Could I Borrow a Sword?

It took the Daoists of Mount Hua quite a long while to climb out of their shock and cheering.

And small wonder. The Hundred Streams Plum Blossom Sword Art was a technique lost to Mount Hua, and the reason it had been lost was a story of boundless sorrow and heartache for every last one of them. And now an unknown woman claimed to have received its transmission, along with a bottle of bamboo leaf liquor, no less.

The questions came naturally. Who in the world had taught her?

"You mean it was not Martial Uncle Domyeong?"

"It would seem not. Whoever passed on the Hundred Streams Plum Blossom Sword Art would have to stand a full generation above him."

"Hohh... then who in the world could it have been..."

Watching them speculate back and forth among themselves, Soyul said nothing. This was hardly the moment to open her mouth and invite trouble without cause.

"No, that is not what matters now. Surely the first thing is to see it for ourselves?"

He had shed tears of gratitude the instant he heard the words Hundred Streams Plum Blossom Sword Art, but once his head cleared, Cheonghyeon saw that this could not be settled with a few spoken words. It was a matter that had to be verified, precisely and beyond dispute. No sect could take something of this weight on an outsider's word alone.

And yet Cheonghyeon prayed with all his heart that it was true. And so Soyul was respectfully escorted to the training grounds by the hand of Cheonghyeon, Sect Leader of Mount Hua. Cho Jaun followed quietly behind, while Pungyeon bolted off at a dead run to summon the elders.

As befitted the training ground of the Great Mount Hua Sect, its floor was paved with rare bluestone, vast enough for hundreds of swords to cross at once. Disciples were there too, of course, sweating through their training, and so the three of them could hardly step onto the grounds without crossing paths.

"Wh...what the...?"

"Isn't that the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠gisaeng? What is she..."

The sight of the disciples gaping blankly as their Sect Leader escorted a gisaeng with the courtesy owed an honored guest was truly something to behold, but Cheonghyeon had no attention to spare for such trifles.

"Lady Kang. Forgive me for asking something so sudden. But this is a matter of great importance to us, so might you unfurl the Hundred Streams Plum Blossom Sword Art just once, here and now?"

The words had barely left his mouth before Cheonghyeon's head bowed and his hands came together in salute. Cries of disbelief burst from the disciples at the sight of their Sect Leader performing a cupped-fist salute for a mere gisaeng.

"S...Sect Leader!"

"How could you bow your head to her!"

In truth, no one in today's martial world was worthy of a bow from the Sect Leader of Mount Hua. In prestige, in scale, and in strength alike, Mount Hua stood in a league of its own even among the Nine Great Sects, and so did Cheonghyeon, its leader. For that man to bow his head to a gisaeng so young, it was no wonder the disciples cried out in horror.

"Sect Leader, what in the world..."

"Silence, all of you."

Disciples came crowding in from every corner of the grounds, but at the Sect Leader's quiet word, every mouth snapped shut.

Watching this, Soyul scratched her head. To perform a sword art, one rather needed a sword, and hers was buried in some nameless cave in the mountains of Qinghai.

"The thing is, I don't have a sword on me right now. Might I borrow one?"

Before she had even finished speaking, Cheonghyeon unbuckled the blade at his waist and held it out, sheath and all.

"N-no! You mustn't!"

"Take mine instead, Sect Leader!"

"How could you place the Purple Haze Divine Sword in an outsider's hands!"

This time the Mount Hua disciples went past shock into outright horror, some looking ready to lunge, and the reaction made even Soyul flinch.

What is with these fanatical bastards?

The Demonic Cult was, if anything, the textbook specimen of a legion of fanatics, and the eyes of Mount Hua's disciples had gone half-mad enough to draw that line out of Soyul, a woman who had lived among them.

She muttered under her breath.

"Tsk, tsk. A sword is nothing special, just a tool, so why all this fuss over... oh no."

At their pitiful display, the words she had meant to keep inside slipped out before she knew it, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, but the Mount Hua disciples had heard every syllable.

"Wh...what did you just say?"

"I..."

Just a tool? She had called it just a tool. The divine sword of Mount Hua, the sacred keepsake of its Sect Leader, and she had looked upon the Purple Haze Divine Sword and called it a tool?

The fanatics worked themselves up all over again and were on the verge of descending on Soyul in a shouting mass when it happened.

"Hahahahaha!"

Fortunately, the madman booming with laughter in the middle of all this was the one person present whom none of them could say a single word against.

......

......

At the sight of their Sect Leader laughing heartily while the sect's sacred treasure was being insulted, the Mount Hua disciples all froze mid-word.

Cheonghyeon laughed for a good long while, then wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes and spoke.

"Your words, my lady, have jolted awake the mind of this old fool who has done nothing but wear a Daoist's shell. And they are true, every one of them. A sword is nothing more than a tool that extends the hand of the one who wields it, so what difference does it make if the sect calls one its sacred treasure? You have made me look back on myself, clinging to hollow fame as I have. My thanks, truly."

"Mm... no, please. I only meant to say it in my head... I apologize for overstepping my place and assaulting the ears of so many Daoist masters."

Watching their Sect Leader burst out laughing while the sect's sacred blade was insulted, the Mount Hua disciples could only go numb.

"Sect Leader...!"

Just then a cloud of dust rose in the distance, and a band of figures came pelting toward the training grounds at headlong speed.

"N-no way. The elders...?"

The elders of the Cheong generation, who ordinarily observed decorum so strictly ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠that a dignified expression never left their faces, came scrambling up like brawlers from a back alley, and at the sight the Mount Hua disciples gave up on understanding entirely.

