Heavenly Harmony

The sky was still bright at midday, yet the azure clouds a thousand fathoms above slowly dimmed. Twisting and coiling, they concealed ominous thunder, then suddenly took on a crimson hue. As the ancient saying goes: a blood-red sun and thunder foretell calamity—be it for a nation or an individual.

Song Linjie rose from the ground, his gaze forlorn but his breath steady; it was clear that even though Zhang Ling had exerted all his strength, he could not inflict any serious harm. Song Linjie walked to his youngest son, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Now you know, there are always those stronger than yourself. But if you hadn’t underestimated your opponent and had given your all from the start, would you have left him an opening? In the end, you were simply careless.”

Song Linjie nodded, his worries coming and going in a flash, and just as quickly, he was at ease again. He said, “It won’t happen again.”

Then he turned to Zhang Ling and gave a respectful bow. “Thank you.”

Song Yutian went to speak with the elders of his family, then addressed the gathered outsiders with magnanimity. “The Song family is not a petty household. A loss is a loss—there’s no need for anyone to say more.”

In this way, he also spared Zhang Ling some unnecessary trouble. Otherwise, there might have been those who sought to curry favor with the Songs through despicable acts.

Song Yutian then delegated all affairs to Song Huaishu, his chosen successor, and said to Song Linjie, “Come with me.”

Song Linjie glanced at Zhang Ling; Song Yutian said, “No matter, Zhang Ling, you should come as well. There are some things I wish to tell you.”

The two young men followed their elder to a private pavilion. Song Yutian entered his study alone and, after a short while, emerged carrying a long sandalwood case. He stopped by Song Linjie and opened the box. Instantly, a wave of heat billowed forth. Within lay a blade whose hilt was adorned with vibrant floral patterns, the scabbard plain yet emanating a restrained elegance. The blade itself remained hidden within its sheath, yet its presence was undeniable before the three men.

Song Yutian commanded sternly, “Take it up!”

Without hesitation, Song Linjie reached out his left hand. The closer he came to the box, the more intense the heat he felt. As his hand lifted the blade, the surrounding warmth vanished in an instant. Yet a burning, flame-like energy surged through him, his blood boiling, heat radiating from his very being.

Song Linjie gripped the blade, his hand trembling and already scorched raw, but Song Yutian barked, “Don’t let go!”

Zhang Ling, witnessing this strange scene, felt his heart tremble as well; he could only imagine this was a peerless spirit blade.

Song Linjie held on with difficulty, both hands exerting all their strength. The blade seemed drawn by an unseen force, inching slowly from its scabbard.

The hem of Song Linjie’s robe fluttered in a windless breeze as both men retreated a full pace.

A few minutes stretched into an eternity for Song Linjie. Now, half the blade was exposed; sweat the size of beans broke out on his brow, only to evaporate instantly in the heat. He paused, exhaled a heavy breath, veins bulging on his arms as he stepped forward, drawing the blade further from its sheath.

As the blade was freed, a surge of fierce energy slashed toward a flourishing red cedar in the courtyard, felling it with a thunderous crash.

With the unveiling of the famed blade, the heat subsided. Song Linjie gasped for breath, laughing as he admired his prize. The right side of the blade was etched with red flames stretching from hilt to midline, while the left bore the blue fire of tempering.

Song Yutian let out a quiet sigh of relief and looked at the awestruck youth. “Of the world’s four great smiths, Wu Jianping forges only swords, and most famed swords are his handiwork. The master bladesmith Zheng Haiguan opens his forge only once every five years; to date, he has crafted thirteen blades and holds eight of the ten greatest blades ever made. The one in your hand is his latest creation.”

Zhang Ling interjected, “And the other two?”

Song Yutian continued, “The third, Yang Qingshan, forges only spears—Han Shan the Spear Immortal’s famed Wintersweet Spear is his work. The fourth, Mo Tianshu, is unique; he crafts not only swords, sabers, spears, and halberds, but anything found in this world, and has invented many strange and wondrous weapons of his own.”

He looked at Song Linjie. “I withheld this from you before to avoid dissent. Had you won the clan competition with it, others would have resented it, even if they said nothing. But now, it is yours. Give it a name.”

Song Linjie, proud and delighted, raised the blade high and grinned. “I’ve long since chosen. I name it ‘Heavenforged.’”

Dark clouds gathered; the sky suddenly dimmed, thunder rumbled in the oppressive clouds, which churned furiously despite the absence of wind or rain.

Song Yutian’s face turned ashen, a chill overtaking him. “This is bad!”

Those outside were bewildered as well—how had the weather changed so abruptly? Thunder rolled without wind or rain, truly strange.

A thousand miles away, on a quiet path, a purple-robed old Taoist and a young acolyte hurried along. Abruptly, the old man halted, turned aside, and gazed into the distance with a sigh. “What must come cannot be avoided.”

The child, whose eyes were mismatched—one black as obsidian, the other frosted white—looked at his master. With his left eye, he saw golden light radiating from his master’s body; with his right, he stared fixedly at his master’s head and uttered a cryptic question: “Master, who is that?”

The old Taoist did not respond to him, murmuring instead, “A child of extraordinary fortune.”

Suddenly, he called into the empty air, “King of Blades Song, I have done all I can, but I will intervene once more. Please, hold your blade a moment longer.”

He produced a talisman and tossed it skyward, where it vanished into thin air.

In Song Mansion of Liufeng City, Song Yutian drew his own long blade, shielding Song Linjie behind him. He faced the heavens, brow furrowed in concentration.

A talisman appeared out of nowhere above the Song estate, fading away to reveal a great celestial array, settling right above Zhang Ling and the others.

The thunder seemed to reach its peak, a bolt as thick as an arm slashing down from the sky, striking the formation with a deafening roar. Lightning crackled, scattering across the array before dissolving into nothingness.

Several more bolts of vicious thunder followed, each repelled by the formation, which, even after enduring such barrage, remained unscathed.

A thousand miles away, the old Taoist called again, “King of Blades Song, it is your turn.”

Thunder crashed ceaselessly above Liufeng City, causing even uninvolved citizens to tremble in fear, believing a natural disaster was upon them—which, in truth, it was, though aimed at but one man.

Suddenly, a blade soared into the sky, cleaving through the clouds, shattering the darkness and scattering the thunder until all was split asunder in a violent explosion.

In the next moment, all was truly calm—the clouds dispersed, the winds stilled, and peace returned.