By afternoon, we were herded to the training grounds, like leaves swept by a cold wind.

Xuewei even “kindly” pinged everyone; miss it and it’s emergency drills on Snow Mountain, ice like wolf teeth.

My gut tightened like a drum; an ordinary kid on Snow Mountain would freeze stiff like a carp on winter stone.

Teacher Xuewei had a reputation for iron promises, like a seal stamped in ice, so no one dared arrive late.

She said, voice crisp like sleet, “This lesson’s simple. You fight me.”

My heart hissed like a kettle: sure, simple.

She’s got fire with nowhere to vent, a storm aimed at students.

It has to be, like thunder seeking a peak.

“Any questions?” Xuewei’s gaze swept us like frost over reeds, and the whole class shivered.

The class barked “No!” in unison, like a gust snapping flags.

“Good. You’ll come up one by one; I’ll judge each fight,” she said, words like hailstones.

“You—first. I’ve disliked you for ages.” Her finger jabbed like a spear.

She pointed at the guy who once helped me at the inn, and who ignored me today, like a shadow slipping past.

The boy barely reacted, a blush flickering like sunset; he bowed to Xuewei with steady hands and walked to the front.

“Self-introduction,” Xuewei said, voice cool as a winter stream.

“Bu Siling, fourteen,” he said, words like pebbles dropped in water.

I snorted like a sparrow: that’s a bare-bones intro.

Cold poise and a decent face did look a little handsome, like a blade catching moonlight.

Eh, maybe half as handsome as I was back in the day, when spring banners snapped.

“Good, then let’s begin.” Ling Xuewei casually drew a plain spear, gleam dull like rain-wet iron.

“Go all out. Don’t hold back. If you land in the hospital, I’ll still mark you absent,” she said, smile thin as ice.

Bu Siling’s steady face twitched, like a string plucked too hard.

I nearly burst, laughter bubbling like spring water—pfft.

“Please guide me, Teacher,” Bu Siling said, face hard as frost.

A one-handed sword bloomed in his grip, like a silver leaf.

He set his right hand and charged straight in, like a hawk stooping.

In a single breath, Ling Xuewei flicked his blade skyward, like bamboo bending and snapping back.

“Facing me with your specialty, the one-handed sword—did you mistake the opponent?” Ling Xuewei asked, voice like snow.

Your aura is thin, your footing loose, like reeds in wind.

With a one-handed sword, the blade must never leave your hand, like fire kept in a lantern.

Even under heavy attacks, you should catch the moment to shed force and borrow force, like waves folding and rising.

You just rushed in, plain and raw, like a calf into thornbush.

You have some basics, but you missed the core, the spine of it, like a house without beams.

Step down, and let the dust settle.

Bu Siling stood there, weapon gone, stunned like a stag in sudden light.

Only after Ling Xuewei finished did he see the hollows in his swordwork, like missing tiles on a roof.

He and his mother shared an idol, a star to chase across nights like lanterns on a river.

He’d trained since childhood; his teachers praised him as a prodigy, a comet across the sky.

But never had anyone kicked him off the ridge in a single strike, like sending a stone tumbling into a ravine.

Yet now, his chest held little anger; instead, a spark of excitement flared, like tinder catching.

Bu Siling bowed to Ling Xuewei, like a pine bent by snow, murmured “Thank you, Teacher,” then grabbed his sword and stepped down.

Seeing that, most of the class sighed, like wind through reeds: sharp tongue, soft heart.

“What are you staring at? Next!” Her words cracked like ice under boots.

Those “we get you” faces only soured Xuewei’s mood, like vinegar in milk.

In this world, how many truly understand her, like stars hidden behind clouds?

The girl behind Bu Siling stepped up with a crisp “Yes,” voice like a bell.

A magic book rested in her hands like a sleeping bird.

“Hello, Teacher, I’m Kelly…” She was very polite, spilling a basket of self-introduction, and finishing with three bows like reeds bending.

But that didn’t mean Ling Xuewei would go soft, her gaze cold like a polished blade.

Ling Xuewei tailored her methods to each person, like a smith choosing hammers.

With this girl, she never moved; she just stood there, a mountain pressing its shadow.

The girl wilted under the aura, managing only a few simple spells, like sparks in drizzle.

“As a magician, if basic pressure crushes you, your spells will only show a third of their power, like a lamp with weak oil.”

As Kelly trudged back, Ling Xuewei’s icy words drifted from behind her like winter mist.

“You—the black-haired kid—here.” Her voice snapped like a dry twig.

This time, Ling Xuewei called him out by hair and all, like an arrow picking a mark.

Yanfengle lit up like a lantern, rushed forward, and launched into a self-introduction.

He started, “Hello, Teacher, I’m Yanfengle, I’m best at—” words tumbling like marbles.

“Stop, stop, stop! Quit those boring intros!” Her words rattled like a chain.

Ling Xuewei bared her teeth and made a pause sign at Yanfengle, hands like crossed blades.

These kids were driving her mad; she’d wrapped herself in storm-clouds to make them hate her, so they’d fight full-force.

But why were they all excited, like geese chasing thunder? Were they all masochists?

“Just fight. I met the Holy Maiden yesterday; she told me to take good ‘care’ of you.”

Ling Xuewei’s smile hooked up, a predator’s curve, like moonlight on a knife.

Under Ling Xuewei’s stare, Yanfengle’s knees trembled like reeds in wind; he couldn’t recall offending any Holy Maiden.

“Hurry. Draw your weapon,” she said, voice neat as a snapped thread.

Yanfengle blinked and produced a long spear, metal cold like river water.

Ling Xuewei paused, eyes widening like stars, then smiled again, swift as a crescent cutting clouds.

That was the look of someone who’d found a new toy, like a cat with a dangling feather.