Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

There was nothing around except water, water that stretched as far as the eye could see, a deep black that extended to the horizon—no, to all directions, to the very ends of the world.

Huge waves surged in from all directions.

She paused for a moment, then quickly struggled.

She slapped her hand on the water, splashing water that landed on her face, making her shiver from the cold.

She called out, but her voice carried away without echoing, as if swallowed by something.

The water beneath my feet was also water, a bottomless blackness.

She pushed off, but couldn't see the bottom at all.

I kicked it again, but still nothing happened.

Those on the shore saw a completely different scene.

The woman was circling in the water, in a small area about five meters square in the middle of the river, going around and around again.

Even though the bank was only a few dozen meters away, she swam towards the center of the river, swimming a few meters out and then circling back, swimming out again and circling back again, like a headless fly or a puppet being led by a string.

After spinning around a dozen times, she suddenly started kicking her legs. After kicking her legs for ten minutes, she suddenly rolled over and lay on her back.

I was swimming quite well at first, and although I was going in the wrong direction, at least I was keeping steady.

But just a few seconds after she was turned over, she began to thrash about violently—flailing her arms and legs, splashing water high into the air, as if she were trying to dodge something.

There was clearly nothing on the river.

There were no waves, no wind, and not even a single fish.

But the more she struggled, the more violently she became, flailing her hands across the water and shouting something with her mouth opening and closing. The people on the shore couldn't hear her clearly; they could only see her face rising and falling back into the water, as if she were being swept back and forth by some giant wave.

In the middle of the river, Liang Yan struggled desperately.

She felt herself being swept up by waves, one after another crashing into her mouth, salty and astringent, like the taste of seawater.

She couldn't open her eyes, she only knew to use her hands and feet to pull herself forward, forward, and forward again, but the waves kept coming and going, and she couldn't swim out no matter what she did.

Those on the shore only saw her spinning in place, slapping the water's surface with a loud splash, the water droplets flashing a few times before falling back into the river.

……

Half an hour passed.

Liang Yan's movements became slower and slower.

Raise your arm, slap it down, raise it again, slap it down again—each time lower and slower than the last, like a machine slowly coming to a stop.

Her face would sometimes surface and sometimes sink back down, only her hair would float on the water, scattered in clumps like water plants.

She could no longer shout.

The mouth opened, water poured in, closed, opened again, and water poured in again. A sound came from the throat, neither speaking nor crying, but the hissing sound of wind squeezing out from the cracks of the broken bellows, one hiss after another.

Every time she sank, the people on the shore thought she would never come up again.

But the extreme pain of drowning and her strong will to survive always brought her back to the surface.

The bridge is completely blocked by cars.

From one end of the bridge to the other, the red and green car bodies lined up in a stiff, motionless snake.

Some people turned off their cars and stood by the door looking into the river; some leaned half their bodies out of the windows, holding their phones high; some simply abandoned their cars, walked to the railing, and stood on tiptoe to look down.

There are more and more people.

The bridge, the riverbank, the walkway, and the slope on the opposite side of the bridge—everywhere was crowded with people. Some were holding their phones, some were carrying children, and some were walking dogs. The dogs, unaware of what their owners were looking at, darted in and out of the crowd. One dog was kicked and whimpered as it retreated into the crowd.

Just then, a series of wailing sounds came from the road leading to Qingping County Hospital.

Pedestrians quickly moved to both sides, and vehicles on the road struggled to create a passage.

Two police motorcycles led the way, one in front and one behind, with a white ambulance sandwiched in between. It drove very slowly, stopping every now and then to wait for the crowd to make way before moving forward a few more meters.

People at the bridgehead automatically moved to both sides.

No one directed or shouted; people simply and naturally parted to make way for each other.

The ambulance squeezed through the crowd, its tires screeching against the roadside.

The car came to a stop, and the rear door opened.

Several medical staff pushed a cart down the bridge, the wheels making a rumbling sound as they rolled over the surface.