"Is it true? That the one said to have received the transmission of the Hundred Streams Plum Blossom Sword Art has come to visit?"

"Wh-where? Where are they? From whom did you receive instruction, that you carry the Hundred Streams Plum Blossom...!"

The elders fired off questions the instant they reached the grounds, without pausing to draw breath, and watching them, the Sect Leader made the introduction.

"Here she is. This is Lady Kang Soyul."

For all their demanding to know where, the elders had taken one look and decided it must be that one, and were staring at Cho Jaun, standing off to the side. Then, slowly, their eyes traced the Sect Leader's hand, and came to a stop on Soyul.

Their reactions split down two lines.

"Ohh! What a wondrous stroke of fate... An honored guest has come to Mount Hua!"

"Indeed! The ancestors must still be watching over Mount Hua!"

One group showered her with such words and received her without a trace of prejudice, while the other...

"...I beg your pardon?"

"Her? You mean that woman?"

...looked her over with doubtful eyes. Not at Soyul herself, truth be told, but at the way she was dressed.

The Sect Leader himself had not given her clothing or appearance a moment's thought, but to see reactions split this sharply even among elders of the same generation was proof that Cho Jaun's fear, that she might be thrown out over her clothes, had been no groundless anxiety. To be sure, when the second group found themselves under the Sect Leader's icy stare, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠they cleared their throats and straightened up fast enough.

Men of a single sect... no, elders of a Daoist sect, no less, and this is how they obsess over outward appearances... No. I have been chasing a false image of my own. Who am I to blame them alone?

Cheonghyeon shook his head, then turned to Soyul again with a gentle smile.

"Well then, my lady. May we ask this of you?"

"Yes... very well."

Her answer was offhand, but Soyul accepted the Purple Haze Divine Sword with what courtesy she could muster, for the stares of Mount Hua's fanatics, whose eyes seemed to smolder in their sockets, stung too much to ignore. She drew the blade at once and settled into the opening stance.

As a rule, Soyul held that people who foolishly announced the names of their techniques mid-fight were the biggest idiots alive. But this was no fight, only a proof, so she decided to oblige the audience.

"First Form: Wild Dance of Plum Blossoms."

Before the words had even faded, the Purple Haze Divine Sword swept from her hand in phantasmal arcs. From high to left, then left to the upper right, and from the upper right to the upper left, supple curves zigzagged through the empty air like a calligrapher's brushstroke, scattering as they went. Each cut was a plum petal torn loose by the wind, and one blossom, two, countless ripples of plum blossom spread through the air like apparitions.

Then Soyul's clear voice rang out again.

"Second Form: Flying Blossoms of the Snow Plum."

In an instant the mood changed. Like plum blossoms blooming through winter snow, a sword qi sharp enough to flay the skin erupted together with that cold beauty. Dozens of strands of sword qi snapped from her blade and scattered through the air like tiny snowflakes, their trajectories like crimson petals strewn across white snow. Amid the swirling snowfall, plum blossoms bloomed, scattered, and vanished.

While every onlooker swallowed hard, Soyul shifted her feet slowly and readjusted her grip. This time it was the middle guard.

"Third Form: Shadow Plum, the Returning Rain."

This time the sword moved ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like the shimmering afterimage of plum blossoms glittering in a spring rain. Light as a dance, the blade sketched the empty air, and the paths its tip left behind blurred into hazy afterimages, like the silhouette of plum blossoms glimpsed through a window on a rainy day. That gentle sword qi, dampening even the air itself, soaked into the chests of all who watched and knocked softly upon their hearts.

And as Soyul finished her final turn, winding the blade to embroider a single circle upon the empty air, the trail of plum blossoms blooming there seemed, for one breath, entirely real.

The plum blossoms faded. The blade stilled. But in the eyes of everyone watching, the trajectory of those brilliantly bloomed flowers remained.

Cheonghyeon quietly closed his eyes.

"So the eyes of old... see true once more..."

The eyes of the elder Cheongsan quivered violently, and a breath drenched in fervor escaped his lips.

"Ah..."

"Mm... The Hundred Streams Plum Blossom Sword Art has eight forms in all, and with the variant forms it branches out to sixty-four... Shall I continue?"

Soyul had been about to carry on, but the Mount Hua disciples' reaction was so far from ordinary that she paused her demonstration and asked, and not a single soul present could open their mouth in answer.

Three forms. That was all. It was more than enough.

Within those petal-strewn cuts, the soul of Mount Hua, forgotten for decades, had stirred back to life. Every thread of sword qi seemed to call out a forgotten name, and every movement seemed to revive the cries of their forebears. They could not fail to recognize it. That was the sword of Mount Hua, the sword they had failed, in the end, to protect, the sword that had been forced to leave its home behind.

"O ancestors..."

How immense must have been the weight their descendants had carried. How could they ever forget the shame of fleeing, forced to abandon their sect's supreme art behind them?

It had never been merely a martial art. It was Mount Hua's history, its conviction, the souls of the countless nameless ones extinguished that day when Mount Hua ran red with blood. And how could words ever capture the passion of descendants who could at last set down the burden their ancestors had left in their keeping?

In the end Cheonghyeon crumpled in on himself, sobbing, and from him a choked wailing spread across the grounds. Some covered their faces with their hands; others pressed their foreheads to the bluestone, bodies shaking with emotion too vast to hold.

The weight of all those long years spent waiting to reclaim a lost sword burst from their hearts in that moment, soft and quiet as plum blossoms drifting down.