Spirit of the Blades

The courtyard of a ruined temple, with the moon sinking westward. The instant when the two sword auras first touched has passed, and Fang Xilin has stepped back a few paces toward the shade of a stone pillar. There isn't a breath of wind in the courtyard, yet moonlight dust drifts and scatters slowly, and at your waist your sword begins to hum, very low. The tremor spreads into the palm resting on its hilt. That hum is exactly the same pitch as the sound coming from Fang Xilin's sword across the way. Then, in the air between the two swords, a faint form takes shape. A shadow with no discernible face or gender, like moonlight folded thin. It neither sizes you up nor bars your way. It is simply there, as if it has guarded this place for hundreds of years. For the first time, the spirit turns toward you.