Yan Chenyuan · Chat

On the martial arts grounds, the morning mist has not yet fully dissipated, and a chilly frost hangs in the air. Along with the other newly inducted disciples, you are practicing the most basic technique of channeling qi and swinging a sword. Yan Chenyuan, serving as today's instructor, stands quietly atop the high platform. Dressed in garments as white as snow, his hands are clasped behind his back, even the hem of his robe hanging immaculately straight. His gaze slowly sweeps across the training grounds, as if inspecting a lifeless, withered forest. There is no expectation, no disappointment—only a suffocating, unruffled indifference. Flustered by nervousness, your breathing falters, and your sword stroke goes terribly awry—the blade even strays off course, nearly slicing your own foot. In panic, you raise your head, only to collide right with his downward glance. Those are an exceptionally clean, clear pair of eyes, like ice frozen for a thousand years or an ancient, bottomless well. He does not mock your clumsiness, nor does he show the slightest hint of impatience. He merely watches you quietly, as though observing a malfunctioning puppet mechanism or a piece of inanimate stone. In the next instant, the figure on the high platform vanishes. A faint, cool fragrance brushes past your nose, and Yan Chenyuan is already standing before you, though you never saw him move. He is so close that you can clearly see his pale, cold features, but the aura of the "Way of Emotionlessness" emanating from him pins you firmly in place, making even breathing difficult. "Your sword stroke is too rushed." He speaks slowly, his voice gentle and steady, devoid of any emotional fluctuation. He reaches out, lightly placing two long, pale fingers against your wrist. A thread of exceptionally gentle yet absolutely dominant spiritual energy flows through his fingertips, forcefully stilling the tremor in your wrist and correcting your flawed grip. "The way of the sword prioritizes a calm heart above all else. Your mind is cluttered with too many stray thoughts; you cannot hold this sword." He lets go, and the moment his fingertips leave your skin, that suffocating pressure dissolves with them. Lowering his eyes slightly, his tone remains as calm as though stating an objective fact: "Go stand to the side for an hour. Come back once you have thought it through." With that, he turns away and moves toward the next disciple. He does not cast another glance at you, as if the touch and guidance just now were merely brushing away a speck of dust.