The training grounds of the Mist-Covered Peak were a testament to the sect’s slow decay. The flagstones were cracked, with stubborn weeds pushing through the fissures like tiny green daggers. The wooden training dummies were scarred and rotting, their painted faces faded into haunting, expressionless masks. Usually, this place felt like a graveyard of ambition, but today, for Xiao Qing, it felt like a battlefield.

  She gripped the worn handle of a reed broom, her knuckles white. Her body was screaming. The "resonance" she had achieved in the bamboo grove had left her Dantian feeling like it had been scraped with glass. It wasn't the clean, invigorating burn of Qi cultivation; it was the raw, jagged ache of a body forced to do something it wasn't built for.

  Thump. (Hum). Thump. (Hum).

  She tried to maintain the rhythm as she swept, but the connection was elusive. The stone of the training ground was different from the soft earth of the grove. It was cold, stubborn, and silent. It didn't want to vibrate; it wanted to remain still.

  "Focus, Xiao Qing," she whispered to herself, her voice a mere breath against the wind. "If you can't find the resonance here, you're just a girl with a broom when Zhang Hao returns."

  She closed her eyes for a second, sweeping by instinct. She reached out with her mind, searching for the "heartbeat" of the stone. Every material had a frequency. In her first life, she had learned that even the hardest diamond had a song if you listened closely enough. The Crimson Lotus had used that knowledge to find the weak points in legendary armors. Now, Xiao Qing needed it just to survive the afternoon.

  Suddenly, a shadow fell over her.

  She didn't stop sweeping. She knew the gait. It wasn't the heavy, arrogant stomp of Zhang Hao, nor the scurrying patter of the younger bullies. These footsteps were light, almost non-existent, like a leaf skipping across the ground.

  "You're sweeping the wrong way."

  Xiao Qing froze. She slowly turned. Lin Xiao was standing near a weathered stone pillar, his hands tucked into his wide white sleeves. He looked less like a Sect Master and more like a weary grandfather watching a troublesome child.

  "Master," she said, bowing her head slightly. She didn't want him to see the fire in her eyes—the fire of a woman who had lived three times and was tired of being looked down upon.

  "The dust on this Peak isn't just dirt, Qing," Lin Xiao said, walking toward her. He pointed to the trail she had left behind. "It is the remains of those who came before. Ground-up stone, dried moss, the skin of old prayers. If you fight the dust, it will only blind you. You must invite it to move."

  Xiao Qing frowned. Invite it to move? "Master, the training grounds must be clean for Brother Zhang Hao. I don't have time for poetry."

  Lin Xiao chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. "Zhang Hao is a boy playing with a wooden sword while claiming he commands the wind. You, however... you are trying to talk to the stones. That is a much more dangerous game."

  Xiao Qing’s heart skipped a beat. He knows.

  She looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that your 'Mist-Gathering' is pathetic," he said, his eyes twinkling with a sudden, sharp intelligence that vanished as quickly as it appeared. "But your grip on the broom is... interesting. You aren't holding it like a servant. You're holding it like a catalyst."

  He stepped closer, and for a moment, the air around him grew heavy. The temperature seemed to drop, and the chaotic noise of the wind died down to a whisper. Xiao Qing felt a strange pressure on her chest—not painful, but immense, like being at the bottom of a very deep, very still ocean.

  "Tell me, little bird," Lin Xiao whispered, leaning in. "In your dreams, when the lotus blooms in the crimson fire, do you feel the heat? Or just the regret?"

  The broom clattered to the stone floor.

  Xiao Qing felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Lotus. Crimson fire. He wasn't just dropping hints; he was throwing the past in her face.

  "Who are you?" she hissed, her voice trembling. "How do you know about that?"

  Lin Xiao straightened up, the heavy pressure vanishing instantly. He looked like a harmless old man again. "I am just a Sect Master of a dying sect. And you are just a disciple who needs to finish her chores."

  He turned to walk away, but stopped after a few paces. "By the way, when Zhang Hao arrives, don't throw dirt at him again. It’s beneath you. If you must strike, strike the rhythm, not the man."

  "Wait!" she called out, but he was gone. He didn't run; he simply walked behind a pillar and wasn't there when she followed.

  Xiao Qing stood alone on the training ground, her mind spinning. He knew. He definitely knew about her first life. Did he know about the second? Did he know how she was reincarnating? And the most haunting question of all: Was he the one doing this to her?

  She picked up the broom. Her hands were shaking.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Strike the rhythm, not the man.

  She took a deep breath. She looked at the cracked flagstones again. She stopped trying to force the stone to vibrate. Instead, she tried to feel the rhythm Lin Xiao had left behind. The air still tasted of his presence—a cold, ancient stillness.

  She began to sweep again. Thump. (Hum).

  This time, she didn't look for the vibration of the dirt. She looked for the vibration of the space between the stones.

  Swish.

  The broom moved. A small cloud of dust rose.

  Swish-thump.

  The dust didn't scatter. It spiraled.

  Xiao Qing’s eyes widened. She wasn't using Qi. She was using the resonance of the broom’s motion to influence the air. It was a physical manifestation of a spiritual principle.

  As she worked, the rhythm became easier. The ache in her Dantian didn't vanish, but it shifted from a sharp pain to a low, rhythmic thrum. She was cleaning the grounds faster than she ever had before. The dust seemed to leap away from her broom, gathering into neat piles as if by magic.

  But the peace didn't last.

  "Well, well. It seems the 'Groundworm' has found a new hobby."

  Zhang Hao had arrived. He wasn't alone. He was flanked by six other inner disciples, all dressed in pristine blue robes. Zhang Hao had cleaned the dirt from his face, but his eyes were bloodshot with fury. He carried a practice saber made of heavy black-wood, and the air around him was turbulent with poorly suppressed Qi.

