The boy Ancestor's face grew strange. Qin Mu's qi as thick as an arm — that, he called a "qi-thread"? There was no qi-thread so thick, so fierce! And what did he mean, his qi was not yet strong enough? A youth of the Village of Broken Elders who pierced a timber pillar thick as a bucket in one thrust, a mountain stone two feet thick in another — the power in that qi-thread already exceeded that of I know not how many sword cultivators of the Spirit Womb realm!
The Village Chief smiled faintly. "Therein lies the point. You have not mastered the most basic move of swordplay — the Thrust. What if all your strength could gather into this single act of thrusting?"
Qin Mu could not believe it. "The qi-thread is too soft. How could all my power ever be thrown forth?"
"It can be done." The Village Chief spoke at leisure. "You must treat the sword as a part of yourself, like your own hand. Raise your hand and imagine a sword held within it; let your forefinger and middle finger rest against the blade — when your hand thrusts out, the sword shall thrust with it!"
Qin Mu did not understand, yet his qi-thread wound up the fine sword once more, his right hand curling as if holding the grip, forefinger and middle finger thrust out as though they lay against the blade. He thrust, and with a sharp whish the qi-thread drove the sword onward, the keen blade shearing the air in a shrill scream! Startled and overjoyed by turns — for formerly the blade's power had reached at best a tenth of his own strength; now it had doubled!
The boy Ancestor laughed. "This is the Sword-Hand Seal, the opening form of sword cultivation. And you did not even use the seal, yet you could tunnel through mountain stone — your qi is even richer than mine in my youth!"
The Village Chief shook his head. "The seal alone cannot best a master steeped in the sword path for decades. Mu'er, let your qi burst from your palm, and try once more."
Qin Mu did as bidden, and a whirlwind rose, within which the keen blade screamed, ear-piercing. The boy Ancestor's eye leapt — this thrust carried about a tenth more might, and the old cripple had lifted Qin Mu so far with only two sentences; a thing fearsome and worthy of awe.
The Village Chief barked: "The qi-thread must not merely wind about the sword, but root itself within it. The sword is a part of your body, and your qi too — both are your flesh and bones! Try again!"
Qin Mu's qi fused with the keen blade, soaking deep into it, and at once he felt as though he had grown a hand more. Seven or eight-tenths of his strength gathered in the blade — and the wind howled, the timber stump where the butcher stood splitting clean in two with a crack. Qin Mu gaped: his sword had never touched it — the sword-wind alone had split it!
"Still not enough." The Village Chief said. "Your strength has gone into the sword — but what of your spirit womb? It too must grasp the sword. Thrust once more!"
Qin Mu steadied his mind. Within the Spirit Womb Divine Treasury, his inner fetus moved in time with his body, fingers joined, thrusting out.
"Not good enough! Where is your Cinnabar Heart Art? It asks not merely that you forge a cinnabar heart, but that you plant that heart within the sword! Plant the sword!"
"Still not enough, begin again! To plant the cinnabar heart in the sword — this is the crux of the Cinnabar Heart Art!"
"Your legs join the earth, the wellspring of power; borrow strength from the ground with the leg arts the Cripple taught you! And where is the divine eye the Blind One taught you? Let your sword grow eyes! You learned the fist from Old Ma and beheld a true dragon — why does your blade hold none of the dragon's majesty, none of that crushing fist?"
Time and again Qin Mu thrust, and the Village Chief's demands climbed — his own strength, then his qi, then his spirit womb, then the weaving of Old Ma's fist and the Cripple's legs into his swordplay, harder and harder. In a bare moment he had thrust I know not how many times, yet the Village Chief remained ever unsatisfied. Grandma Si, the Cripple, and the rest watched with horror stealing across their faces: each thrust tore a short, sharp cry from him, then a great wind burst to every side, the banners of the smithy, the herb garden, and the butcher's shop snapping and streaming backward — and every thrust gouged a gash in the earth where the sword-wind scraped the ground!
Grandma Si found it scarcely credible. "In so short a time, the Village Chief has bent Mu'er into a master of swordplay..."
The Village Chief shook his head. "I have taught him no swordplay, only helped him bind his strength — to weld into one whole the arts you all taught him. Now he has barely tasted the single move of the Thrust. The most basic strokes are many — the hack, the raccoon-lift, the hang, the cloud, the point, the snap, the block, the shear — only when he has polished these can he enter the gate. Mu'er, thrust your butcher knife once more!"
Scarcely had he spoken when Qin Mu flung the butcher knife into the air, drove the sword with his qi, and thrust in a lightning flash. Clang — the keen blade pierced clean through the precious weapon of cold steel and purer crystal, the point jutting from its back. Qin Mu stood frozen, never dreaming he might climb so far. The most basic thrust of all swordplay — commanding power such as this!
Even the Village Chief's heart stirred; that Qin Mu should seize the Thrust so swiftly surprised him too. "Mu'er," he said, "you may go now and meet the Sword Hall Master."
"Hold!" The boy Ancestor raised a hand. A wooden staff drifted in from the woods; with a single finger he whittled it — in the blink of an eye a wooden sword three feet long. "Go to him with this. Do not use the true one."
Qin Mu took it and looked at Grandma Si. "He has sealed his other divine treasuries, keeping only his Spirit Womb," she said. "Use the true sword, and you will thrust him to death. Go on."
Qin Mu set down his sword satchel and the Shao Bao Sword by the village entrance, and with the wooden sword on his back walked into the neighboring village's timber building.
The Sword Hall Master still knelt half and sat half, hand on his sword case, gaze sharp as a blade. "So you have consulted the greatest sword art under heaven and returned? Attack me with it!"
"I learned no swordplay," Qin Mu said. "The Village Chief taught me but a single move."
"I give you time. Go learn again!" the Sword Hall Master frowned, his voice cold.
Qin Mu looked troubled. "Your Ancestor said I must come with a wooden sword, lest I beat you to death..."
"Absurd!" The Sword Hall Master's aura burst forth, and the air seemed to reek of slaughter, threaded with the clash of cold steel — the scent of iron and blood mixed as one, only one who had slain countless men could hold. The clasps of his sword case burst open of their own accord, the box swung wide, and the swords sang, one eager blade after another flying joyfully forth. He shared a single soul with his swords — he raged, and they raged; if he wished to kill, the swords would kill. He was the Sword Fanatic, and now he wished to kill. The swords leapt out, and the room flooded with sword-light!
Qin Mu acted on the spur of the moment — drove the sword with his qi, flashed the Sword-Hand Seal, and thrust. The sword-light of the case exploded; a faint ring, and it shattered into splinters! Boom — the Sword Fanatic's towering frame smashed through the wall behind him, sent flying like lightning into the timber building beyond, a wooden sword buried in his chest.
Qin Mu, startled, snatched the wooden sword back — only a little blood clung to the point. The Sword Hall Master had not been run through. Upon the far building, his frame slid slowly down, until he landed with a thump, sitting in the dirt, his eyes empty and dull as though his wits had yet to return.
"Are you all right?" Qin Mu beckoned.
The Sword Hall Master shook his head woodenly. His body bore no heavy wound — but his heart had been utterly shattered.