Mastering the Sword Manual, sweeping across the globe

At the entrance, there was a table covered with red velvet. Two well-dressed, smiling middle-aged men sat behind it, each with a large red gift book open in front of them, along with writing brushes and inkstones.

A middle-aged man who looked like a manager was greeting guests. When he saw Zhang Qiliang approaching, he immediately offered him a Zhonghua cigarette with a smile, even though he didn't recognize him.

Moving closer, the officiant, seated behind the "groom's" guestbook, asked in a gentle voice, "Sir, are you a friend of the groom's side or a guest of honor of the bride's side?"

Zhang Qiliang waved his hand and declined the cigarette: "Nothing... I was just passing by downstairs when I saw the news of the Xu family's daughter's wedding. It was also around dinner time, so I thought I'd come over and share in the joy."

The group paused slightly upon hearing this, then exchanged glances.

Looking at Zhang Qiliang, his clothes were ordinary but neat, his expression was calm, and his smile was sincere. Although he came alone and for a strange reason, there was no trace of hostility or drunkenness about him. He could not possibly be a troublemaker.

The manager was the first to react, his smile widening as he repeatedly cupped his hands in greeting: "Oh, what an honor to have such a distinguished guest! It's an honor for us, Old Xu, to grace us with our presence. Please, please come in!"

Zhang Qiliang walked to the front of the stage, took out the two hundred-yuan bills he had taken from Shuxianglou from his pocket, carefully smoothed out the creases, and placed them on the red velvet-covered table.

Their movements were natural and respectful, showing reverence for the wedding hosts and traditional etiquette.

The two masters of ceremonies glanced at the gift money, then looked at Zhang Qiliang.

The male officiant gestured slightly, and the Xu family officiant spoke amiably: "You are too kind, esteemed guest. May I ask your name? We would like to remember your kindness."

Zhang Qiliang.

"Which 'qi' character are you referring to? The one with the '王' radical plus the strange '奇' radical, or...?"

"Let me write it." Zhang Qiliang reached out and took the small regular script wolf hair brush handed to him by the master of ceremonies.

He paused for a moment, dipped his brush in thick ink, and wrote the three characters "Zhang Qiliang" in a flowing hand in the empty space of the bride's gift book.

The calligraphy is in running script, with flowing and elegant strokes and a graceful structure, just like the person himself.

"Beautiful calligraphy!" The male officiant's eyes lit up immediately, and he exclaimed in praise.

Nowadays, very few young people know how to use a calligraphy brush, and even fewer can write with such balanced structure and vivid spirit.

What's even more remarkable is that, while the characters appear composed, the turns and twists subtly reveal a hidden, unrestrained spirit.

"You flatter me," Zhang Qiliang replied with a smile.

"Mr. Zhang's calligraphy is truly remarkable." The groom's master of ceremonies echoed with a smile. Seeing that there was still some time before the banquet began and that there weren't too many guests in the hall, he had an idea. He pointed to some large red and gold-flecked Xuan paper prepared for writing wedding couplets or signing inscriptions. "Since we have such a fortunate connection, and Mr. Zhang's calligraphy is so exquisite, would you be so kind as to appreciate his work and write a blessing for the newlyweds? It would add a touch of elegance to our wedding banquet!"

“Okay.” Zhang Qiliang nodded happily.

The master of ceremonies quickly selected a square piece of red paper of excellent quality, presented it with both hands, and then carefully placed the paperweight on top.

Zhang Qiliang picked up his pen again, his gaze lingering on the red paper for a moment, as if trying to capture the joy flowing in the air and resonate with his own state of mind.

Immediately, the leisurely air between his brows vanished, and his brush, now fully dipped in thick ink, seemed to reflect the final concentration of a swordsman before drawing his sword.

With a stroke of the pen, seven large characters were written in one go:

Enjoy life to the fullest when you're successful.

Upon hearing these seven words, the expressions of the master of ceremonies and several guests with some knowledge of calligraphy instantly changed.

This brushwork is far from the usual respectful approach to congratulations.

The first stroke of the character "人" (person) is like a knife, sharp and piercing the air, while the second stroke is subtle and restrained, firmly rooted, subtly embodying the beauty of "concealing the sharpness," implying an amazing sharpness hidden beneath the ordinary.

The characters “生” and “得” are written with flowing, dynamic strokes, exhibiting natural and elasticity. The ink tones are well-balanced, revealing excellent brush control and a strong sense of rhythm.

Especially the two characters “得意” (de yi), the right part of the character “得” (de) is lively and vigorous, while the last dot at the bottom of the character “意” (yi) is like a boulder falling from a high peak, penetrating the paper, vividly portraying the exhilarating state of “意” (yi).

The phrase "enjoy life to the fullest" represents the climax and release of the entire piece.

The character “须” is robust and expansive, with the resounding clang of metal and stone; the character “尽” has a continuous, flowing stroke, like a river rushing down a thousand miles; and the character “欢” ends with a long, sweeping stroke, executed with the flying white technique, free and unrestrained, as if all the joy, unrestraint, and enlightenment are poured onto this small piece of red paper, as if even the paper itself cannot bear the burst of vitality.

