Jingliu’s sword sliced the air with a cooling presence. It was—gentle the way she wielded her sword, it was an extension of her very being. The two seemingly the one and the same.

You always watched her practice, engrossed in her technique.

That was until one day, Jingliu was practicing as usual when her sword shattered. She stood frozen, it was as if her heart shattered right then and there.

You decided to buy her a new sword, as you entered the blacksmith’s Jingliu glances around.

“I really don’t want a new sword,” she mumbles looking at the few swords displayed.