The crowd parted to the sides, creating a narrow passage that led directly to the middle of the bridge—the spot closest to Zhang Qiliang.

The cart was parked next to the railing.

The white cloth was lifted, revealing a young face, pale as snow.

An elderly woman lunged at the cart, her knees hitting the bridge surface.

Beside her, a young woman with a slightly protruding belly also knelt down.

Their hands rested on the cart... both were snow-white.

Physical fitness decreased by 0.01...

Physical fitness decreased by 0.01...

Physical fitness decreased by 0.01...

Zhang Qiliang sighed, flew to the cart and landed, making a feint.

Liang Yan flew out of the water.

Water streamed down her body, glistening in the sunlight like a tattered piece of silk.

A few seconds later, Liang Yan was thrown onto the bridge surface and landed three meters away from the cart. Her back hit the concrete ground with a dull thud.

She turned to her side, curled up into a ball, gurgling in her throat, water gushing from her mouth and trickling down her chin to the ground, wetting a small patch of the bridge.

She coughed once, then coughed again, each cough sounding as if she were coughing up her internal organs.

After vomiting up most of the water, she turned over, lying on her back, her chest heaving violently. She slowly opened her eyes, first squinting, then closing them again when the sunlight stung them. When she opened them again, her pupils contracted, and her focus went from blurry to clear.

She saw the cart.

I saw the snow-white face on the cart.

I saw an old woman and a young woman kneeling on either side of the cart.

Her body stiffened for a moment.

Then she started backing away. She braced herself on the ground with her hands, scooted backward with her buttocks, and her heels clattered against the bridge surface. After taking two steps back, her back hit the railing, and she couldn't go any further.

"I...I was wrong..." The voice was squeezed out of his throat, thin and hoarse, as if someone was choking him, "Please...please..."

She looked up at Zhang Qiliang.

Then he looked at the old woman, then at the young woman, then at the snow-white face on the cart.

"Auntie... Sister-in-law... I was wrong... I... I'll take care of you in your old age... I... I'll pay you back... I'll pay you back with my life's wages... I..."

The old woman didn't look at her.

The young woman didn't even look at her.

They just knelt down and kowtowed repeatedly.

Zhang Qiliang sighed deeply once again.

He walked up to Liang Yan, raised his right hand, and slightly curled his five fingers together.

Liang Yan's face began to change.

Start with the corners of your eyes.

Several fine lines, as if ironed, spread to both sides and climbed towards the temples, getting deeper and more numerous with each step.

Then there's the cheek, where the remaining fullness sags, the cheekbones protrude, and the flesh below the cheekbones sinks in, forming a light shadow.

The corners of my mouth droop, my lips become thin, dry, and covered with a layer of white skin.

The jawline has become loose and blends into the neck, making it difficult to distinguish between the two.

My hair is changing too. Starting from the roots, the black color fades layer by layer, like ink being diluted with water. First it turns gray, then a darker gray, and finally it turns white.

Liang Yan raised her hand and looked at it.

My fingers have become thinner, my knuckles have protruded, and my skin has wrinkled like dried orange peel. The veins on the back of my hand have become prominent and meandered like the roots of an old tree.

"ah----!!"

A scream escaped from the deepest part of her throat. She turned her hands over and over, watching the wrinkles creep from her wrists to her fingertips, watching her nails turn from pink to grayish-white, watching the skin on the back of her hand change from firm to loose, so loose that a layer could be pulled off with a single tug.

"No—no—please—"

She lunged at Zhang Qiliang's feet, but the unfamiliar powerlessness and weakness caused her to stumble and fall halfway. Her face was pressed against the bridge surface, her fingers digging into the cracks in the concrete, one of her fingernails flipped open and blood seeped out, but she didn't feel it.

"See you tomorrow." After saying that, Zhang Qiliang turned around and stopped looking at her.

Approaching the old woman, Zhang Qiliang brought two fingers together and slowly drew a sword incantation.

