The Moonlit Duel Beneath the Plum Blossoms

A gentle breeze stirred the night, carrying with it the faint scent of plum blossoms. Beneath the moonlight, two shadows stood facing each other in the secluded courtyard of the Lin family manor. One was Quang Minh, his robes billowing like drifting clouds, the other a white-clad swordswoman, her long hair fluttering like silken threads in the wind.

"You've followed me here," Quang Minh said calmly, eyes narrowed.

"I didn't think the once-righteous disciple of Master Thien Minh would become the shadow of the demonic path," the woman replied coldly. "Is this the truth you discovered beyond the Way?"

Quang Minh remained silent for a long moment. Then he slowly raised his hand and drew his sword. "Only blades speak truth beneath the stars."

A flicker of silver light leapt from the scabbard—Quang Minh's blade, Tâm Lưu Kiếm, hummed with quiet intensity. He took the stance of Phi Vân Bộ, each step light as mist, body low yet ready to soar.

The woman moved first. Her sword drew a sweeping arc, unleashing Băng Ngọc Liên Hoa Kiếm—a technique known for its fluidity and deceptive speed. The courtyard shimmered with cold light as illusory petals of ice burst forth.

Quang Minh countered with a twist of his wrist, executing Tĩnh Tâm Phản Ảnh—a defensive maneuver that mirrored his opponent's strike by redirecting its force with internal energy. The air trembled.

"You've improved," she whispered, parrying the blow and retreating two steps. "But your heart is no longer the same."

Quang Minh's voice was steady. "The heart that clings to old truths will never reach the summit."

Their swords clashed again. Sparks flared as he executed Ngũ Hành Loạn Tượng, a chaotic sequence that mimicked earth, fire, water, metal, and wood in its rhythm—each strike seemingly random but bound by an internal harmony.

The woman countered with Thiên Nữ Tán Hoa, swordplay as graceful as a dancer's weave. Her movements bent like willow branches in the wind, unpredictable, ephemeral.

Suddenly, Quang Minh's aura shifted.

He stepped forward and invoked Vô Ngã Vô Kiếm—the culmination of his new enlightenment. It was not a technique but a state. His blade no longer struck from intent, but from emptiness. No flourish. No pattern. Yet every move disarmed, unbalanced, broke form.

The woman staggered back, her sword slipping from her grip.

"…What is this technique?" she gasped.

Quang Minh sheathed his blade, his voice soft. "It has no name. When the self fades, the sword becomes real."

Moonlight shimmered in his eyes, now distant and tranquil.