Chapter 5: Heroes, Headaches, and the Sword That Still Needs Stealing

“You’re telling me,” Feng said, squinting at the large map Mei had spread across the tea table, “that after all the heroism, celebratory dumplings, and narrowly avoided stab wounds… I still have to get that sword?”

Mei didn’t even look up. “You mean the legendary artifact the Veridian Sect entrusted you to retrieve? Yes.”

Feng sighed dramatically, leaning back so far in his chair that it creaked in protest. “Can’t we just say I got it, write a really convincing poem, and move on?”

“No,” Mei said flatly. “Because it’s glowing, it’s cursed, and apparently it's now guarded by a sect that thinks you are the Chosen One foretold in a five-scroll prophecy.”

“…That’s a lot of scrolls for one lie.”

Mei finally glanced up, tired and suspicious. “Did you… do something?”

Feng waved his hands innocently. “Not on purpose! I may have sent a slightly embellished letter about receiving the sword’s ‘whispers on the wind’ during meditation. And then maybe a bard got ahold of it. And maybe that bard performed it in the capital. For the Emperor.”

Mei dropped her forehead onto the table. “You’re going to be famous and dead at the same time.”

---

The next morning, Feng’s luck—as always—took a bizarre turn.

The village square was buzzing. At the center, standing on top of a rain barrel with dramatic flair and at least three too many belts, was a young man in silver-laced robes, sweeping black hair tied high with a jade pin.

“I am Liang Wu, Slayer of Shadows, Thunder of the Eastern Cliffs, and Heir to the Frost Talon Sect!” he announced to no one in particular. “I seek the famed warrior, Feng the Fearless!”

Feng spat his tea.

“Why would anyone name themselves after frost talons?” he muttered. “Sounds like a poultry dish.”

Mei glanced over the rim of her scroll. “That’s your new rival.”

“I didn’t sign up for a rival! Can’t I be a solo act?”

“He heard you defeated twenty bandits with nothing but a hoe, a cooking pot, and a donkey.”

“I also screamed a lot. Why does no one mention the screaming?”

Unfortunately, Feng’s attempt to avoid confrontation by hiding under a laundry cart failed when the cart broke and dumped him—spectacularly—at Liang Wu’s feet.

“Aha!” Liang beamed. “You are Feng!”

Feng groaned. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. Duel, right? You fight, I fall down, we both leave with honor?”

“Duel?” Liang blinked. “No, I wish to join you on your righteous journey!”

Feng blinked back. “Oh no.”

“Yes!” Liang declared. “Your unconventional tactics. Your disregard for conventional swordplay. Your connection to ancient prophecy. You’re exactly the kind of teacher I need!”

Mei stepped in before things spiraled. “Liang Wu, if you want to travel with him, prove yourself useful. There’s a task Feng has been putting off.”

Feng spun toward her. “Et tu, Mei?”

“The Sword of the Silent Vale,” she continued, pointedly ignoring him. “Still sealed, still whispering, still very cursed.”

“Fantastic,” Feng said. “Let’s go poke the glowing death sword and hope for the best. What could go wrong?”

---

Three days later, they reached the Silent Vale.

It was quiet, misty, and completely lacking in hospitality. The shrine that housed the sword stood atop a crumbling staircase of mossy stone, its doors sealed with glowing talismans that pulsed with faint blue light.

Liang Wu gazed at it in reverence. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s haunted,” Feng corrected. “And glows. Things that glow are either magical or moldy. Either way, I’m not touching it.”

“But you must!” Liang said. “The prophecy—”

“Oh, we’re done with prophecies,” Feng said, marching up to the edge of the shrine and shouting: “Hey! Ghosts! Demons! Cursed spirits! Whatever’s guarding that sword! Can we negotiate? I have three steamed buns!”

The wind picked up. The air shimmered. A spectral form appeared, all robes and teeth and echoing voice.

“Who dares disturb the Sword of Eternal Silence?”

Feng raised a hand. “Hi. Big fan. Just here to borrow it. Temporarily. Maybe.”

“You must pass the Trial of the Three Truths.”

Feng turned to Liang. “You do that. You love truth.”

Liang stepped forward solemnly… then promptly triggered a flash of blinding light and vanished into the shrine.

“…Oops,” Feng said. “Didn’t mean that literally.”

---

Half an hour later, Liang stumbled out again, pale but wide-eyed.

“I saw my failures. My fears. My ego, stripped bare. It was humbling.”

Feng scratched his head. “And the sword?”

Liang held it out.

Feng blinked. “Wait, you got it?”

“Yes. But it only shimmered once in my hand. The shrine said… it waits for you.”

Feng stared at the thing. Elegant. Deadly. Very glowy. Whispering his name in a language that somehow rhymed.

“I don’t want it.”

“You must take it.”

“I’d rather eat my own boots.”

“But you were chosen!”

Feng grabbed the sword’s hilt—and immediately regretted it.

Visions slammed into his mind. Old battles. Forgotten blood. Voices calling out his name—not in praise, but in expectation.

He let go. The sword hummed. The shrine fell silent.

“See?” Feng said, shaking his hand. “Even the sword is disappointed. It knows I’m just making it up as I go.”

Liang looked at him with something close to awe. “That’s… the most honest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Mei, who had watched everything from a rock nearby, simply sighed.

“So,” she said, standing. “Now we have the sword, the hero, the overzealous disciple, and a growing legend. What next?”

Feng’s shoulders slumped.

“…Probably more responsibility.”