Chapter Six: The Lady Dances with a Sword, a Sketch on White Paper

Previously, An Le had been so overwhelmed by Lady Hua’s astonishing presence that he failed to notice the wisp of temporal energy he absorbed was golden in color. This discovery brought him a pleasant surprise, for golden temporal energy could crystallize into a Dao Fruit, offering immense benefits.

Before his eyes, the scene wavered like rippling water, and visions unfolded.

...

Beyond the long pavilion, beside the ancient road.

A gentle, lingering rain fell askew from the sky, shrouding the world in a veil of mist, filling the air with melancholy and sorrow.

Outside Lin’an, along the official road, the fine rain interwove like threads. Amidst it all, two figures, leading a horse, strolled leisurely down the flagstone path—an image imbued with poetic grace.

The woman wore a white dress, a three-foot sheathed sword at her waist. Beside her, a man walked—his brows as sharp as carved jade, his bearing as deep as the abyss. He wore silver armor and a white cloak, a long spear with a golden tip slung across his back, and a broad-bladed saber with a gilded hilt at his side. His presence was commanding as he silently led a tall, dark horse.

A lover departing for war, a wife seeing him off. The spring rain, entangled and persistent, seemed to absorb the sorrow of parting.

An Le watched quietly, as if from a third-person perspective, witnessing the scene like a film.

The armored man must have been the eldest son of the Lin family, a marquis-to-be, whose martial prowess was unrivaled. He had subdued foreign tribes, guarded the borders of Great Zhao, and held back the Yuan and Mongol armies at the banks of the Canglang River.

At this time, Lady Hua was still young, her beautiful features carrying the clarity and mystique befitting a maiden in her prime.

The two walked in silence for some time. Despite their lingering reluctance, the road eventually came to an end.

“Who can say when we’ll meet again after this farewell?” the woman murmured softly. “Let me dance the sword for you as you depart.”

With those words, Lady Hua drew the sword from her waist. The blade, as thin as a cicada’s wing, glinted sharply as she danced. With each swing, she sliced through the droplets of rain, the swirling mist blooming like flowers around her.

The man halted, smiling faintly. He reached into the saddlebag and drew out a jade flute, lifting it to his lips. A melodious tune drifted forth, winding endlessly through the rain.

A woman dancing with her sword, a man playing the flute—together, they painted a scene of exquisite beauty.

Mounting his horse, the man gazed at the woman in white who continued her dance. With a gentle squeeze of his legs, the black steed set off at a slow pace, the flute’s music lingering in the air.

Lady Hua’s sword dance grew fiercer, each movement more unrestrained, the blade leaving fresh marks in the ground around her.

It seemed as if the clangor of battle filled the air, as if she could cleave mountains and sever the surging river with her blade.

At last, when the man and his horse disappeared into the drizzling rain, Lady Hua lowered her sword, standing alone. Her brows and eyes brimmed with the sorrow and worry of parting; at the corner of her eye, a trace of crystalline moisture glimmered—whether rain or tears, it was impossible to tell.

“May you, my husband, slay your foes with divine might and defend our land without harm,” she whispered. “I shall await your return at home.”

The vision faded, like a misty scroll dissolving into golden fog.

...

An Le slowly opened his eyes, his gaze dazed. Yet he had not forgotten the purpose of observing the temporal energy. Lady Hua’s farewell to her husband, the sorrow in her eyes, the spirit of her sword dance—all left his heart in turmoil.

Turning his gaze to Lady Hua, now seated in dignified grace at the Skywave Pavilion, An Le saw that beneath her beautiful, noble features lingered an indelible sadness.

If memory served, the eldest son of the Lin family had never returned from that expedition.

[Acquired Temporal Dao Fruit: Sword Dancer (0/10)]
[Note: Sword Dancer (Dao Fruit): Related to the sword, grants increased insight. When wielding a sword, battle spirit and fighting intent are doubled, with significant boosts to strength and speed.]

A prompt flashed briefly before his eyes. A wisp of golden temporal energy had condensed into a Dao Fruit.

Yet, despite what should have been a moment of joy, An Le felt calm, uninterested in studying the newly acquired Dao Fruit. He closed his eyes, the vision from before lingering in his mind like smoke—Lady Hua’s sorrowful, worried face bidding farewell.

Opening his eyes once more, An Le picked up a charcoal stick he had sharpened with a small knife, its tip honed to a fine point.

He cupped the stick in his palm, holding it as delicately as one might hold a flower, and set a thick sheet of paper on the wooden drawing board, which he propped upright. The slender charcoal tip touched the pristine paper, and a soft rustling sound filled the air—much louder than the quiet strokes of a brush.

