Volume One: Fresh Rain Chapter Sixteen: Chopping Wood, Climbing Mountains, and Playing Chess

Ye Mingke had always believed that, although his uncle seemed outwardly handicapped and taciturn, just as the tales in ancient novels describe, it was always the quiet ones who were most likely to be hidden masters.

“Mingke.” Someone called softly.

Mingke opened his eyes.

Night still shrouded the world; dawn had not yet come. In the solitude of the room, a lone lamp flickered like a tiny bean of light.

There was one person in the room: his uncle.

Half illuminated by the solitary lamp, his uncle’s face was both grave and distant.

“It’s time. Come with me.”

With those words, he turned away.

The sound of his uncle’s wheelchair rolling out of the door echoed through the dark and tranquil pre-dawn.

Yem Mingke rose and followed. His uncle, with his back to him, suddenly waved a hand behind him.

A flash of cold light.

Mingke turned his head and saw a sword, its icy gleam as pure as snow.

His uncle tilted his head back to gaze at the sky, his voice as lonely as falling snow.

“Today, I shall teach you the supreme martial arts!”

...

“Mingke,” someone called softly.

Mingke rubbed his eyes and woke from the dream, opening his eyes.

Night still lingered; dawn had not yet arrived. In the room, the single lamp burned softly.

There was one person in the room: his uncle.

Half in shadow, half in light, his uncle’s face was solemn and remote.

“It’s time. Come with me.”

He turned, and the sound of the wheelchair rolling through the stillness echoed in the pre-dawn darkness.

Yem Mingke, heart pounding with excitement, hurried out. His uncle, still with his back to him, suddenly waved a hand.

With a loud clang—

Mingke turned, catching sight of a blade gleaming cold as snow… Wait, this sword looked awfully familiar.

His uncle pointed at a pile of firewood in the courtyard.

“Hurry up and split this wood.”

Mingke gasped. Deep breaths.

This uncle must be an imposter, right?

He tried to laugh, but suddenly wanted to cry—what was he supposed to do with that?

...

“Uncle, what about the training you promised?” Mingke slumped on the ground, listless, holding the blade that, in his dream, had shone with icy brilliance… but in reality was the all-too-familiar wood-chopping knife, drawing endless circles in the dirt.

“Splitting wood is training,” Sword Uncle replied.

“Haven’t I always gone up the mountain to chop wood? What’s different about this?” Mingke continued to trace circles.

“It’s not the same. What you did was chopping wood; this is splitting wood. The firewood at home was always split by me.”

“Oh really? Showing your true colors now, huh? After cooking and chopping wood, now you want to offload splitting wood onto me too?” Mingke eyed him suspiciously.

“Yes,” Sword Uncle replied.

“Uncle, you’re very honest,” Mingke replied, half laughing, half crying.

“Our firewood splitting has special requirements. I was afraid you were too young before to learn it.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“How wide is your little finger?”

“My little finger?” Mingke looked at him, curling the other four fingers of his left hand and showing the pinky.

“Watch closely.” Sword Uncle gave him a faint glance, picked up another hatchet while sitting in his wheelchair.

The next moment, Mingke stood up in shock.

He heard the wind whistle and the sound of splitting wood, almost as one continuous note, two distinct yet equally beautiful refrains that built to a climax, then suddenly ceased, leaving echoes lingering in the air.

“Uncle, even the sound of you chopping wood is beautiful.”

—

Mingke squatted by the chopping block, examining the wood that had been split into countless thin slivers, each one identical in size—exactly as wide as his little finger.

“In half a stick of incense, split a thousand pieces of wood, each the same size as your little finger. If the difference isn’t visible to the naked eye, you’ll have achieved your first goal.”

“That’s so hard.” Mingke scratched his head; though he hadn’t tried yet, he could already envision his own dire future.

“But uncle, what’s the point of splitting wood like this?”

Sword Uncle was silent.

“It burns better.”

...

By midday, Mingke had spent the whole morning splitting wood until he was exhausted, devouring his lunch in great greedy bites, chatting with Taoyao, who had just returned from his first day at the academy.

“So how do you cultivate at school?”

“The teacher taught us how to tap the golden spring, swallow the jade elixir, guard the primal spirit—mostly meditation and such. But I don’t really get it; I just dozed off all morning, haha,” Taoyao said, rubbing his big head in embarrassment.

Mingke glanced at Taoyao’s freshly issued white academy uniform, then looked down at himself, covered in wood shavings, and was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness.

Just listen, see how others cultivate—so ethereal, so leisurely. Why was his own path so bitter?

Mingke sniffled, bowed his head, and shoveled in a few more bites of rice to comfort his wounded spirit.

“By the way, did Qiao Qiao go to the academy?” Mingke asked.

“Yes, I saw her today,” Taoyao replied.

“She’s my sister. Since I’m not there, you have to protect her for me—don’t let anyone bully her,” Mingke said seriously.

“Don’t worry. Your sister is my sister too. Others can bully me, but if anyone bullies her, I won’t stand for it.” Taoyao clenched his large fist and tried to look fierce, though it only made him look more endearing.

“You too—don’t let anyone bully you, got it?” Mingke said, half exasperated, half amused, giving him a playful slap on the head.

