Morning broke upon the sacred mountain. The sun rose beyond the horizon, casting golden light across endless fields of snow, but within the clan's training grounds, the world felt hushed. Rows of disciples stood in silence, practicing their breathing under the guidance of elders.
At the far end, apart from the rest, stood Feixue.
Her figure was small, her wooden sword gripped loosely in her hand, yet the air around her was unnaturally cold. Each time she inhaled, snowflakes slowed; each time she exhaled, they drifted into sharp, crystalline lines—as though even the wind obeyed her rhythm.
The Grand Elder himself had come to oversee her training. His expression was solemn, for he knew this child was no ordinary disciple.
"Feixue," he said, his voice steady. "Today, you will begin the way of the sword."
She lifted her gaze, silver eyes clear as frozen lakes. "Sword."
He nodded. "Yes. The sword is not merely steel. It is intent. It is will. To wield the sword is to cut through illusions, to sever weakness, to carve one's path through heaven and earth. Tell me—what is the sword to you?"
Feixue lowered her eyes briefly. Snow gathered faintly around her wooden blade. Her lips parted, voice soft yet sharp.
"The sword is silence."
The Grand Elder's heart skipped.
He had expected childish words—strength, sharpness, killing. Yet what she spoke was not shallow. Silence was the essence of stillness, the space between breaths, the end of all sound. To merge sword with silence… even seasoned sword immortals would hesitate at such a path.
"…Very well." His eyes shone faintly. "Show me."
Feixue nodded. She stepped forward into the snow. Her movements were clumsy, childlike, yet the moment she raised her wooden sword, the world responded.
Whoosh.
The wind stilled. The disciples nearby felt their breaths caught in their throats. It was as if the air itself froze in anticipation. Feixue swung—slow, almost hesitant.
But in that single swing, a line of frost extended from her blade, cutting across the training ground. The snow parted perfectly, leaving a silent scar in the earth. No sound echoed—no crack, no crash, nothing. Only silence.
The disciples gasped, some falling to their knees. Even the elders watching from afar felt their hearts quake.
"That… was Sword Intent."
"Impossible! She has not even begun proper cultivation! A child should not even sense the existence of Sword Intent for centuries—yet she just manifested it!"
The Grand Elder's face was grave, but his eyes burned with hidden fire. He stepped forward and asked, "Feixue… when you swung your sword, what did you feel?"
She tilted her head slightly. "Snow falls. The world sleeps. Silence cuts all."
His breath caught. Those words were simple, yet they described the very nature of her Dao.
In that moment, he understood—Feixue's path was not one of force or flame, nor one of brilliance or thunder. Hers was the path of snow, silence, and inevitability. A path that devoured sound, erased resistance, and stilled time itself.
The Grand Elder exhaled slowly. "From this day forth, your sword will be trained in silence. You are not to imitate others. You will walk only your own path."
Feixue gave a small nod, her expression unchanged. She returned to her stance, lifting her wooden sword once more. The snow swirled toward her, each flake trembling as though awaiting command.
The training ground grew silent.
The Sword of Falling Snow had begun.