Chapter Ten: Severing Snow

The wind howled, laden with thick flurries of snow that battered Zhou Yu’s body, shattering upon impact into countless fragments that whispered softly as they fell. Zhou Yu stood tall in the midst of the storm, like a javelin driven deep into the permafrost that had lain beneath the snow for millennia without ever thawing. Myriad snowflakes tumbled through the air, each one tumbling and twisting, endlessly altering its trajectory as it descended.

Suddenly, Zhou Yu’s pupils contracted. He fixed his gaze on a single flake among the countless white fragments swirling around him. The muscles in his right arm tensed, then exploded with sudden force. The immense sword in his hand, its blade notched and mottled with rust, became a blur in the wind and snow as it slashed toward the flake.

A swift arc of the blade sent a surge of energy rippling outward, parting the snow in the air to either side—like a single stroke slicing open the curtain of falling snow. When the sword had passed, that snowflake was nowhere to be seen.

An old man sat in a sheltered spot, watching Zhou Yu’s meticulously prepared strike. Shaking his head, he commented, “That’s not cutting snow—that’s sweeping it away! When it comes to cultivation, talent is crucial. I’ll only tell you what you need to do at each stage; the rest you’ll have to figure out for yourself.”

Zhou Yu said nothing. He lowered his head, quietly studying the snow on the ground, still savoring the feeling of his last strike. He had spent a full thirty minutes in silent concentration preparing for that blow, yet had still failed to truly cut the snow. The old man’s “cutting snow”—what did it really mean? His words reminded Zhou Yu of his high school teachers, and he couldn’t help but feel the old man was being rather irresponsible.

It seems he would have to rely on his own understanding.

Had that last strike actually hit the snowflake? Zhou Yu asked himself.

With a sharp swish, Zhou Yu swung his sword again. After the motion, he stared intently at the trace left by the blade in the air, his mind deep in thought.

If the sword’s speed was too great, the force of the blade’s energy would simply push the snowflakes aside, making it impossible for the edge to touch them. Yet, if the strike was too slow, the erratic flight of the snowflakes in the wind would be hard to track, and the blade would have to constantly adjust to follow their paths. Just mastering these changes would require not only quick reflexes and powerful wrists but also exquisite control.

Having grasped this, Zhou Yu slowed his swing, eyes locked on a single tumbling snowflake. The slower he moved, the more force was needed to guide the sword’s path. Though his strike appeared languid, it demanded immense effort. In mere seconds, his wrist tensed and relaxed in rapid succession, the blade’s edge continually shifting direction, vibrating as though trembling—yet still, the sword only brushed past the snowflake without striking it.

With a long exhale, Zhou Yu released his breath. That painstakingly slow stroke had drained all his strength; his right wrist ached dully, and even his mind reeled with dizziness—a result of intense concentration, high altitude, and a lack of oxygen atop the snowy mountain.

After a few deep breaths, Zhou Yu readied himself to attempt the feat again.

But the old man called out, “Enough. Don’t exhaust yourself. It’s dangerous to push your limits up here on the mountain.”

“Yes, Master. I understand.” Zhou Yu’s fatigue was real. Though he had not yet succeeded in cutting the snow, the effort had left him completely spent. He ceased his practice, but in his mind, he continued to visualize every detail of cutting snow, replaying each nuance of his sword’s trajectory and refining it in his thoughts. This was a method he often used in his days as an athlete—the power of mental rehearsal was undeniable: if he couldn’t practice shooting baskets physically, he would visualize the motion in his mind, correcting errors and adjusting his strength, which would still improve his accuracy.

Zhou Yu didn’t know if this method would help with swordsmanship, but survival left no time to waste. If his body was weary, he would train his mind. That was his way.

“Actually, I never expected you to grasp the deepest secret of swordsmanship so quickly. To cultivate the sword is to cultivate the heart. Throughout history, people have sought speed and sharpness, but only true sword masters know—the most terrifying sword is a slow one.” The old man rose, tossing his wine flask to Zhou Yu. “Likewise, the sharpest blade is a heavy sword. You’ve realized the need to slow down, but though many have understood this, few have truly achieved it. It’s not something that can be rushed.”

