#shaoshi

Every day I think about Li Xiangyi and his two swords and go a little more insane. The unbendable, unyielding Shaoshi that carried Li Xiangyi to the top of the world, and was found and lost and found again. The flexible but equally lethal Wenjing that remained with him in his life as a ghost, looking for the brother that gave it to him. Shaoshi, which his master gave him, which he left behind for so long in favour of his master's wine gourd instead. Wenjing, the blade that had always been soaked in blood and betrayal, undoing the meaning of the decade he had spent with it. Wenjing, abandoned after he realised it was a mark of everything broken and bitter in his past. Shaoshi, which he took up and carried again till he could, and shattered the moment he decided to run once again. Shaoshi, whose shards Di Feisheng found and kept. A swordsman shouldn't have weaknesses, Di Feisheng told him long, long ago. What does it mean, then, when a swordsman carries a sword that is broken and nothing more than a memory?