and only wish to follow by your side, even if only as a servant to serve tea and water!”
Qing Feng’an fell silent. Looking at the youth’s thin back, he remembered his own experience of being taken in by his master as a child, and a hint of pity rose in his heart. Furthermore, the youth’s eyes were clear (at least on the surface), and although his moves were scattered, they showed a rare ferocity and resilience—he was good material for martial arts. After a moment of thought, he said slowly, “Rise. I can take you as a disciple, but I am cold by nature and not good at teaching. Furthermore, I must return to my sect in three years. If you are willing, then stay.”
Jin Xianling snapped his head up, his eyes erupting with a dazzling light. The smile at the corners of his mouth could no longer be hidden, yet he deliberately softened his tone, respectfully kowtowing three times. “Disciple Jin Xianling pays respects to Master!”
Those three cries of “Master” were filled with genuine emotion, but only Jin Xianling knew that his heart was already in an uproar. Qing Feng’an, my master—from now on, you are my only obsession. No one can take you away, no one!
In the following days, Qing Feng’an began to teach Jin Xianling swordsmanship. Being cold by nature, his guidance was concise, pointing out only the essentials of the moves while leaving the rest to Jin Xianling’s own comprehension. However, Jin Xianling was exceptionally bright and understood everything instantly. His practice was diligent to the point of self-torture—he often stayed up all night pondering sword techniques, his palms developing thick calluses and his wounds reopening and healing repeatedly, yet he never uttered a single word of complaint.
Even more remarkably, Jin Xianling was meticulous, taking care of Qing Feng’an’s daily life with utmost devotion. He prepared warm tea in the morning and soothing medicinal soup at night, and could even accurately guess which sword manual Qing Feng’an wanted to read, organizing it on the desk in advance. He was always gentle and polite, with a well-behaved smile on his face. No matter what Qing Feng’an said, he would nod in agreement, the very picture of a perfect disciple.
Although Qing Feng’an was cold, he was not heartless. He saw Jin Xianling’s thoughtfulness and hard work, and gradually let down his guard, feeling a bit more approval for this disciple. Only occasionally would he notice something strange in the way Jin Xianling looked at him—the gaze was too hot, carrying a nearly paranoid possessiveness. But every time he looked closer, he only saw the youth’s gentle and obedient appearance, making him think it was just his imagination.
One day, the two went to Qionglong Mountain outside Gusu City to practice. The mountain was shrouded in mist with ancient trees reaching for the sky. Qing Feng’an drew his sword to demonstrate the Seven Styles of Cloud Flow, his blade light like drifting wind and returning snow, his movements elegant. Jin Xianling stood to the side watching silently, his gaze infatuated. His fingertips unconsciously rubbed the wooden sword at his waist, his nails digging deep into his palm until beads of blood seeped out, yet he remained completely unaware.
“Master’s swordsmanship is truly the best in the world,” Jin Xianling praised sincerely, his tone full of admiration.
Qing Feng’an sheathed his sword and said faintly, “The way of the sword is endless. Your foundation is still shallow; you need to practice diligently.”
“Yes, I will keep Master’s teachings in mind,” Jin Xianling replied with a bow. His gaze fell on Qing Feng’an’s sweat-dampened collar, and he quickly took out a handkerchief to step forward. “Master, you are sweating.”
Qing Feng’an stepped aside to avoid him and took the handkerchief. “No need, I will do it myself.”
Jin Xianling’s hand froze in mid-air. A fleeting shadow of gloom crossed his eyes, but he quickly returned to normal, still smiling gently. “I was being presumptuous.”
They practiced until dusk. On their way down the mountain, they suddenly heard a cry for help. Looking toward the sound, they saw several men in black besieging a man and a woman. The woman was fighting back with a long sword; she was Murong Xue, the daughter of the Murong family in Jiangnan whom the three elders had mentioned.
“Master, someone is in danger,” Jin Xianling said softly, though a cold killing intent flickered in the depths of his eyes.
Qing Feng’an moved to help, but Jin Xianling stepped out first. His wooden sword left its scabbard, his moves far more ruthless than usual, carrying a hint of demonic frenzy. “Master, please wait. Let me deal with them!”
Although his swordsmanship was not as exquisite as Qing Feng’an’s, it excelled in ruthlessness and decisiveness, every strike aimed at vital points. Seeing this, Murong Xue quickly coordinated with him, and the two soon repelled the men in black.
“Thank you both for your help!” Murong Xue sheathed her sword and bowed, her gaze falling on Qing Feng’an with a flash of admiration. “And this is?”
“This is my master, Qing Feng’an,” Jin Xianling spoke before Qing Feng’an could, his smile gentle but carrying an imperceptible sense of territorial declaration. “I am his disciple, Jin Xianling.”
