The courtyard was devoid of flowers and grass, only a piece of bluish-black mountain rock polished smooth as a mirror, and several odd stones that seemed randomly scattered yet subtly resonated with the rhythm of the surrounding world.
The entire courtyard exuded an aura of returning to simplicity, a purity in harmony with the Dao.
Chu Zheng's gaze fell upon the large bluish-black sword-polishing stone in the courtyard.
A young boy kneeled there, fully absorbed in what he was doing.
The boy appeared to be around fifteen or sixteen, with a slightly thin build. He wore a set of rough, faded linen clothes, holding a simple, ancient-style black longsword, its blade dull with no hint of sharpness.
He was slowly and steadily moving the longsword over the whetstone.
His movements carried a rhythm akin to the Dao, each push seemed to be infused with all his mind and will.