Zhou Yu caught the flask, pulled out the stopper, and took several hearty gulps. A burning warmth coursed down his throat and into his belly, driving away much of his exhaustion.

“Master, when are we heading for the summit?” Zhou Yu wiped the wine from his lips with his sleeve, recorked the flask, and gazed at the mountaintop that appeared close, yet was still far away.

The old man looked up at the snowy peak, its summit shrouded in clouds, some drifting on the wind while a few dark ones lingered ominously overhead.

“There’s a demonic aura on the summit. Any demon capable of cultivating atop this snowy mountain is likely of general rank.” His expression was grave. “That explains why the wild goose you saw was alone.”

“A demon general?” Zhou Yu noticed the gathering dark clouds, which, upon closer inspection, seemed to be rising from the summit itself.

“Among the demon race, there are beasts, soldiers, generals, kings, and emperors. Any general can take human form and wield demonic arts, no longer relying solely on brute strength or animal instinct.” The old man’s brow furrowed. “I once fought the Demon Emperor Whitebone Weeper. In just three exchanges, it severed my right arm—and that was with many masters besieging it. I was the only survivor.”

Zhou Yu remained silent. Clearly, demon generals were not to be trifled with. By this reckoning, the demon tiger he’d met halfway up the mountain was probably not even a true demon soldier.

After a moment’s thought, Zhou Yu summoned Du Niang. “Do you understand the demon race’s hierarchy?”

Du Niang glanced at the falling snow, stuck out her rosy tongue, hugged herself, and bounced about. “Ah! It’s so cold!”

Zhou Yu scolded, “You’re just an AI—what do you know of cold? Answer the question.”

Du Niang pouted. “The demon race’s power levels are similar to those on the Beast Path. The so-called demon beasts are probably between F and E rank, demon soldiers between E and D, demon generals from D to C, demon kings from C to B, and demon emperors are likely A or S rank.”

“No SS or higher?” Zhou Yu asked.

“There are! The Beast Path has four demon saints, all SS rank. There are over a hundred demon emperors, and even more demon kings.”

“Are there any demon saints here?” Zhou Yu turned to the old man.

He shook his head. “Based on her explanation, the demon race doesn’t have saints. If such beings existed here, they’d have long since broken through the Misty Mountains and invaded the human world.”

Zhou Yu was a little relieved. As a human, his encounters with the demon race would be life-or-death. It was better to face no saints than to face them.

“You needn’t worry so much. I may be half-crippled, but I don’t fear demon generals. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be on this mountain.” The old man said.

“No. If we encounter one, let me try first,” Zhou Yu replied.

“You?” The old man and Du Niang exclaimed in unison.

“Yes! Only by doing so can I improve my strength as quickly as possible.” Zhou Yu gave a wry smile. “If I can’t handle it, then you step in. That’s the difference between recklessness and courage—courage knows its limits, while recklessness does not.”

“As expected of our great king!” Du Niang cheered, bouncing with excitement.

“I have to survive—there’s no way without risk,” Zhou Yu replied, meeting the old man’s dissuasive gaze with unwavering resolve.

The old man had intended to object, but for some reason, he could not voice his protest. His gaze drifted from Zhou Yu to the snowy summit. He reached out and caught a falling snowflake, its chill pressing into his palm. With a flick, he let it fall, splitting the flake in two.

Zhou Yu watched the old man’s movements, knowing he’d used his sword energy to cut the snowflake, but at great speed—not the slow technique Zhou Yu was practicing.

He pondered deeply, then finally relaxed. Whether fast or slow, so long as one could cut snow, it was a good sword. The path of the slow blade was long and arduous, but if he wanted rapid improvement, he needed to practice speed. He understood the old man’s intent.

“I am the chosen one, burdened with the mission to save the world. I must face blood and battle head-on,” Zhou Yu said solemnly. Yet in his heart, he still thought of the one who had left him, his true thoughts those of a wounded man seeking his own redemption.

“A demon general? I will cut you down!” Zhou Yu shouted, swinging his massive sword toward the mountain summit.

“Let’s go.” With those words, the old man turned and strode into the wind and snow.