Hearing this, Murong Xue’s heart stirred—wasn’t this man in green the very match the elders had scouted for her? Her cheeks reddened slightly as she bowed. “So it is the Sword-Bearing Master of the Xuanqing Sword Sect. I am Murong Xue. I have long heard of your great name.”
Qing Feng’an nodded faintly without saying much. Seeing the way Murong Xue looked at Qing Feng’an, Jin Xianling’s fingertips quietly tightened around his wooden sword, his nails nearly sinking into the wood. This woman dared to covet his master?
On the way back, Murong Xue intentionally tried to converse with Qing Feng’an, asking about the recent state of the Xuanqing Sword Sect with a hint of testing in her words. Jin Xianling remained by Qing Feng’an’s side, appearing to listen obediently, but he frequently interjected, skillfully interrupting their conversation and steering the topic toward himself or swordsmanship.
Qing Feng’an did not notice anything amiss, assuming Jin Xianling was simply being close to him. But Murong Xue was observant and had already noticed the hostility in Jin Xianling’s eyes, feeling secretly surprised.
After returning to the inn, Jin Xianling prepared soothing soup for Qing Feng’an and asked as if casually, “Master, Miss Murong comes from a prominent family and her swordsmanship is decent. What is your impression of her?”
“Passable,” Qing Feng’an said faintly, not thinking much of it.
Jin Xianling lowered his head and replied, “Master is right.” In his heart, however, he had already made a decision—anyone who tried to take Master away must disappear.
A few days later, Murong Xue sent an invitation, inviting Qing Feng’an and Jin Xianling to a banquet at Murong Manor. Jin Xianling took the invitation, the smile on his face still gentle, but his eyes were cold. He knew it was time to act.
The night before the banquet, Jin Xianling secretly slipped into Murong Manor. He carved the symbol of the Xuanqing Sword Sect onto a pillar in the garden pavilion and left a forged letter. The letter falsely claimed that Qing Feng’an coveted the Murong family’s heirloom, the Cold Jade Ice Heart, and had ill intentions. Having done all this, a mad smile curled at the corners of his mouth as he quietly returned to the inn.
At the banquet, Murong Xue’s father, Murong Xiong, suddenly lashed out. He produced the letter and the carving, questioning Qing Feng’an: “Master Qing, our families have been friends for generations. Why do you covet my Murong family’s heirloom?”
Qing Feng’an frowned slightly. Looking at the letter and the carving, he understood—someone had intentionally framed him. “This was not my doing.”
“If it wasn’t your doing, why is the symbol of the Xuanqing Sword Sect there?” Murong Xiong shouted angrily.
At that moment, Jin Xianling suddenly fell to his knees, his voice urgent: “Manor Lord Murong, please calm your anger! This might be my fault! The other day, I followed Master past Murong Manor and carved the symbol out of curiosity. I also casually mentioned the Cold Jade Ice Heart to Master. Someone must have overheard and forged the letter to frame him!”
As he spoke, he secretly observed Qing Feng’an’s expression, his eyes full of “guilt.” “It was all my recklessness that implicated Master. I ask Manor Lord Murong to punish me!”
Murong Xiong见状, his expression softened slightly. Qing Feng’an had a great reputation and did not seem like someone who would do such a thing. And Jin Xianling looked well-behaved and honest, not like he was lying.
Looking at Jin Xianling kneeling on the ground, Qing Feng’an felt a strange sensation. He felt something was wrong, yet he couldn’t put his finger on it. Finally, he said faintly, “Manor Lord Murong, this matter is purely a misunderstanding. In the future, I will restrain my disciple and ensure he is no longer reckless.”
Murong Xiong although he had doubts, he could not pursue it further and had to let it go.
On the way back after the banquet, Qing Feng’an did not scold Jin Xianling, only telling him to be more cautious in the future. Jin Xianling respectfully agreed, but he was secretly delighted—he had not only resolved the crisis but also caused Murong Xue to look at Qing Feng’an with a bit more distance. It was truly killing two birds with one stone.
He looked at Qing Feng’an’s cold back, the obsession in his heart growing deeper. Master, you are mine. No one can take you away. Whether it’s Murong Xue or anyone else, I will “clean them up” for you one by one.
As Qing Feng’an walked through the night, he felt that the disciple behind him was like a clinging shadow. Beneath the gentle surface lay a madness he could not understand. This journey down the mountain was originally meant to deal with the elders’ pressure to marry, but because of Jin Xianling’s appearance, it had become increasingly blurred and mysterious. He did not know that this seemingly perfect disciple he had taken in would eventually drag him into a paranoid and mad vortex.