In the hushed calm of the Skywave Pavilion, the sound stood out. Several artists glanced over, amused by the boy’s odd drawing method, then turned back to their own work.

Sketching is a fundamental art form, the first discipline any aspiring artist learns. It tests the artist’s mastery of lines, shading, structure, and form, using light, shadow, and surface to create realism.

A portrait sketch is a direct study from life.

In his previous life, An Le had passed the grueling entrance exam for the Fine Arts Academy, a testament to his solid foundation.

Moreover, he had just glimpsed Lady Hua’s unique spirit through the vision of temporal energy.

At this moment, An Le was filled with confidence. The expression in Lady Hua’s eyes was etched deeply in his mind.

The rhythmic, urgent sound of charcoal filled the air. An Le’s eyes seemed to shine as he entered a state of focused creation, becoming solemn and absorbed in his work.

Now and then, he would look up to observe Lady Hua.

The sharpened charcoal glided lightly, leaving marks on the white paper as one line after another gradually defined her features, each detail carefully refined.

An Le paid particular attention to Lady Hua’s eyes. In portrait sketches, the eyes are crucial, for they are the windows to the soul.

Time slipped by. The Skywave Pavilion remained tranquil.

Miss Wind drew close to Ninth Sister Lin Qingyin by the railing, craning her neck in hopes of glimpsing the artists’ works with her keen eyesight.

Lady Hua, however, was serene. Seated in her chair, she picked up a scholarly tome, reading with focused attention, unconcerned with how the artists might portray her.

“Ninth Sister, let’s go take a closer look,” Miss Wind suggested eagerly, her fire poker at her waist, curiosity burning within her. She was especially interested in An Le’s work, hoping it might surpass the efforts of the well-known artists of Lin’an.

Lin Qingyin, with a hint of resignation, glanced at Miss Wind. “Fine, fine, as you wish.”

With that, the two rose.

“Madam, we would like to observe the artists’ work up close,” Lin Qingyin said, bowing to Lady Hua.

Lady Hua nodded indulgently.

Miss Wind grinned, pulling Lin Qingyin across the white jade bridge onto the main terrace.

“Let’s look at Master Liu Qingyan’s painting first,” Lin Qingyin said, stopping Miss Wind, who was eager to head straight to An Le.

Though Miss Wind was dissatisfied, she said nothing.

“Actually, we could invite the imperial court’s official painters, those who have mastered the divine arts. Why hasn’t the Grand Matron called on them?” Miss Wind asked in confusion.

The painters of the imperial palace were all true cultivators, their calligraphy and painting unmatched. With the Lin family’s influence, they could easily be summoned.

“These artists all have powerful patrons. The court’s politics are intricate, and every painter stands behind someone influential. The Lin family has always maintained neutrality and avoided entanglement. If we invite such a painter, we’d owe a debt of gratitude, and the Grand Matron is unwilling,” Lin Qingyin explained softly.

By this time, the two had reached Master Liu Qingyan’s table.

On the table, the ink was still wet, but the image of a noble lady was already taking shape on the fine paper, every line exquisite, each strand of hair perfectly rendered.

Lin Qingyin nodded in approval. Though the Lin family was a martial clan, she had studied poetry and art alongside the young masters under the tutelage of great scholars, and thus knew how to appreciate fine art.

“As expected of Master Liu Qingyan. This is truly a fine painting,” Lin Qingyin praised.

“Thank you for your kind words, Miss Lin. I have merely done my utmost,” Liu Qingyan replied, one hand holding his brush, the other stroking his beard, a hint of pride in his eyes.

Miss Wind, however, was unimpressed. Though the painting did not quite resemble Lady Hua, if her Ninth Sister praised it, then it must be good. Still, she could not help thinking Liu Qingyan himself was not pleasant to look at.

Her heart was still set on the handsome young artist, An Le.

Eagerly, she pulled Lin Qingyin along, weaving past several artists until they reached An Le’s spot.

His unusual drawing posture attracted many glances.

Lin Qingyin’s curiosity was piqued, and she and Miss Wind crept quietly behind An Le.

Their eyes fell upon the drawing propped on his board.

At that instant, Lin Qingyin’s eyes narrowed. The expression in the portrait’s eyes seemed to look straight at her—an indescribable sorrow emanating from the paper, sending chills down her spine and raising goosebumps beneath her delicate sleeves.

Beside her, Miss Wind gripped her fire poker tightly, dumbstruck.

“Wow, the handsome artist is incredible—he’s captured the Lady right on the paper! Compared to this, that old man’s work is nothing!”

Liu Qingyan: “...”

Lin Qingyin: “...”

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