64: Chapter 64 The Way of the Sword is the Way of the Heart
The last glimmer of twilight sank into the western mountains.
The martial arts arena in front of Zhenyue Palace was empty, with only the night wind rustling a few fallen leaves. Lu Mingyuan remained seated on the stone steps, motionless.
Five days of sword debates and over a hundred duels flowed through his mind one by one at this moment.
Fast swords, slow swords, heavy swords, light swords, orthodox swords, unorthodox swords, hard swords, soft swords—every kind of sword had its own path, and every kind of sword had its own logic. But which one was his sword?
He did not know.
The moon rose.
Cold moonlight spilled over the five peaks of Mount Hua, and the five giant swords were draped in silver frost, appearing increasingly solitary and stern. He looked at those five peaks and suddenly remembered the three thousand seven hundred volumes of sword manuals at Mount Qingcheng, the demon suppression map at Wudang Mountain, and the scrolls with flowing talismanic intent at Longhu Mountain.
The paths of the sword are myriad.
But all paths return to the source.
What, exactly, was that 'source'?
"Young man, what have you been thinking about all night?"
An aged voice came from behind him. Lu Mingyuan turned back and saw an old Taoist standing before the temple gates. His beard and eyebrows were entirely white, his Taoist robes were tattered, and he held a lantern that was about to go out.
Lu Mingyuan stood up and cupped his hands in greeting: "Daoist Master."
The old Taoist waved his hand and sat down beside him.
"This old Daoist has guarded this Zhenyue Palace for sixty-three years. Every year during the sword debates, people sit before the palace for a night. Some attain enlightenment, others do not." He looked at Lu Mingyuan. "Which kind are you?"
Lu Mingyuan was silent for a moment.
"This Junior does not know."
The old Taoist smiled.
"Not knowing means you haven't attained enlightenment yet. If you haven't attained it, then continue to sit. Sit until dawn, sit until you understand."
He stood up and walked toward the interior of the temple with his lantern. After a few steps, he suddenly stopped and said without turning his head:
"Young man, the Way of the Sword is not in the sword, but in the heart. Have you heard this saying before?"
Lu Mingyuan said: "I have."
"You've heard it, but have you attained enlightenment?"
Lu Mingyuan remained silent.
The old Taoist spoke no more and pushed open the door to enter the temple. The light from the lantern gradually receded, finally disappearing from sight.
The Way of the Sword is not in the sword, but in the heart.
He had heard this saying countless times.
At Wudang Mountain, the Pavilion Keeper had said it; at Mount Qingcheng, Perfected Master Changkong had said it; at Shaolin, Zen Master Huijue had said it; at Junshan Mountain, the Sect Leader had said it; and at the Tang Clan, Tang Zhuo had also said it.
But had he truly attained enlightenment?
He looked at his own hands.
These hands had held swords, drawn talismans, thrown punches, and crafted hidden weapons. But were those things truly him? Those swords, those talismans, those punches, those hidden weapons—they were merely extensions of him, not himself.
Where was he himself?
In the heart.
Where was the heart?
Between the arising and ceasing of thoughts, between thinking and not thinking, between being and not being.
He thought of Jiang Yichen.
The man who had spent thirty years practicing shouzhuo with a single sword strike. His sword never pursued variation, subtlety, or any Concept. He simply maintained his focus, guarding that one strike. Yet it was that single strike that allowed him to fight to a draw against Lu Mingyuan for a hundred moves on the Mount Qingcheng Sword Testing Platform.
His sword was in his heart.
Guarding the sword was guarding the heart.
He then thought of Hui Ke.
The old monk who for seventy-two years had only practiced one set of punches and swept one patch of ground. His punches never pursued hardness or softness, speed or slowness, or using an opponent's momentum. He just practiced, throwing that set of punches. Yet it was that set of punches that had left Lu Mingyuan unable to make a move.
His punches were in his heart.
Practicing punches was practicing the heart.
He then thought of the old man who was building the road.
The old man who had been chiseling away, hammer stroke by hammer stroke, for an unknown number of years. His hammer never pursued skill or clumsiness, change or lack thereof. He just struck, hitting those stones. But it was those stones that made Lu Mingyuan understand one thing—
A road is built with the heart.
Not with the hands.
The moon reached the middle of the sky.
Lu Mingyuan suddenly stood up.
He walked to the center of the martial arts arena and stood still.
The night wind was strong, making his robes flap loudly. But his heart was more tranquil than ever before.
He closed his eyes.
He did not draw his sword, did not circulate his Qi, and did not make any movement.
He just stood there.
Standing, thinking about the swords he had seen.
A fast sword is like lightning—that is the heart's swiftness.
A slow sword is like a tortoise—that is the heart's deliberation.
A heavy sword is like a mountain—that is the heart's weight.
A light sword is like a feather—that is the heart's lightness.
An orthodox sword is like an arrow—that is the heart's directness.
An unorthodox sword is like a snake—that is the heart's crookedness.
A hard sword is like iron—that is the heart's firmness.
A soft sword is like water—that is the heart's softness.
Every kind of sword was a state of the heart.
Every path of the sword was a manifestation of the heart.
There was no sword, only the heart.
The sword is the tool of the heart; the heart is the master of the sword.
All swords return to the source—the source is not in the sword, but in the heart.
He slowly opened his eyes.
Under the moonlight, his shadow stretched long. In the distance, the five peaks were like swords pointing toward the heavens. Nearby, the ancient cypress trees were dense, and night birds occasionally cried out.
