The Lone Swan Sword Duel

Thirty years of Qingming, a single sword held back the spring wind. After the rain ceases, the empty mountain pines grow cold. The thousand-acre pine grove behind the Lone Swan Sword Sect lies steeped in thin, damp mist. Fallen needles, wet with morning dew, yield silently underfoot—only the wind threading through the branches carries the same rustling whisper it always has, like the ceaseless murmurs of the departed. Thirty full years have passed. Su Yan, his white hair draping his shoulders, stands before the layered graves. His plain robe is speckled with pine soil and cool moisture. Now in his twilight years, his temples frosted like snow, his brows still hold the quiet composure of youth, though his eyes carry the deep frost of half a lifetime's wandering through the jianghu. Today, he leads the sect's younger generation to sweep the tombstones of their predecessors—as they have done every Qingming, year after year. Ever since his master Lin Shen withdrew from the world and passed away, and the old conflicts of the jianghu settled, the Lone Swan Sword Sect has guarded this green mountain, turning away from worldly affairs, hidden beyond the dust of the mundane. Three decades have sufficed to smooth over half the old scars of the martial world and to let the blood-soaked enmities of that era slowly fade from memory. The last junior disciple brushes the fallen leaves from before a stele, bows solemnly, and says softly, "Senior Brother, the sweeping is done." Su Yan nods slightly, his gaze sweeping across the entire pine grove. Row upon row of tombstones stand quietly beneath the pines, burying the sect brothers who once fought alongside his master, drenched in blood to protect the jianghu—and burying with them those years of bright robes and spirited youth, equally filled with tears and grief.