Looking at the entire piece of calligraphy, the composition is unconventional rather than symmetrical.

The characters are not arranged evenly, but rather vary in size and lean to each other, like a road paved with random stones, yet they possess a natural and harmonious grandeur.

The lines are strong and powerful, written with a soft brush, yet they exude a resolute, sword-like spirit.

What's even more subtle is that, despite the swift and unrestrained brushstrokes, the details of each stroke remain exquisite, with no carelessness, revealing the writer's highly concentrated spirit and absolute control.

This is hardly an ordinary wedding congratulatory message.

This is clearly a heartfelt monologue, a symphony of freedom and the present moment played with ink and brush!

It is flamboyant, unrestrained, and even carries a wildness that is incompatible with worldly etiquette. Compared with the congratulatory couplets all around, such as "the phoenix and the dragon sing in harmony" and "a perfect match made in heaven", it seems so out of place, yet so eye-catching.

"What...what beautiful calligraphy! What a powerful spirit!" The male officiant couldn't help but exclaim in a low voice, momentarily forgetting the subtle discrepancy between the content and the occasion.

The vibrant life force and unrestrained spirit contained in these words are themselves the most magnificent blessing for the newlyweds' future life.

Zhang Qiliang remained calm, only casually signing his name in the lower left corner: "Zhang Qiliang, Congratulations."

He then put down his pen, smiled slightly at the Master of Ceremonies, as if he had just casually written down an ordinary sentence.

The two masters of ceremonies were overjoyed and thanked them repeatedly. They carefully put away the inscription and instructed someone to display it shortly.

Under the enthusiastic guidance of the manager, Zhang Qiliang leisurely entered the "Dragon and Phoenix Hall".

The hall was brightly lit, with a huge crystal chandelier reflecting dazzling light. Dozens of round tables were covered with festive red tablecloths, and the stage backdrop was a giant wedding photo of the newlyweds.

The air was filled with the warm aroma of flowers, candy, and the dishes that were about to be served.

He found a table near a corner, not too conspicuous but with a decent view, and sat down. Cold dishes and drinks were already laid out on the table.

The other guests at the table, seeing that he was a stranger, assumed he was a distant relative or friend, nodded and smiled, and continued their own pleasantries.

Zhang Qiliang poured himself a cup of tea, sipped it slowly, listened to the noisy voices around him, watched the waiters bustling about, and felt the pure and lively worldly joy.

At this moment, the pursuit, supernatural powers, sword scriptures, and the imperial court all seemed to have temporarily retreated to a distant place.

He was just an ordinary passerby who was hungry and came to a celebratory feast.

Of course, this calm won't last long.

But at this moment, tea, food, and the warmth of everyday life are enough.

25. Pour a cup of tea.

We were full and satisfied.

The night was as dark as ink, silently staining the sky.

I need to find a place to get through the night.

Right now, the whole city is probably under investigation, but that's all right; there are always some places that aren't so convenient.

Stepping out of the side door of Ruifulou, Zhang Qiliang scanned the street in front of him.

Directly opposite is a newly built residential complex, with the gilded characters "Waterfront Mansion" flashing under the neon lights.

The building was brand new and imposing, its glass curtain walls reflecting a cold light. Cars were constantly entering and exiting the underground parking garage, and security guards in crisp uniforms stood at attention. —Businessmen don't earn money easily, and Zhang Qiliang didn't plan to disturb them tonight.

To the right is a large area of ​​haphazardly spread-out self-built houses.

The houses, of varying heights, are crammed together, with windows of different sizes, and clothes hanging out to dry flutter in the night breeze.

The alleyways twisted and turned like a spider web, dimly lit, with shadowy figures moving about, filled with the stench of cooking oil, shouting, and the buzzing of cheap stereos. Life is already a headache enough; let's all get a good night's sleep tonight.

His gaze eventually fell on the left.

It was an old dormitory area belonging to a work unit.

Five or six gray-white six-story slab buildings stand in a neat row, their exterior walls covered with the mottled marks of time and dark green ivy.

The buildings are spaced far apart and are planted with tall camphor and sycamore trees, whose canopies form a thick shadow in the night.

There was no grand gate, only a rusty wrought iron gatepost. The guardhouse next to it was dimly lit, and the old man guarding the gate was dozing off. A radio was playing opera.

This is it.

Zhang Qiliang's figure faded from the shadows.

Without running or howling, with a few light steps and turns, occasionally touching the top of the wall, tree branches, or air conditioner unit, Zhang Qiliang's figure, like a feather lifted by the night wind, traced a path that was difficult for ordinary people to understand, silently skimming over the low wall of the community and disappearing into the dense shadows of the trees between the buildings.

Finally, he stopped on the rooftop of the innermost building.

The cement railings are rough and heavy, with a few withered leaves and dust piled up in the corners.