He looked down at the qingni sword at his waist.
Perfected Master Changkong had said that this sword does not slay those without grievance, nor does it stain itself with the blood of the innocent. If you use the sword with a heart of protection, it is the firmest thing in the world; if you use the sword with a heart of slaughter, it is merely a piece of dead wood.
At the time, he had thought it was merely an exhortation.
Now he understood that it was the true essence of the Way of the Sword.
Swords have no good or bad; only the human heart does.
Swords have no good or evil; only the human heart does.
Swords have no superiority or inferiority; only the human heart does.
The so-called Way of the Sword is nothing more than making one's own heart live as a sword.
Whatever you live as, that is how the sword will be.
He remembered the sword mark he had left on Wenjian Cliff at Mount Qingcheng that day. Three Sword Intents ran parallel—Heaven, Earth, and Man. At that time, he did not know where these three Sword Intents had come from.
Now he knew.
The intent of Heaven was his understanding of the Daoist gates. Purity and non-action, following the natural laws of the Dao.
The intent of Earth was his understanding of the martial path. Thick and carrying all things, protecting all living beings.
The intent of Man was his understanding of the mortal world. Noble Spirit and a pure, innocent heart.
The three Sword Intents came from three areas of cultivation.
But they were all his heart.
The heart of Heaven, the heart of Earth, and the heart of Man.
One in three, three in one.
In his Dantian, that tiny Nascent Soul suddenly opened its eyes.
It looked at him with a clear gaze.
He also looked at it.
Suddenly, the Nascent Soul moved.
It stood up and walked upward along the Meridians, step by step. It passed the Zhongwan point, the Shanzhong point, the throat, the Yintang point, and finally arrived at the Ancestral Aperture between the eyebrows.
Lu Mingyuan felt a wave of warmth at his brow.
That warmth grew thicker and brighter, finally transforming into a beam of light that shot out from between his eyebrows.
The light landed three feet in front of him, condensing into a phantom.
That phantom was himself.
It wasn't the tiny version of him from the Nascent Soul; it was the same size and appearance as him.
A Primordial Spirit.
Nascent Soul transforming into Soul.
He stared blankly at that phantom. The phantom also looked at him, with the exact same eyes, the exact same expression, and the exact same aura.
He knew it was not someone else.
That was himself.
It was his heart, condensed into form.
It was his Dao, manifested outwardly.
The phantom smiled slightly.
He also smiled.
The phantom walked toward him, step by step, entering his body and merging into one with him.
In that moment, he suddenly "saw" many things—
He saw all the swords in the world flowing through his heart one by one.
He saw thousands of swordsmen walking through his heart one by one.
He saw a thousand years of the Way of the Sword unfolding in his heart one by one.
The Way of the Sword is the Way of the Heart.
All swords return to the source; the source is in the heart, not the sword.
He opened his eyes.
The sky was already beginning to brighten. The eastern horizon turned the color of a fish's belly, and the five peaks became gradually clearer in the morning light. Early-rising birds began to chirp, their crisp calls echoing through the valley.
He stood there, motionless.
But he knew that he was no longer the same person he had been last night.
The transformation of the Nascent Soul into a Primordial Spirit is a major hurdle in cultivation.
Countless Cultivators are stuck here for their entire lives, unable to advance even a single inch.
But he had passed it.
Not because of extraordinary talent, and not because of a coincidental Opportunity.
It was because he had walked a long enough road, seen enough people, and understood a deep enough Dao.
That road, those people, and that Dao had finally condensed into this 'Spirit'.
It wasn't cultivated; it was walked.
Just like the old man building the road, hammer stroke by hammer stroke, the road was completed.
Just like Tang Zhuo making hidden weapons, day by day, the tool was completed.
Just like Hui Ke practicing his punches, punch by punch, the punches were completed.
He turned around and gave a deep bow toward Zhenyue Palace.
He did not know if the old Daoist guarding the palace saw or heard him.
But he knew that every person in this world who guarded their own Dao was worthy of a bow.
The sky was fully bright.
The people for the sword debate began to ascend the mountain one after another, and the martial arts arena became lively again. Today was the final day, and there would be more experts appearing and more exciting duels.
But Lu Mingyuan knew he no longer needed to watch.
What he needed to see, he had already finished seeing.
What he needed to attain, he had already attained.
He turned and began to walk down the mountain.
When he reached halfway down the mountain, he suddenly heard someone shouting behind him:
"That brother over there, please wait!"
He turned back and saw a young swordsman hurriedly catching up to him.
"Brother, did you stand in front of Zhenyue Palace all night yesterday?" the young swordsman asked, panting for breath.
Lu Mingyuan nodded.
The young swordsman's eyes were full of admiration: "I heard that those who can stand before Zhenyue Palace for a whole night have all attained enlightenment. What did you attain, brother?"
Lu Mingyuan thought for a moment.
"I attained that the Way of the Sword is in the heart, not in the sword."
The young swordsman froze.
Lu Mingyuan smiled slightly and continued down the mountain.
After a few steps, he heard the young swordsman muttering to himself behind him: "The Way of the Sword is in the heart, not in the sword... The Way of the Sword is in the heart, not in the sword..."
He suddenly remembered himself from years ago.
He had also been like this, chasing after people to ask questions.
He had also been like this, ignorant and confused.
He had also been like this, step by step, walking his own path.
He smiled.
The road is still long; walk it slowly.