“I heard that Li Yin, who used to pick on you, is also at the academy now. If he bothers you, come tell me. Although… now that he’s at the academy, I’m not sure I could even win against him anymore.”

Mingke pulled a long face, grumbling.

“It’s okay. I’ll work hard too. You’ll definitely become strong, Mingke,” Taoyao said earnestly.

“I hope so. I don’t even know what this afternoon’s training will be. Just hope it’s not more wood chopping,” Mingke muttered, dispirited.

“Oh right, Mingke,” Taoyao peeked into the house, “Why isn’t your uncle forging today?”

Mingke’s eyes narrowed; he unconsciously gripped his bowl tighter and spoke through gritted teeth.

“He looked down on the wood I chopped, said even the iron wouldn’t agree to be forged with it!”

Mingke recalled the look of pity his uncle had given the firewood he’d worked so hard to chop—some pieces half the size of a palm, some as big as an arm—after breakfast. He was quite annoyed.

...

“Uncle, what’s the training this afternoon?” Mingke asked.

“Climbing a mountain.”

“...” Mingke was speechless.

“Haven’t I always climbed mountains?”

“This is different.”

“What’s different?”

“The mountain is different.”

“Which mountain?” Mingke asked, curiosity piqued.

“The one behind our house.”

“Isn’t that the forbidden mountain? Didn’t you always say not to go there?”

“That was before. Besides… let’s see if you can even get up there.”

At the foot of the mountain, Mingke stood, looking up at the rugged, steep peak before him.

It wasn’t very tall, though it was steep and covered in vegetation. For a child who had grown up wild in the mountains, it shouldn’t be too hard to climb.

“Climb halfway, that’s one goal. Reach the summit, that’s two,” Mingke repeated his uncle’s instructions.

He cautiously took a step toward the mountain.

“No traps?”

“No sealing illusion arrays?”

“No terrifying visions?”

He inched closer, pleasantly surprised to find himself at the mountain’s base without incident.

“Could it be that Uncle is finally giving me an easy task?”

He stepped eagerly onto the jagged, sword-like slope, when suddenly a piercing light flashed atop the peak.

Boom.

The next instant, Mingke felt as if something exploded in his head. He staggered and collapsed at the foot of the mountain.

At the summit, the dazzling light flickered, like a mischievous child gleeful at a successful prank.

This was no freebie—it was a death sentence…

He did not know that, not long ago, on a pitch-black night beneath the full moon, this very mountain had erupted with a sword light so fierce it seemed to rend the heavens.

In the distant bamboo hut, his uncle looked up and smiled softly, as if speaking to an absent friend.

“You wanted me to teach him the sword, not let him be like you—a grown man playing the qin.”

“I never managed to teach him before. Now I finally can, though sadly, only for these six short years.”

“Six years...”

...

“So your training this afternoon was taking a nap at the foot of the mountain, or rather, having a nightmare all afternoon?” Taoyao asked curiously.

“Don’t mention it. I feel even more exhausted than after chopping wood all morning,” Mingke replied, pale-faced, still clutching his bowl, but with no appetite at all.

“Snakes—snakes everywhere in the dream.”

Try as he might, Taoyao’s words dragged Mingke back into the nightmare, making him shudder and retch.

Fine, no dinner tonight.

Yet, though he could skip dinner, there was still training to be done.

...

That evening.

Mingke looked at the Go board and his beautiful, dashing aunt, feeling genuinely delighted.

“Auntie, you’re the best. Playing Go is so elegant, so relaxing,” Mingke exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in excitement after a day of torment.

“Of course. I’m the one who dotes on you most, after all,” Aunt Long laughed brightly.

“Come—if you can beat me in one game, that’ll count as a goal reached. And I’ll give you a sixteen-stone handicap.”

Aunt Long grabbed a handful of her white stones and released them onto the board, one by one, each hitting the stone surface with a clear, ringing sound—sixteen stones, sixteen drops.

“Isn’t that too much? I did learn a bit from you before,” Mingke said, growing even more excited, concern entirely feigned.

“It’s fine. With a bit of help, you won’t suffer so much,” Aunt Long said kindly.

“Let’s begin, then.” Mingke grinned.

“All right.” Aunt Long smiled too, then pulled two strips of black cloth from under the bed, handing one to Mingke and tying the other around her own eyes.

Mingke’s smile froze.

“Hurry and cover your eyes, and we’ll start!” Aunt Long, already blindfolded, smiled sweetly.

“...” Mingke was speechless.

On the hellish difficulty of blindfold Go:

First, hearing and spatial sense—the player must rely on sound alone to judge where the opponent’s stone lands, with the precision of the Go board’s grid.

Second, memory—the player must remember the entire layout of the board.

Third, divided attention—the player must calculate moves while maintaining the memory of the whole board.

Unsurprisingly, for someone who often misplaced stones even with sight, Mingke, even with a sixteen-stone advantage, was wiped out game after game before the middle of the board was even filled.

At last, the torturous training ended.

Drenched in sweat, his face pale and spirit drained, Mingke pulled off his blindfold and looked at his aunt, who seemed utterly relaxed and a little bored.

He waved his hand, still shaken. “No more, Auntie, I feel like you’ve drained the life out of me.”

Smack.

“Ow!”

The poor boy was knocked to the floor by his aunt’s palm.

“You rascal, have you been sneaking lines from those racy stories again?”