Haven't Been a Senior Sister for Many Years - Chapter 5

Chapter 5:  Memory of the Sword

“Master, is there truly no spirit sword that suits me?” Sixteen-year-old Leng Junzhu sat gloomily by the stream.

Yesterday, the Sword Pavilion opened the Sword Forest to disciples who had just advanced to the Golden Core stage. Any sword within the forest that a disciple could bring out would be theirs without interference from the sect.

Leng Junzhu entered with high hopes and came out disappointed.

Xuan Qing patted her head gently to comfort her. “A natal spirit sword isn’t something easily obtained. Some people may never find one that truly suits them, even in their lifetime.”

“Even I didn’t find my natal sword in the Sword Forest.”

Leng Junzhu looked up in surprise. “Huh? Then how did Master end up with the Xiaolian sword?”

Xuan Qing looked out at the small stream. Green leaves spun in the clear water, struggling before being reluctantly carried away by the current.

“A friend of mine,” Xuan Qing paused before continuing.
“After learning that I hadn’t found a suitable natal sword, they went to great lengths to forge Xiaolian and pretended they’d stumbled upon it before giving it to me.”

As Xuan Qing recounted this, a faint, hard-to-detect smile appeared on her face.

Leng Junzhu noticed and pondered, “She must have really liked you. But why haven’t I ever seen her?”

Xuan Qing smiled. “She got mad at me and hasn’t spoken to me since. The Sword Forest will reopen in five days. If you still don’t find a sword by then, I’ll take you to her and ask for one.”

Leng Junzhu smiled too. “Looks like I need to try harder so Master has a reason to go see her.”

Xuan Qing pinched her cheek. “Feeling better now?”

Leng Junzhu nodded. “Mm-hmm, thank you, Master!”

Xuan Qing: “Let’s go. You’ve still got lessons to finish today.”

Leng Junzhu: “Yes, Master.”

Five days later, Leng Junzhu entered the Sword Forest once more. The outcome was the same—no spirit sword responded to her.

But this time, she wasn’t disheartened. In fact, she felt a bit lucky—now her master had a reason to reconnect with her long-estranged friend.

“Master, I guess I’ll be troubling you,” she said with a smile, a hint of barely hidden anticipation in her eyes.

Xuan Qing wasn’t angry. “You… this is all my fault for spoiling you too much.”

Leng Junzhu smiled sweetly. “It’s because Master taught me well.”

Xuan Qing shook her head. A disciple she’d spoiled herself—she could only accept her fate.

“Let’s go. Though there’s no guarantee we’ll even see her.”

And so, sixteen-year-old Leng Junzhu followed her master to the Hidden Mist Valley. Though Xuan Qing had said they might not meet the person, the moment they arrived near the valley’s teleportation array, the so-called friend appeared and launched into a tirade.

“Well, well, if it isn’t our ever-busy Sword Pavilion Sect Leader. What brings you to this remote backwater today?” Hua Zhi Xiao arched a delicate brow, clearly displeased.

Unfortunately for her, Xuan Qing was entirely unfazed.

“I’m here to see you.”

“Oh? I’m shocked you even remember I exist.”

“You’re the one who told me not to come.”

“And now you come anyway? What for?”

Leng Junzhu hid behind her master, peeking curiously at the rare sight of someone who could put her master on the back foot.

She had a palm-sized face, willow brows, almond-shaped eyes, and skin like white jade. Her black hair was loosely tied, with a few playful strands falling out. Her clothes were wrinkled and mismatched—she’d clearly thrown them on in a hurry.

Leng Junzhu figured she must’ve rushed out to meet them.

Xuan Qing, ignoring her sharp tone, calmly fixed Hua Zhi Xiao’s disheveled collar as she introduced her: “This is Hua Zhi Xiao, master of Hidden Mist Valley—the one who forged my Xiaolian sword.”

Leng Junzhu marveled at her master’s incredible skill in changing the subject. As a dutiful disciple, she jumped in to help: “Greetings, Valley Master. I am Leng Junzhu, first disciple of Sword Sovereign Xuan Qing.”

Hua Zhi Xiao, enjoying the attention, still retorted: “So? You brought your disciple to show off?”

“No.” Xuan Qing knew Hua Zhi Xiao had always wanted to find a disciple to pass on her legacy but had never found a suitable one. “My disciple is sixteen.”

“And?”

“She doesn’t have a natal sword yet.”

Hua Zhi Xiao slapped away Xuan Qing’s hand and snapped, “Xuan Wanyan!! What do you take me for? A marketplace vendor? Here to pick up goods?”

Xuan Qing, unfazed by the slap, continued fixing her collar. “Don’t move. You know I have no one else to turn to.”

Hua Zhi Xiao, still furious, suddenly sighed—arguing with Xuan Qing was like yelling at a wall. At least a dog would bark; Xuan Qing just quietly wore you down.

She grumbled, “You think spirit swords are like cabbages? High-grade ones just lying around for anyone to grab? I’m telling you, I don’t have one!”

Leng Junzhu watched her master interact with Hua Zhi Xiao. Since childhood, her master had always appeared cold, dignified, and stern—every bit the sect leader she was meant to be.

But here, she was smiling, gentle, and tenderly adjusting someone’s clothes. She looked vibrant and alive.

Before Hua Zhi Xiao, her master wasn’t a sect leader burdened by countless lives—just an ordinary woman.