The view here is expansive, offering a clear view of most of the quiet dormitory area, as well as the flowing starlight of car lights in the distant streets.

Zhang Qiliang stood quietly by the railing.

He doesn't plan to leave the city now.

At least, in the foreseeable future, I don't plan to.

Escape is easy: take a long-distance bus, use some tricks to hitch a ride on a freight train, or simply rely on your current strength to force your way through intercity checkpoints to another province, to another completely unfamiliar city.

But so what?

As long as he continues to study the "Tongda Sword Scripture" and as long as he wants to continue on this path, no matter which city he goes to, after a few days he will inevitably fall into the same situation again—colliding with those disgusting things he can't stand and fighting against the forces that maintain these disgusting things or are powerless to do anything about them.

It's nothing more than taking the same play that was performed in Changsha yesterday and in the provincial capital today, changing the stage, changing the cast, and rehearsing it all over again.

As for fleeing overseas...

Oh.

Zhang Qiliang gazed at the myriad lights below.

This is the land that gave him birth and nurtured him; it contains everything he is familiar with, everything he loves and hates.

Why should this unique opportunity, this sword destined to "sweep away injustice," have to first clear thorns from someone else's yard?

If we're going to make a move, we have to start here.

A night breeze began to rise, carrying the warm and moist scent unique to early summer, brushing against his cheeks and ruffling the slightly messy strands of hair on his forehead.

For the next two hours, from 6 p.m. to 8 p.m. when the night was thick, Zhang Qiliang stood quietly on the edge of the rooftop, like a frozen sculpture.

He wasn't daydreaming; he was "listening," "observing," and using his senses, which had transcended the boundaries of the mundane, to touch the most delicate pulse of this residential area.

The first thing to surge in was a torrent of sound.

The ceaseless flow of traffic on the distant main road, deep and continuous, is like the city's background breathing.

Nearby, the crisp sound of bicycle bells, a mother's drawn-out call for her child to come home for dinner, the stifling argument between a couple over trivial matters, the sound of television news broadcasts and canned laughter from variety shows drifting from the window...

These sounds, layered upon each other, constitute the most superficial clamor of life.

But Zhang Qiliang's hearing penetrated the noise and captured even more:

On the fourth floor downstairs, a middle-aged man was on the balcony, his voice low and anxious as he made a phone call: "Mr. Wang, don't worry, that report will definitely be on your desk first thing tomorrow morning... Yes, yes, the data has been re-verified, there's no problem... Oh, you're too kind. I'm so grateful for your help with my child's schooling; I'll definitely come to thank you in person another day..."

Ashes fell softly from his trembling fingertips.

In the second-floor unit next door, the windows were tightly shut, but the intense game sound effects and the boy's frustrated shouts pierced through the walls: "Damn it! They tricked me again! Is this teammate an idiot?!"

Then came the dull thud of the mouse being slammed down, and the mother's helpless sigh.

Further away, from the closed community activity room in the corner of the neighborhood, came the faint sounds of mahjong tiles being shuffled and suppressed whispers of excitement: "A pure hand! A clean hand, a self-draw! Pay up!"

As far as the eye can see, the details unfold like a high-definition picture.

Zhang Qiliang saw that on the third floor across the street, there was a pot of steaming braised fish on the dining table. The husband was picking up a large piece of fish belly and putting it into his wife's bowl. His wife smiled and scolded him playfully, her eyes shining.

Zhang Qiliang saw an elderly man with gray hair carefully wiping the leaves of a pot of orchids under the dim light in the courtyard of another building, his movements as gentle as if he were treating a baby.

Zhang Qiliang also saw a black sedan slowly drive into the residential area and stop in front of the building that looked the quietest not far away.

A well-dressed middle-aged man got out of the driver's seat, quickly walked around to the back seat, bent over, smiled, and opened the car door.

A bald man with a protruding belly and ruddy complexion slowly emerged, patted the driver on the shoulder, said something, and the latter's smile widened, nodding repeatedly.

The two walked into the building entrance one after the other.

The car didn't leave. The driver got out, leaned against the car, and lit a cigarette. The red cigarette butt flickered in the darkness.

My sense of smell has also become unusually acute.

The aromas of dinner wafting from each household were a complex mix: the pungent fragrance of stir-fried pork with chili peppers, the rich aroma of stewed chicken soup, the freshness of stir-fried vegetables, and the stale smell of leftovers reheated in the microwave.

Beside the trash can, the smell of rancid water and rotten fruit wafted in the evening breeze.

Even more subtle is the scent of those "people":

The black sedan from just now still carried the lingering aroma of high-end baijiu and a certain woody fragrance.

The mahjong room was filled with the strong smells of cigarette smoke, sweat, and the greedy, excited secretion of hormones.

Besides the smell of cigarettes, the middle-aged man on the phone also carried a strong, musty smell of office paperwork and the weariness of anxiety.

Countless fragments of information, like swirling snowflakes, flooded into Zhang Qiliang's senses.