The heavy wooden floorboards of the cedar porch creaked under the languid tread of unlaced straw sandals. Sword Saint Gu Qingfeng ambled into the pavilion, his threadbare hemp robes bearing the faint scent of wild mountain plums, woodsmoke, and ancient iron. He didn’t bother smoothing his unkempt gray hair, which was crookedly bound with a frayed strip of dried reed.
Unclipping a battered wooden wine gourd from his sash, the old swordsman slumped heavily onto a low pine bench across from Lin Xiao’s tea table. He uncorked the vessel with his thumb, tilted his head back. Then he took a long, gurgling swig that lasted five full seconds.
He lowered the gourd with a wet smack of his lips. He stared at the ceiling rafters with bleary, bloodshot eyes before letting out a rattling, soul-weary sigh that caused a pair of azure-crested songbirds on the roof edges to flutter away in alarm.
“If I have to watch one more pampered sect prodigy execute a flawless, limp-wristed sword form,” Gu Qingfeng rasped, his voice sounding like two millstones grinding coarse gravel, “I’m going to shave my head, buy a bronze begging bowl, and become a silent monk in the western deserts.”
