The Thousand-Sect Tournament grounds were alive with commotion. Banners of countless sects flapped in the wind, each displaying proud insignias and golden embroidery. Floating swords whirled through the air, spirit beasts roared in cages of containment arrays, and cultivators flexed, levitated, or sparkled in golden qi like miniature suns.
And then… there was the Falling Sword Sect.
Brooms in hand. Dust flying lightly from the edges of their robes. A small cloud of ordinary-looking disciples standing in a neat, if slightly wobbly, formation.
The crowd erupted in snickers almost immediately. The Crimson Blade Sect leader scoffed loudly: Is this some sort of… rural comedy troupe? Brooms? Really?
Perhaps they sweep the battlefield clean before attacking, muttered a junior disciple from the Iron Sky Pavilion, his tone dripping with mockery.
A minor noble actually laughed so hard he dropped his fan, sending it clattering across the cobblestones. Nearby spectators struggled to keep straight faces, while scribes furiously jotted down notes — some for ridicule, some for amusement.
Shen Liang, leaning casually against his broom, yawned and stretched. Ah… attention. Nothing wakes the Qi better than a few snickers from people who think their swords are sharper than their wit.
Zhao Fei pinched the bridge of her nose. Master… please don't make this worse.
Shen Liang twirled his broom lazily. Worse? Oh, no. I'm merely providing… a theatrical demonstration of calm before the storm. And perhaps, an example of humility dressed as absurdity. Very fashionable this season, you know.
A Crimson Blade disciple stepped forward, sword gleaming. You call yourselves warriors? Your weapons are… brooms. I shall show you the true meaning of blade!
Please do, Shen Liang replied, his tone serene but mischievous. But mind the dust. Allergies are dangerous for mid-tier sects.
The crowd tittered. The disciple's eyes narrowed. He lunged forward, a sword streaking like lightning. The broom-wielding Falling Sword disciples instinctively formed a formation — twirling, sweeping, spinning in perfect rhythm. Golden arcs of Broom Sword Aura shimmered in the sunlight, slicing through leaves, stirring dust, and creating invisible walls of qi.
The Crimson Blade disciple recoiled, his strike diverted by a broom swipe so elegant it looked like a dance. Impossible! he muttered, backing away. Brooms… as weapons…?
Shen Liang clapped lazily, the hum of sword intent rolling off the brooms like a gentle thunder. See? Discipline, rhythm, and a little humor. Brooms are underestimated… much like patience, or subtle destruction.
The crowd gasped at the precision of the sweeps. Each broom arc not only deflected attacks but subtly disarmed the arrogant logic of anyone who dared mock them. Dust clouds spiraled into intricate patterns, almost resembling miniature qi dragons — harmless, yet undeniably potent.
A disciple whispered nervously, Master… they're laughing at us. Are we really strong enough?
Shen Liang crouched, picking up a small pebble, then casually flicked it with the broom handle. The pebble zipped through the air, striking a golden insignia on the ground with perfect precision. Ah… faith, little grasshopper. Laughter is the prelude to respect. Let them laugh. One day… they'll sweep before Heaven's gate too.
The disciples blinked. For the first time, the absurdity of the moment transformed into quiet inspiration. The broom in their hands was no longer just a stick; it was a symbol of intent, discipline, and their master's vision.
Throughout the afternoon, mockery persisted. Rival sects whispered, scribes snickered, and spectators nudged each other with incredulous expressions. Every insult, every scoff, only seemed to sharpen Shen Liang's composure. He wandered through his disciples, twirling his broom casually.
Remember, a broom does not judge, he said, spinning it like a baton. It only reflects your intent. If intent is strong, even the gods pause to watch. If intent is weak… well, then, the broom sweeps dust. And dust is fine. Everyone needs dust.
A disciple whispered, Master, why is he so… calm?
Shen Liang winked. Calm? No, no. I'm merely enjoying the show. When people underestimate you… you get front-row seats to their ego collapsing. Comedy… meets drama. Very relaxing, really.
The young disciples began mirroring his calm. Even as insults flew like daggers, they moved in rhythm, broom arcs syncing with the invisible Heavenly Rhythm. Laughter turned into admiration, mockery into curiosity, and fear into respectful awe.
Zhao Fei watched with a rare smile tugging at her lips. Master… they're actually… responding to you.
Shen Liang gave a casual shrug. Good. Now we sweep the rest of the world… but gently. Politeness is key. And remember… always leave a hint of humor. Even in battle.
By sunset, the disciples were exhausted yet invigorated. They had learned more from mockery than many would from a hundred formal lessons. Around the campfire, brooms leaned against walls, and the disciples gathered close to Shen Liang.
Master… they laughed at us all day, one admitted, eyes downcast. I thought… maybe we weren't strong enough.
Shen Liang tossed a small flame-colored leaf into the fire, watching it spin. Laughing is free. Strength, however, is earned. And look at you — synchronized, precise, fearless. They may laugh at brooms… but they cannot laugh at your heart. That… is yours.
Another disciple added, Even when they mocked us, I felt… calm. Like you… like the broom…
Shen Liang chuckled, tossing his broom over his shoulder. Exactly! The broom doesn't care if they laugh. Neither should you. Your Qi, your rhythm, your intent… that's what counts. And someday, one of you may sweep Heaven itself.
The disciples exchanged glances, a quiet bond forming among them, disciples of the Broom Dao, believers not just in their master, but in the absurdly grand philosophy he carried.
Zhao Fei muttered softly, He's ridiculous…
Shen Liang flopped onto a nearby log, gazing at the starry sky. Ridiculous… perhaps. Effective… absolutely. Now, sleep, little grasshoppers. Tomorrow… we sweep the tournament. And maybe… a few egos along the way.
The fire crackled, the brooms glimmered faintly in the moonlight, and the Falling Sword Sect slept, ready to turn laughter into legend.