Blades of Change

[Zhen Jian] 

Today marked the first day Jian treated patients on his own, without the guiding presence of his master. As the afternoon sun cast long shadows through the clinic's windows, Jian leaned forward on the counter, boredom etched on his face. He had already seen his last patient a while ago, treating the usual ailments—common colds and headaches—with swift precision. Each case was resolved effortlessly, leaving him with hours to spare before evening.

Jian's gaze wandered to the sword his master had given him yesterday. It was an old, rustic blade, its surface covered in a layer of dark, pitted corrosion. The hilt was simple, crafted from dark wood wrapped tightly in worn leather that had seen countless years of use. The guard, a plain crosspiece, bore the marks of age and countless battles but remained sturdy, a testament to its enduring reliability.

With deliberate steps, Jian walked towards the sword and lifted it by its handle. It fit snugly in his calloused hands, as if it had been forged specifically for him. Stepping out into the back of the clinic, he stood still for a moment, raising the corroded blade.

A sense of intimacy washed over him as he held the sword aloft. His master had said it was his grandfather's sword, but Jian had never known either of his grandparents. His father had been his best friend and sole confidant. Yet, this blade felt like the comforting hand of an older family member, someone who would protect and reassure him.

Jian smiled, taking a deep breath before slashing down with the blade held in both hands. Instantly, a sweet aroma enveloped him. The air itself tasted like pumpkin spice, and he hungrily inhaled it. A second later, the aroma was gone, leaving Jian bewildered. "I could have sworn someone placed pumpkin pie in front of me. Maybe I'm just hungry," he mused, chuckling to himself.

He swung the sword again in the same fashion. The sweet aroma returned, warm and comforting, surrounding him in a blissful haze that made him forget everything else. A moment later, the scent disappeared again. Puzzled, Jian wondered what could be causing this phenomenon.

Driven by curiosity, he kept his eyes open the next time he swung the sword. However, his lack of focus resulted in a poor form, and the aroma did not occur. "Huh, was it an olfactory hallucination? No way," he muttered. Determined to understand, he closed his eyes and corrected his form, swinging the sword once more. This time, the sweet aroma engulfed him again.

Quickly opening his eyes, he realized the scent was emanating from the area around the sword. Whether it was his hands or the handle itself, he couldn't tell, but he craved that smell. Soon, he noticed that the aroma only manifested when he executed the sword slash perfectly. Any mistake, and the scent would not appear.

Jian lost himself in the practice, performing the slash nearly six out of ten times perfectly. He didn't realize how addicted he had become to the smell. Hours passed, and eventually, the aroma stopped occurring. Looking at his hands with a frown, he saw that he was drenched in sweat, as if he had been caught in a rainstorm. The five-pound sword now felt impossibly heavy, nearly dragging on the floor due to his exhaustion.

Laughing to himself, Jian thought, "It's time for rest and a shower." After a quick bath and dinner, he fell asleep, feeling nothing different from his regular routine. However, inside his body, remarkable changes were taking place. Each breath he took of that sweet smell had altered his body at the cellular level. With each inhalation, impurities were expelled, purifying his body to a level seen only in late-foundation establishment cultivators. Although he hadn't refined his body to match their strength, his physical form was now comparable to theirs.

Days passed, and Jian made it a routine to practice his sword swings. Three months went by since his master left, and Jian had diligently taken up sword practice. He began to favor dressing in white robes, reminiscent of his master, who had left many white robes for him to wear. Jian missed his master, and wearing the robes was a way to remember and honor him.

Stepping out of the clinic, Jian drew the old sword from its sheath. He had cleaned it to the best of his ability, discovering that the blade had been black to begin with. Despite his efforts, it still bore many rusted and oxidized patches, the black blade a mishmash of black, green, and orange.

Jian didn't mind. In just a few months, the sword had become like family to him. Whether it was because it had belonged to his grandfather or due to some intrinsic quality of the blade itself, he did not know. What he did know was that the sword, with all its imperfections, felt like an extension of himself—a legacy he was proud to wield.

Just like always, Jian positioned himself, ready to swing the blade. But today, something was different. A small white line began spreading from the base of the sword to its tip. 

"What is that?" he asked himself, perplexed.

Curiosity got the better of him. He raised his non-dominant index finger to poke at the line. The moment he touched it, pain seared through his hand.

"AHH!" he cried out, dropping the sword. The light vanished without a trace, leaving only a drop of blood on the grass. He felt a shiver of relief—if he had poked it more, he might have lost his finger.

Picking up the sword again, the white light reappeared. Jian decided to experiment. He approached a thick tree and touched it with the glowing edge of the sword. The white light cut through the tree like a hot knife through butter. He felt no resistance, only a smooth sensation in his hand.

"Hmm, this would be helpful for precise cuts in surgery," he thought. His mind, always focused on his trade, raced with ways this newfound power could aid his patients. Satisfied with his discovery, he resumed his practice, perfecting his swings to the point where he could smell the fragrant air with each motion.

Before he immersed himself in training, he heard light footsteps approaching. He turned to see a young boy calling out, "Doctor Zhen! My father is hurt!"