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墨書 Inktalez
A figure walked through the tranquil mountain forest, surrounded only by the rustling of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze and the soft crunch of footsteps on fallen foliage. The sky above was obscured by a dense canopy of branches, allowing only dappled patches of light to filter through. His steps were steady and light, yet a hint of profound contemplation lingered in his brow.
The battle from the previous day with the Yankeeper haunted his mind. The memory of that kid named Yan Kong, wielding his Daito with reckless abandon, remained vividly etched in his recollection. Bing Lie closed his eyes; every moment of their clash, every metallic sound of blades colliding, was as clear as if it were carved into his brain.
"Not bad," Bing Lie murmured to himself, his expression calm, yet a subtle ripple of emotion flickered in his eyes. "In this continent, he can barely be considered part of the first tier." His assessment was composed, devoid of praise, even tinged with a hint of indifference.
However, Bing Lie could not shake off the nagging concern deep within him. Why did that immature kid provoke such repeated reflections after their fight? Was it the chaotic swordsmanship he displayed? Or perhaps the immense ambition hidden beneath the blade? Or was it that reckless madness that faintly reminded him of his younger self?
Bing Lie suddenly halted. A breeze swept through the forest, lifting his cloak, the black fabric fluttering in the wind with a soft tearing sound. His silver hair was tousled by the gust, partially obscuring his stern face.
He raised his right hand, extending his palm; under the sunlight, his fingertips appeared pale and elongated. He gazed at his hand, his expression as deep as an unfathomable well.
"These hands," Bing Lie whispered softly, almost merging with the wind, "have wielded blades countless times, severing dreams and lives." His fingers curled slightly, forming a fist. He could feel the weight of those past actions still lingering on this hand, refusing to fade away.
But why… why did looking at that mad Yankeeper stir a sense of unease within him? That ambition and reckless demeanor mirrored something he was reluctant to confront.
Bing Lie took a deep breath and lowered his hand, directing his gaze toward the distant mountains, his expression returning to its usual icy demeanor. The mountain wind lifted his cloak once more as he stood there, a solitary figure akin to a statue—lonely yet resolute.
"Just an immature kid," he muttered under his breath, his tone carrying a cold judgment; yet beneath it lay an indescribable contradiction. He then turned and continued deeper into the forest, gradually disappearing among the branches and leaves.
Bing Lie's pace remained steady, but as he ascended further along the mountain path, the incline grew steeper. His boots crunched softly on the carpet of leaves and gravel beneath him. Each step required more effort than before, yet there was no sign of fatigue on his face; exhaustion seemed merely an unnecessary emotion to him.
The scenery around him began to change. Initially, he could still hear the crisp calls of birds among the trees and occasionally spot a squirrel darting swiftly up a trunk. However, as he climbed higher, that familiar vitality seemed to be erased by some invisible force. The birdsong diminished, replaced by a deeper hum of insects and occasional distant roars from wild beasts.
The temperature grew increasingly biting, the mountain wind striking his face, carrying a chill that penetrated his cloak like an invisible blade cutting into his skin. He tightened the cloak around him slightly, yet his pace did not falter. This was not his first time climbing such a mountain path; he was familiar with the solitude and the coldness of this place, and one could even say he relished it. For it mirrored his inner self—lonely, frigid, and unyieldingly hard.
As he ascended, the presence of flora and fauna dwindled. The faint sounds of life gradually faded away, leaving only the howling wind echoing in his ears. Once lush trees became sparse, replaced by stubborn pines that thrived in this harsh environment. Their branches twisted and contorted, like warriors who had endured countless storms yet remained unbowed.
He paused, standing on a bare rock, surveying his surroundings. The distant mountains loomed hazily in the thin mist, while the steep path beneath him wound down like a gray serpent disappearing into the depths of the forest. The cold wind billowed his cloak again; he reached out to secure his collar and squinted at the peaks above. He was already very close to a place where no one ventured.
Without hesitation, he lifted his foot and continued upward. Each step was steady and powerful, as if this desolate path were merely a familiar journey to him. He understood that at such heights, life became more fragile, and he no longer needed to be accompanied by any unnecessary sounds.
His steps grew more resolute on the final steep slopes, each footfall echoing crisply against the jagged rocks. Soon, he reached the summit, standing on a narrow platform against the biting cold wind. His gaze fell upon a small structure before him, a rare softness emerging in his deep-set eyes.
It was a Wild Temple of Kong Si—one of the few remaining relics on this continent. Small and humble, its roof tiles were weathered and chipped, while the surrounding wooden framework appeared to be eroded by time and teetering on collapse. Yet still, this Wild Temple stood quietly atop the mountain, as if recounting its past glory and the silence of ages.
He stepped closer, stopping before the Wild Temple to carefully examine this last remnant belonging to Kong Si. His eyes slowly scanned over the details of the temple as if offering a silent greeting to an old friend. Despite its dilapidated state, far from reflecting Kong Si's former splendor, this little shrine held extraordinary significance for him.
Without hesitation, he knelt down slowly, his knees brushing against the cold ground. The wind rustled through his cloak with a soft vibration. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air before gradually drawing out the knife from his waist. The blade gleamed coldly; sharp as autumn water yet imbued with an awe-inspiring tranquility.
He gently brought the blade close to a nearby stone and swiftly drew it across; the tip of the knife struck against the stone with a spark that flared brightly. "Hiss—" The firelight flickered to life, igniting an already broken incense stick covered in dust before the Wild Temple.
The flame danced, its flickering orange glow appearing especially warm against the cold mountaintop. A faint wisp of Qing Yan rose from the tip of the incense, dissipating into the air with a barely perceptible sense of peace carried by the mountain breeze.
He sheathed his knife again, lowering his head with hands pressed together in prayer, eyes closed as he knelt quietly before the Wild Temple. He spoke no words nor made any movements; he simply allowed that wisp of Qing Yan to drift away as if carrying an unspoken wish across time to intertwine with memories of the past.
The cold wind continued to blow; his figure stood solitary yet resolute, becoming an eternal part of this mountaintop alongside that Wild Temple.
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