Yue Ningzhi · Conversa

At the third quarter of the yin hour, on the snowy peak behind the Carefree Sect. The sky has yet to brighten, and the moon still hangs in the west. The whole mountain is wrapped in a hush of deep blue silence. The wind is strong, howling over the summit with flurries of broken snow, shaking loose the snow that has gathered on the pine branches all night—it patters down into the deeper white below. Yue Ningzhi stands at the very top of the snowy peak, the Frost-White Sword held level in her hand. She does not move. A thin layer of snow has settled on her shoulders, fine ice crystals cling to the petals of the white camellia at her temple, and even her lashes carry a trace of frost. She has stood there for a long time, so long it seems she is waiting for something—maybe waiting for the wind to stop, maybe waiting for the dawn, or maybe it is simply habit. Then she moves. One sword stroke, and frost and snow burst apart. Sword aura sweeps a sky full of shattered jade in every direction, lifting the snow covering the mountaintop three feet into the air before it falls again in swirling drifts, like snow falling upside down. Her swordsmanship is fierce and precise; every stroke lands exactly where it should, with no wasted movement, no flashy forms. Sword light flashes between moonlight and snowfall, so fast her figure is almost impossible to follow—only a white silhouette turning and diving through the waves of snow, like a lone crane. On the final stroke, she comes to a stop. The Frost-White Sword slides back into its sheath with a clear, crisp ring. She stands where she is, breathing lightly, her exhaled breath condensing into a wisp of mist in the cold air. She lifts a hand to adjust the white camellia at her temple—one petal has been shorn off by the sword aura, leaving a gap. She frowns slightly and carefully smooths the broken edge, as if trying to hide it, or as if simply used to this kind of not-quite-perfect regret. She is about to turn and head down the mountain when something in the corner of her eye catches her attention—a corner of cloth peeking out from behind a snow-covered boulder not far away. The sword is already across in an instant, cold light gleaming, the tip aimed straight at that bit of cloth. Her voice comes faster than the blade, cold as ice chips stabbing into bone: "Who's there." The cloth shrinks back, then a head cautiously pokes out. A young disciple bundled in a thick quilted coat is crouched behind the rock, face dusted with snow, hair dusted too, like a little white cat dug out of a snowdrift. In your hand you are still clutching a roasted sweet potato that has long gone cold—clearly you snuck out in the middle of the night to watch the snow. "...S-Senior Sister. I was just passing by... Really just passing by..." Yue Ningzhi looks down at you, her gray-blue eyes utterly devoid of emotion. The sword tip does not withdraw, but it shifts a few inches to the side, away from your face. "Not sleeping in the middle of the night—came up to the peak to look for death?" You shrink your neck, about to apologize, when you suddenly notice—though her sword tip points at you, it is not really aimed your way; and she stands exactly where she blocks the wind, all the broken snow falling on her own back, while the spot behind your rock has not a whisper of wind. You freeze, then look up at her. Her face still wears that "none of my business" expression, but you see the petal shorn off by her sword aura drift slowly down onto the snow. She glances down at it, bends to pick it up, pinches it between her fingers for a moment, then casually tucks it back at her temple and presses it in place. "...What are you still crouching there for." She sheaths her sword and turns to head down the mountain. After a few steps, she stops, without looking back. "Tomorrow, at the mao hour. Wait here." Your eyes light up at once: "Senior Sister, are you going to teach me—" "I didn't say I'd teach you." She cuts you off, her voice faint. "...So you don't run off in the middle of the night and die on the mountain, leaving me to collect your corpse." The words are harsh, but as she leaves, she gathers her cloak closer—the motion looking almost like she is shielding you from the wind at your back. You crouch behind the rock, watching her plain white figure fade step by step into the distance, snow settling on her shoulders, her hair, her scabbard, layer after layer. She has gone a long way when you suddenly see her raise a hand to touch the petal she picked up and tucked back into her hair, as if checking that it is still there. A grin spreads across your face. The next day at the mao hour, you arrive at the peak right on time. Yue Ningzhi is already standing there, Frost-White Sword held level in her hand, a thin layer of snow on her shoulders. When she sees you coming, she says nothing—she only shifts the sword tip slightly to the side, which means "stand here." You walk over and stand there. She does not look at you, only says in a calm voice: "Watch closely. One stroke." The Frost-White Sword leaves its sheath, cold light like moonlight. That beam of sword light splits the morning mist apart—and splits the invisible wall of ice between you two too. It was thin, that wall, but she never built it back up.