Chapter Forty-Nine: A Beauty Forges the Sword

Beyond the city walls, at the foot of Mount Zhong.

A thatched hut stood nestled against the mountain. A crystal spring flowed down from the heights, winding past the hut, gathering before it in a deep pool whose emerald waters gleamed with a mirror-like clarity. Beside the hut, within a simple straw shed, a sword-forging furnace blazed fiercely, the fire casting a crimson glow upon the soot-darkened faces of two swordsmiths.

“Have you not seen at Kunwu, ironworks belching smoke and flame, red light and purple haze, both dazzling and bright? Years of toil by master craftsmen yield the treasured sword named Dragon Spring. Its blade gleams like frost and snow, its makers marvel at its peerless beauty. In a scabbard of crystal and jade, lotus blossoms unfurl, golden rings engraved, reflecting the bright moon. In peaceful times, it finds itself in the hands of a noble soul. Its brilliant edge shimmers darkly like a blue serpent, its patterned blade resembles the scales of a green turtle. It befriends not only wandering knights, but also heroes of renown. Why then was it discarded midway, left to decay in an ancient prison’s shadow? Though buried and unused, still each night its spirit soars to the heavens.”

Standing quietly outside the forge, Yang Xueruo wore a purple cloak, facing into the wind. Her delicate features were radiant as she softly recited the lines.

Hongmian, her maid, giggled and praised her, “Miss, your poetic talent is no less than that of the Kong family’s young master, but he’s the one who gets all the fame!”

Yang Xueruo smiled gently. “You little imp—this isn’t my own poem. It’s an ode to a treasured sword by a master of old. I was simply moved to recite it. Come, let’s bring the swordsmith his payment and see if my sword is finished.”

Pouting, Hongmian complained, “Miss, the young master is currently whispering sweet nothings to that songstress Liu Xinru under the moonlight. All your deep feelings for him are wasted!”

Yang Xueruo’s expression hardened as she rebuked, “Hongmian, how could you believe such groundless rumors? The young master is not one to be swayed by beauty, nor would he betray me for a mere songstress. Never again must you speak such slander!”

Though Yang Xueruo treated Hongmian like a sister, there was still a distinction between mistress and maid. When Yang Xueruo’s face turned stern, Hongmian dared not utter another word. Blushing, she hurried to her mistress, bowed deeply, and pleaded for forgiveness with a touch of coquettishness.

“Remember, Hongmian, I have pledged myself to the young master—this vow will not change until my dying day. From now on, treat him as you would treat me. If you show the slightest disrespect, you cannot remain by my side.” Yang Xueruo’s lovely features were frosted with cold, her voice icy.

Frightened, Hongmian lowered her head. “Yes, I dare not again.”

Yang Xueruo patted her on the shoulder and laughed softly. “Enough, I’m not truly angry. It’s just that your tongue is too sharp! Come, let’s hurry and see if our sword is finished.”

Hongmian answered respectfully and darted off to speak with the swordsmith, inquiring whether the sword Yang Xueruo had commissioned days ago was now complete.

Since ancient times, the southlands had been famed for producing legendary swords. This forge outside Jiangning was the most renowned in the region. Yet the owner, the swordsmith Zhu Yunzi, was eccentric and set strict rules: he would not forge swords for just anyone, nor could mere wealth purchase a blade from his hands. Each year, he crafted no more than twelve swords.

Thus, though Zhu Yunzi’s fame was great and his swords of the highest quality, his business was not prosperous, just enough to keep the forge running.

He never forged for high officials or the wealthy. If not for the close friendship between Yang Xueruo and his only daughter, Zhu Hua, Yang Xueruo’s request would have been refused outright.

Soon, a striking young woman of seventeen or eighteen emerged from the hut, cradling a long sword and beaming with delight as she walked beside Hongmian. Dressed in a blue riding outfit, her waist cinched with a jade belt, long black hair tied back, she looked the very picture of spirited grace.

“Xueruo!” the girl called, waving.

Yang Xueruo smiled. “Zhu Hua, is this the sword your father crafted for me?”

Zhu Hua laughed softly. “Indeed it is. Xueruo, look!”

With that, Zhu Hua leapt into the air. Her lithe figure arced gracefully, and with a resonant hum, the blade in her hand flashed like an autumn breeze, dazzling in the sunlight.

“Ha!” Zhu Hua cried, landing lightly, then swung the sword at a nearby test stone. Sparks flew, cold light flashed, and a corner of the stone was sliced cleanly away—the cut smooth as a mirror.

Hongmian gasped in awe. This sword was fearsomely sharp—too sharp!

“Xueruo, my father and his apprentices labored without rest, hammering day and night for five days to forge this blade. As you wished, it is a hero’s sword, not a scholar’s—heavier and larger than ordinary swords, combining strength and flexibility. I hope its bearer will honor your painstaking devotion.” With reverence, Zhu Hua presented the sword to Yang Xueruo.

Yang Xueruo did not take it immediately. She bowed first, then accepted it with both hands, examining it closely. But she was frail, and the sword had been made especially for Kong Sheng, accounting for his great strength. The weight was considerable, and after holding it briefly, Yang Xueruo grew winded and hurriedly handed it to the waiting servant.

Bidding farewell to Zhu Hua, Yang Xueruo and Hongmian left Zhu Yunzi’s forge, rode around the city, and headed straight for the open fields by the river to the west. There, Kong Sheng was riding tirelessly, practicing his horsemanship with unflagging determination.

Inside the carriage, Yang Xueruo gazed intently at the sword before her. The blade bore an engraved pattern of seven stars, along with Kong Sheng’s name and a line of flowing script: “Let us start anew, restore the old realm, and ascend the Heavenly Gate.”

The scabbard and hilt were crafted from local pear wood, inlaid with silver and copper filigree, giving it an air of ancient dignity.

As Yang Xueruo looked upon the sword, Kong Sheng’s resolute, handsome face appeared in her mind. Her eyes softened with affection as she murmured, “My lord gave me his flute and sword; now I have forged this hero’s blade for him with my own hands. May it accompany him across the land, guiding mountains and rivers, aiding the nation—may it prove worthy of my devotion this day!”

The carriage rolled along the moat, nearing the western gate. In the distance, on the patchwork grass of green and gold, a white horse galloped freely, raising a plume of dust. The upright figure of a young man was just visible atop its back.

Yang Xueruo alighted and gazed in the direction of the white horse, smiling in silence. Hongmian struggled to hold the sword at her side and muttered, “Miss, I truly don’t understand the young master. He’s a scholar and poet—why is he so obsessed with swordplay and martial arts? Does he really mean to go to war?”

Yang Xueruo turned to her, pride and happiness shining in her eyes. “Hongmian, in troubled times, building a legacy requires both learning and strength. The young master hones his martial skills to protect himself and, if need be, our country. Such foresight is rare. How many in this world can match Kong Sheng in both scholarship and valor?”

A glimmer of light flickered in Hongmian’s bright eyes. She fell silent, quietly standing by her mistress’s side, watching as Kong Sheng approached at a gallop from afar.