Chai Sang stumbled his way to the General’s residence, but the young master of the General’s house was arrogant and dismissive. He pointed at Chai Sang and sneered, “I killed your daughter? Who saw it? Do you have any evidence? Don’t just randomly accuse people. Your own daughter died in such a murky way, and you want to pin it on me? Dream on!”
Suddenly, he lowered his head, and malice filled his eyes as he whispered into Chai Sang’s ear, “So what if it was really me who killed her? It’s her own fault for not knowing her place. I just thought she was pretty and wanted to have some fun with her. She refused and resisted, so I had to be forceful.”
He looked down on Chai Sang from a height, his tone and demeanor as if crushing an ant—utterly insignificant and without a shred of remorse. He taunted, “She kept calling for her father to save her while she was dying.”
Chai Sang let out a sudden, mournful cry.
He was beaten to the brink of death by the servants of the General’s residence and dragged out like a dead dog. The onlookers surrounded him, some with sympathy, others with pity, but none dared to step forward. In the end, it was a familiar neighbor who couldn’t bear to watch any longer and helped him back to their home.
On New Year’s Day, every household was filled with joyful laughter and harmony, except for his home, which was cold and desolate, enveloped in silence.
Chai Sang lay on the bed, burying his face in his hands, and wept in pain.
He had tried reporting to the authorities, but when they heard it was a matter concerning the General’s residence, they were too frightened even to take the case. The witness who saw the General’s carriage simply went into hiding. He had beaten the drums of injustice, blocked the carriages, and even caused a commotion in front of the General’s gate, but all in vain.
The people from the General’s residence did not kill him, but seemed to take pleasure in watching his helplessness. His anger, as a lowly commoner, was like a tiny grain of sand thrown into the ocean, not even making a ripple.
How tragic.
Even more terrifying was the spreading of rumors.
They said Wuyou had inappropriate relations with men and was thus killed by her lover. There were also speculations about what exactly happened to Wuyou on the night before her death. She went from being a pitiful victim to a hot topic of gossip, becoming a subject of people’s casual conversations over tea and meals. She was not respected, not sympathized with, but rather continuously trampled upon.
The family that was betrothed to Wuyou quickly declared that they had no association with the Chai family anymore. The gentle and refined fiancé never came to visit again, and the previous affection seemed to have vanished overnight, like footprints in the snow.
Indeed, offending the powerful General’s residence over a fiancée who had lost her purity was not a wise move.
However…
However, the most beautiful wedding dress in the city had not yet been embroidered.
He had been busy forging swords to gather the wedding dowry, working tirelessly even while sick to finish more jobs. Now, the water-colored silk was already bought and laid out on his daughter’s dressing table. But the girl who used to help him with his knees and scold him for not taking care of himself was no longer there.
She had died in fear.
The memories were so bleak, shrouded in an endless fog. Chai Sang buried his daughter next to his wife on the back mountain and bought dozens of jars of spring wine to sit in front of the grave.
He did not speak, only drank silently, as if hoping to drown himself in drink. This short, ugly man had nothing left and lacked the courage to continue living.
He could not seek revenge or obtain justice for his daughter; he felt utterly powerless, like a useless being.
In his mind, he seemed to recall taking his daughter to the market when she was young, where they saw people dressed as gods and ghosts. The little girl was frightened and hid in her father’s arms, crying out in terror.
“Wuyou, don’t be afraid. It’s just a costume. Even if it were real, it’s okay. Daddy will protect you.” He clumsily comforted his daughter in his arms.
“Liar! Daddy only forges swords and doesn’t know any martial arts. How can you protect me?”
“Daddy’s ancestors were the most famous swordsmiths in the Yuezhi Kingdom. In the future, I’ll forge a sword for you that can drive away bad people. With this sword, you won’t be afraid of anything.”
“Daddy, do you think I’m a three-year-old? Is there really a sword that can drive away bad people?” The little girl pouted skeptically. “Daddy is just making things up.”
“There is such a sword. Hmm, Daddy’s great-grandfather’s great-grandfather’s great-grandfather once said that as long as a sword has a spirit, it can protect its owner.”
“A sword spirit? What’s that?”
“A sword spirit is when the sword has its own consciousness, like us humans, with its own joys, sorrows, and feelings…”
His voice gradually faded. The man sitting in front of the grave appeared dazed and kicked away an empty wine jar.
He had broken his promise; he did not make a divine sword that could protect his daughter. He was just an ordinary swordsmith, with an ugly appearance and average talent. After losing his father, mother, and wife, he only had his daughter as his precious jewel. Yet, even the last bit of light in his life was brutally taken from him. He wanted to seek revenge, but he couldn’t even reach the door of his enemies’ home before being dragged out.
He could not become the greatest swordsmith in the world, nor could he be even a humble father.
Fate is unpredictable, and not in one’s control.
The wind blew coldly from afar, swaying the flowers and grass in front of the grave as if giving birth to illusions, naively acquiring its own consciousness.
The intoxicated craftsman watched, and his expression suddenly changed.
Sword Spirit…
A sword spirit was a legendary spiritual artifact. Ordinary people could not forge a sword with a spirit. Spiritual artifacts with sword spirits were often born from extraordinary materials, starting from the very raw materials of the sword.
Not to mention his ordinary talent, even if he were exceptionally gifted, it would be impossible to forge such a divine sword with common iron.
However, there might be exceptions.
It seemed as if the effects of the alcohol had suddenly cleared. Zanxing saw Chai Sang appear to have remembered something and abruptly stood up, running home without hesitation.
The house was still decorated with New Year’s peach charms, but the tables and floors were covered with a thick layer of dust—since Wuyou’s death, it had lost its vitality.
Zhanxing followed him, watching as Chai Sang frantically returned to the house, dragging out several boxes from under the bed. These boxes contained scrolls and books left by Chai Sang’s father, said to be the sword forging diagrams passed down through generations. Wuyou used to love rummaging through them when she was young but gradually lost interest. Some of the diagrams were very old and no longer useful, while others were tattered scraps, jumbled together like a pile of waste paper.
Chai Sang buried himself almost entirely in these books and scrolls, not knowing what he was searching for.
Zanxing watched him with curiosity.
He flipped through one book and tossed it aside, then opened another. Time passed, and day turned to night, and night turned to dawn.
Morning light filtered through the small courtyard window, casting its glow on the floor of the room.
“I found it,” a hoarse voice suddenly echoed in the room.
Zanxing was jolted and looked towards the room.
Chai Sang knelt on the ground, a small shaft of sunlight falling on his face, illuminating his bloodshot eyes. In those eyes, there was now a strange and fervent intensity.
The craftsman held a scroll tightly in his hand, murmuring, “I found it.”