1 Shen Zhenyi (2/2)

Late at night. The back hill was quiet. At this time, in the early spring, a chill lingered in the air, and there was still residual snow on the top of the mountain. Only the evergreen pines and cypresses stood proudly. Shen Zhenyi sat quietly in a wooden wheelchair, gazing up at the moon hanging in the middle of the sky. His clothes fluttered back and forth in the cold wind.

The moon was bright and peaceful.

He was the third son of the Abandoned Sword Villa, only a teenager who had just reached the age of seventeen.

Shen Zhenyi had a refined stature, elegant features, high nose and bright eyes, and looked as if he could see through anyone. He liked to wear white clothes every day, and his heart was spotless with no yearnings for luxury or wealth.

In front of Shen Zhenyi sat a small red mud stove. Resting on the stove, a teapot whistled, the cover of the purple pot quivering slightly. On the grass beside his feet, laid one of the Sword Sutra books, its pages colored in pale yellow. The paper was made of silk woven by a special silkworm, allowing it to be passed on for thousands of years without being damaged by water or fire.

If not for its aura, no one would have guessed that the book thrown on the ground was a supreme martial art treasure that all the people in the world long for. The Ten Thousand Sword Sutra.

In Shen Zhenyi's hands, was an unusual copy. It was a 300-year-old manuscript from Shen Mengtian, the founder of the Abandoned Sword Villa. However, it was just casually thrown at his feet, worthless and unimportant.

The pages of the Sword Sutra were covered with characters and brush strokes. On the second page, there even depicted a beautiful woman sketched in white. Although composed of only a few strokes, they were charming and elegant, with a solid foundation. A masterpiece drawn with occasional childlike innocence.

If Shen's ancestors saw how he had altered their sacred manual, they would jump out of the coffin in anger when they saw the state of the spoiled treasures handed down from generation to generation.

Shen Zhenyi seemed to take it for granted, but he didn't think he did anything wrong.

He sat still and thought deeply. The teapot suddenly made a sharp scream.

The water had finally finished boiling.

Shen Zhenyi lazily reached out and lifted the teapot. His wrist shook. A silver stream of water shot out from the spout of the teapot landing in a cup filled with tea leaves. Refreshing and clear, the tea was from the Ming Dynasty, worth a thousand gold.

A table with a teacup on top stood about two feet away from Shen Zhenyi's wheelchair. Boiled water naturally cools in the process of flying through the air, and the temperature was just right when it fell into the cup. It was neither too hot to destroy the color and taste of the tender tea, nor too cold to soak the tea without brewing.

If this tactic was seen by a Taoist Tea Master, he would be amazed and intrigued. But if one wanted to use this tactic to make tea with wonderful flavor, they must first practice magical martial arts to Shen Zhenyi's degree. How many people could achieve such delicate control that didn't even leak a single drop of water?

Shen Zhenyi put down his teapot, closed his eyes and enjoyed the fragrance of tea breathing in through his nose. When the fragrance gradually faded away, he slowly pushed the wheelchair close to the tea table, reached his sleeves, stretched out his long white fingers, held the hot cup, and drank.

His movements were calm and elegant. Every move seemed to contain the mysteries of heaven and earth. It was pleasant to watch.

Rumor had it that Shen Zhenyi could appreciate the charm of swordsmanship in every movement.

His figure was a brilliant sword in the eyes of swordsmen as Zuo Tianxing once said.

All of a sudden!

Shen Zhenyi seemed to have noticed something, and slightly paused.

An unnatural aura destroyed the scene of relaxation.

A gray and yellow leaf blew out from nowhere, and drifted towards Shen Zhenyi's body, about to make contact with his shoulder. But then a slight hiccup sounded out, and the leaf seemed to be swept by a sword. It was divided into two neat and uniform pieces along the stem of the leaf and fell down in a small whirl.

Shen Zhenyi watched the scene and sighed softly, ”Come out! You can't hide your Killing Aura now.”

He faced the darkness. Even if they lost their true spirit as rumored, how could anything be concealed from Shen Zhenyi's eyes which were as bright as a torch in the night?

But there was still silence from the mountains; no one answered.

A restless bird rustled up from the bushes and rushed into the night, whining and then disappearing.

”Since nine months ago, the white pagoda on the back hill, which was usually rarely visited, has been targeted by assassins three times per month. Haven't you ever wondered why I'm still here?”