The old woman's hair turned black from the roots, like newly sprouted willow branches in spring.

The wrinkles on her face faded layer by layer, like ripples on water blown away by the wind. The dark color on her cheekbones faded, replaced by a thin layer of rosy hue.

Her shoulders relaxed, her back straightened a bit, and the veins on her fingers resting on the cart sank down one by one, her knuckles no longer so prominent, and her skin no longer so thin.

Ten years have passed in reverse; she has gone from an elderly woman back to a middle-aged woman.

Zhang Qiliang turned around again, walked to the young woman, raised his hand again, and put his two fingers together.

"I do not want!"

The young woman suddenly shrank back.

Her body bumped into the cart, which wobbled and the wheels creaked.

Zhang Qiliang's hand froze in mid-air.

"I don't want... I want my husband... Ming-ge, please... please... I only want Ren-ge... He's only thirty-two... He said he'd take a day off to celebrate my birthday with me..."

The wind blew across the river, blowing my hair onto my face, and tears streamed down my cheeks, dripping onto the bridge.

Zhang Qiliang looked up at the sky and sighed.

117 Escape

The wheels of the cart had already been unsecured.

Four fast-track staff members stood on either side of the cart, their hands hanging at their sides, standing ramrod straight.

Their epaulets gleamed in the sunlight, and their hat brims were pulled low, obscuring their eyes; only their chins were visible, taut with tension.

The youngest one's Adam's apple bobbed once, then once more, his lips pressed into a thin line, never relaxing from beginning to end.

Two doctors stood at the head of the gurney.

The older man, in his early fifties, had his white coat sleeves rolled up twice, his hands raised high, and was wearing silicone gloves.

The younger man stood half a step to the side and slightly behind, holding a syringe with the needle pointing upwards, the transparent liquid inside the syringe swaying slightly.

Three nurses squeezed into the narrow space at the back of the trolley. The one in front gripped the trolley's handles with both hands, leaning slightly forward like a sprinter crouching on the starting line, waiting for the starting signal.

The person behind was carrying a metal tray with rows of ampoules on it. The liquid inside the ampoules shimmered in the sunlight in different colors—transparent, pale yellow, and amber.

Another person was squatting on the ground, rummaging through an open first-aid kit. The lid was propped open, and the contents were already laid out: gauze, tape, tourniquets, electrode pads...

People started unloading things from the ambulance.

Two nurses carried a white insulated box with a red cross printed on it. They placed it next to the trolley, opened the lid, and inside were rows of neatly stacked blood bags, red and dark red, faintly visible in the mist from the ice packs. Plasma, red blood cells, cryoprecipitate—labels facing out, dosage, blood type, expiration date, each bag had been checked, each bag was ready.

A nurse squatted down, her fingers resting on the edge of the blood bag, her lips moving slightly. She counted one, two, three, four... She paused when she reached the eighth bag, then counted again from the beginning to make sure she hadn't miscounted before withdrawing her hand.

The people on both sides were backing away.

The bridge had been cleared of most of the cars, leaving only a few that had nowhere to move, perched precariously on the curb, their bodies tilted and wheels hanging precariously over the edge.

More people were helping out—some stood at the intersection waving, directing the cars behind to turn onto the auxiliary road; some squatted on the ground moving roadblocks, removing the iron railings one by one; some ran to the bus stop sign at the bridgehead, moved the two shared bicycles parked there to the sidewalk, clapped their hands, and ran back to move the next one.

From the bridgehead to the hospital intersection, a distance of about one kilometer, the cars on both sides were already parked on the side of the road.

A black SUV turned half a turn to the right and drove into the front of the shops that the nearby businesses had quickly cleared out. The cars behind it followed, one after another, like dominoes, driving neatly into one store after another, leaving an empty driveway in the middle.

The medicine in the needle had not coagulated, the blood plasma in the blood bag had not cooled down, and the wheels of the trolley had already been untied, making the route from the bridgehead to the hospital clear.