  "I've been thinking about our encounter in the grove, Xiao Qing," Zhang Hao said, stepping onto the flagstones she had just cleaned. He ground his boot into a neat pile of dust, scattering it everywhere. "I realized I was too lenient. You've forgotten your place. And in this sect, when a servant forgets her place, we remind her with more than just words."

  The other disciples spread out, encircling her. They weren't here for a "sparring session." They were here for an execution of her dignity.

  Xiao Qing held her broom vertically, like a staff. "The grounds are clean, Brother Zhang. My task is done."

  "Clean?" Zhang Hao laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "It looks filthy to me. In fact," he pointed his saber at her feet, "there's a massive piece of trash standing right in the middle of it."

  One of the disciples behind her lunged forward, trying to grab her hair.

  In her first life, she would have taken his arm. In her second, she would have tripped him into a fountain.

  In this life, Xiao Qing closed her eyes. She felt the stone beneath her feet. She felt the rhythm of the wind. And she felt the lingering coldness of Lin Xiao’s presence.

  Strike the rhythm.

  As the disciple’s hand closed in, Xiao Qing didn't move her body away. She moved the broom.

  She slammed the base of the broom handle into the flagstone.

  CRACK.

  It wasn't a loud sound, but the vibration traveled through the stone like a ripple in a pond. The disciple who was lunging suddenly lost his footing—not because she hit him, but because the stone beneath him seemed to 'shiver' at the exact moment his weight shifted.

  He fell face-first onto the hard ground with a sickening thud.

  "What happened? Did you trip over your own feet, Feng?" Zhang Hao barked, his face twisting. "Get up!"

  But the disciple, Feng, didn't get up. He was clutching his ankle, his face pale. The vibration had been small, but it had hit the resonant frequency of his bone at the moment of impact. It wasn't broken, but it felt like his entire leg had gone numb.

  "You... what did you do?" Zhang Hao stepped forward, his saber glowing with a faint blue light. He was finally drawing on his Qi.

  Xiao Qing didn't answer. She felt a strange, cold clarity. Her fragmented roots were humming in unison now, a fragile lattice held together by pure, rhythmic intent.

  "I'm sweeping, Brother Zhang," she said softly.

  "I'll kill you!" Zhang Hao roared, losing all semblance of his 'top disciple' composure. He swung the black-wood saber in a wide, horizontal arc. A blade of compressed air—a 'Wind Slash'—flew toward her.

  It was a lethal move. Against a disciple with no Qi, it would have sliced through flesh and bone.

  Xiao Qing didn't panic. She saw the Wind Slash, but more importantly, she saw the rhythm of it. The wind was chaotic, pulsing in three distinct beats.

  She swung her broom.

  She didn't swing it at the saber. She swung it at the air in front of the slash.

  Swish-Swish-THUMP.

  The broom hit the air with the same resonance she had used to clear the dust. The 'Wind Slash' didn't explode; it dissolved. The air pressure she created with the broom cancelled out the frequency of his technique. To the onlookers, it looked like his powerful attack simply vanished into a puff of dust.

  Silence fell over the training grounds.

  Zhang Hao stood frozen, his saber still extended. His mouth was open, but no words came out. The other disciples were backing away, their eyes wide with terror. They didn't understand what they had just seen. They only knew that the 'trash' had just swiped away a Wind Slash like it was a cobweb.

  Xiao Qing felt a trickle of blood run down from her nose. The effort had been too much. Her Dantian felt like it was on fire, and her vision was swimming with black spots.

  She leaned on her broom, her legs shaking.

  "Is there..." she gasped, trying to keep her voice steady, "...any more dust you'd like me to clear, Brother Zhang?"

  Zhang Hao’s face went from white to a deep, bruised purple. He raised his saber again, his eyes crazed. "You witch! You're using some demonic art! I'll—"

  "That is enough."

  The voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a mountain.

  Lin Xiao was standing at the edge of the training ground. He wasn't looking at Xiao Qing. He was looking at Zhang Hao.

  "Master!" Zhang Hao cried out, pointing a trembling finger at Xiao Qing. "She's practicing forbidden arts! She attacked Feng! She—"

  "I saw what happened, Zhang Hao," Lin Xiao said, his voice cold and flat. "I saw a top disciple use a lethal technique against a junior with no cultivation. And I saw that junior defend herself with a broom."

  He walked toward them, and every disciple he passed bowed so low their foreheads touched the dirt.

  "Go to the Hall of Discipline," Lin Xiao commanded. "All of you. You will stay there until you understand the difference between strength and bullying."

  "But Master—"

  "Now," Lin Xiao said.

  Zhang Hao glared at Xiao Qing, a look of pure, unadulterated hatred, before turning and stomping away, his followers trailing behind him like beaten dogs.

  Once they were gone, the training ground felt empty. The adrenaline began to fade, and Xiao Qing felt her knees buckle.

  She didn't hit the ground.

  A pair of strong, surprisingly steady hands caught her. Lin Xiao was there, supporting her weight.

  "You did well," he whispered into her ear. "But you were sloppy. You used too much vibration for the stone, and not enough for the air. That’s why your nose is bleeding."

  Xiao Qing looked up at him, her vision blurry. "Why... why are you helping me?"

  Lin Xiao smiled. It was the first real smile she had seen on his face—sad, ancient, and deeply weary.

  "Because, little Lotus," he said, using that name again, "I've watched you die twice. I’d like to see what you do when you actually live."

  Before she could ask another question, darkness finally claimed her, but this time, it wasn't the void of death. It was the heavy, dreamless sleep of the exhausted.

  And in that sleep, she heard a voice, distant and echoing:

  "The third life is the pivot, Xiao Qing. Don't let the cycle close just yet."