“There’s nothing in the valley that suits her. But I can lend her a transitional sword. Once she finds her natal sword, she can switch it out.”

“I knew you’d come up with something.”

“Shut up. Complimenting me won’t earn my forgiveness. Don’t forget—I’m still mad at you!”

“Yes, yes.”

In the end, Leng Junzhu received a spirit sword—Jiuxiao—from the Hidden Mist Valley.

The moment she got the sword, her master unceremoniously kicked her out. “Now that you have your sword, head back to the sect. I have some things to take care of and will return later.”

Leng Junzhu: “…”

And so she flew home alone on her newly acquired sword, bracing herself to explain to Vice Sect Leader Si Nan why she’d returned solo when she had left with her master.

Decades passed. One day, while traveling with Jiuxiao for training, Leng Junzhu passed through Ning’an Town and rescued a small, soot-covered bird.

The bird’s feathers were messy, its clothes torn in multiple places.

“Hey, what’s your name?” the bird called out to Leng Junzhu as she turned to leave.

Leng Junzhu stopped. “Shouldn’t you introduce yourself first?”

The bird hesitated, then said, “I’m Hua Ling. You saved me today—when I get home, I’ll repay you.”

The name startled Leng Junzhu. She finally realized why this girl had seemed so familiar—she was the daughter of an old acquaintance.

Decades earlier, after Xuan Qing had returned from Hidden Mist Valley, word spread that Hua Zhi Xiao had gone a bit crazy and stolen someone’s egg to hatch. She spent years raising it.

Xuan Qing once told her: Hua Zhi Xiao had hatched a little bird and named her Hua Ling.

Hua Zhi Xiao doted on the stolen bird, feeding her endless treasures. Within a few years, she reached the late Nascent Soul stage and later sneaked out of the valley while her mother was in closed cultivation.

Leng Junzhu never expected to run into her.

Still waiting for a response, Hua Ling huffed, “So rude! I told you my name, and you’re ignoring me?”

Leng Junzhu apologized, “Sorry, I was just lost in thought. I’m Leng Junzhu. Are you the daughter of Valley Master Hua Zhi Xiao—Hua Ling?”

Hua Ling raised a brow. “So you’re Leng Junzhu?”

“You know me?” asked Leng Junzhu.

Hua Ling huffed again. “Of course I’ll repay you. Your spirit sword doesn’t suit you at all. Tell you what—your natal sword will be made by me.”

Leng Junzhu chuckled, “Oh? I’ll be waiting, then.”

“You’re not suspicious of me?” Hua Ling tilted her head. “Everyone says I’m just a waste with high cultivation because I was fed treasures.”

“Are you?” Leng Junzhu asked back.

“Of course not! If I didn’t have talent, no amount of treasures would’ve helped! Just wait—soon I’ll forge a sword perfect for you. Then I’ll come find you!”

Leng Junzhu whispered, “I’ll be waiting.”

Three years later, Hua Ling arrived at the Sword Pavilion with a newly forged sword.

Made of cold iron, its blade was thin as a cicada’s wing. Leng Junzhu tried a few moves—it was light and agile, flowing like water. It felt perfect in her hands.

“Thank you!”

“Hmph. It’s just repayment.”

“I’ve got other matters—bye.”

Hua Ling came and went like the wind, barely lingering after handing over the sword, as if staying too long would get her eaten alive by monsters in the sect.

Leng Junzhu looked at the name etched into the blade: Qingshuang (Azure Frost).

What a lovely name.

With joy in her heart, she imprinted her soul on the Qingshuang sword, making it her true natal weapon. As for Jiuxiao, she stored it carefully away, just in case.

Leng Junzhu now stared coldly at everything before her.

The moment she gripped the sword from the pool, she was pulled into an illusion.

In it, “she” was a beloved, prodigiously talented disciple of the sect leader—a do-gooder who helped the weak.

That wasn’t her.

Like a ghost, Leng Junzhu followed this version of herself, witnessing her awkward youth and gradual growth into someone reliable.

She didn’t know how long she’d been trapped, but she knew the illusion was ending.

The world around her blurred and shifted rapidly, finally settling on a devastated battlefield.

Flames everywhere lit up the night. Screams and sobs filled the air. Survivors, battered and broken, dug frantically through rubble.

They pulled out body after bl00d-drained body.

“Senior Sister! We were just a bit too late. The demons escaped—just a few pathetic stragglers left. The rest of us caught them, and we’ll bring them back to the sect for interrogation,” said her junior, Liu Rushuang, kicking a barely-alive demon cultivator in fury.

“Leng Junzhu” looked out at the hellish scene. In her hand, Qingshuang wept, as if mourning the innocents lost.

If only she’d arrived a little sooner…

Just a little more…

Another junior, Chu Yu, ran over, breathless: “Senior Sister, come quick! We found a survivor, but they won’t let us near.”

“Leng Junzhu” sheathed her sword and said, “Lead the way.”

They crossed the sea of flames and corpses. A group of Sword Pavilion disciples stood awkwardly around a pile of stones.

“Where’s the survivor?”

“Here,” one pointed into a crack.

“Leng Junzhu” stepped closer. Within the narrow gap, a pair of jet-black eyes stared unblinkingly at her.

Bored of the illusion, the real Leng Junzhu had been trailing “her” idly—until that moment.

Those round eyes, burning with defiant fire, pinned her in place.

Who… was she?