The mist was beginning to lift by the time she reached the path.

  It curled around her ankles, thick in the hollows between buildings, thinning into soft tendrils where the sun finally touched the stones. The mountain still felt too wide. Too quiet. But there were signs of life now: low voices drifting from deeper courtyards, the distant thunk of practice poles, and the high crack of bamboo blades.

  Rulan followed the slope upward, instinct driving her towardss where people moved in clusters and pairs—some loose-robed, already sparring; others headed towards a broad, open courtyard where the air smelled of steam and warm rice.

  She slowed at the edge.

  It wasn’t a dining hall—not in the way inns or kitchens were in the city. Just a wide stone courtyard with shaded cloth awnings and a long table where a few older outer disciples had begun setting out clay bowls and stacked baskets. No shouting, no clatter. Only quiet instruction. Only rhythm.

  Rulan lingered beneath a cypress tree, just long enough to watch without being watched.

  Then Shen Li appeared.

  She didn’t speak. Just walked up to the low table, took two bowls without hesitation, and returned.

  By the time Rulan realised what she was doing, Shen Li was already in front of her, pressing one into her hands.

  The bowl was still warm.

  Inside: soft white rice porridge, lightly salted, with a spoonful of stewed fruit—red plum, maybe, or jujube—melting into it like syrup. A few slices of something yellow and sweet sat folded on the rim of the bowl. Pickled ginger. Rinsed and sliced.

  Rulan stared down at it.

  Her fingers curled instinctively around the bowl’s rim, thumb resting on the curve like it might tip away if she didn’t hold it just right.

  She opened her mouth.

  Closed it.

  Then managed, “You didn’t have to.”

  Shen Li blinked. “Neither did you.”

  It took a breath for Rulan to understand.

  To realise she meant . Letting her walk besides her. Not walking away.

  “…Still.”

  “Eat,” Shen Li said, already sitting down on the low stone bench that lined the edge of the courtyard. She didn’t look back.

  Rulan followed after a beat. Sat beside her, slowly, keeping space between their shoulders.

  She lifted the spoon with careful fingers, eyes darting once around the courtyard.

  No one stopped her.

  No one reached to take the bowl back.

  And so she ate.

  Rulan knew hunger.

  She had always known hunger.

  Hunger in the body, first—deep and gnawing and constant. The ache of long days and longer nights, the hollow behind her ribs that made every breath feel tight. She knew how to stretch rice water with bark. Knew which weeds filled the belly long enough to fool the pain.

  But she also knew the other kinds.

  The ones you couldn’t name with your stomach.

  The hunger that curled in your throat when you heard a song and couldn’t remember what joy felt like.

  The hunger in your chest when you saw someone held close and knew you would never be.

  The hunger that clawed behind your eyes when you dared to want something and remembered, too late, that wanting always meant losing.

  So when she ate that first spoonful—hot, soft, salted just right—something in her lungs clenched.

  She didn’t cry.

  But it sat behind her ribs like a stone.

  They ate in silence for a while.

  Then Shen Li spoke.

  “See the one with the silver belt?” she said, gesturing with her spoon. “That’s Mei Xinyi. Daughter of a healer clan. Fast to learn, quick to temper.”

  Rulan didn’t speak, but her eyes followed the direction.

  A girl stood near the basin, wiping her hands. Her sleeves were rolled back. Her stance was confident, but she wasn’t loud. Her eyes were narrow, flicking from person to person like she was weighing them.

  “Two benches left. That’s Huo Jian,” Shen Li continued. “Clanless. Fought his way into a sect draft after protecting a border town. He's tougher than he looks. Not friendly.”

  Rulan glanced. A boy with short-cropped hair and a squared jaw sat alone, eating with one hand, the other resting on the hilt of a wooden training sword. His shoulders were broad, but his eyes were tired. Watchful.

  Shen Li went on, calm as a breath.

  “The tall one by the basin is Xin Yi. Speaks three languages. Fights with fans. Smiles like she wants you to like her, but never tells you why.”

  The bowl in Rulan’s hands was still warm when Shen Li spoke again.

  “There—by the tree,” she said, voice even. “That’s Yu Meiling. She’s royalty.”

  Rulan blinked. “…Royalty?”

  Shen Li nodded. “Youngest daughter of the Jade River Principality. A side branch, but still close enough that her father calls himself a king.”

  The girl in question stood in a small cluster, her robe stitched with gold thread in patterns that shimmered when she moved. Her hair was done high, pinned with a comb shaped like a phoenix feather. She laughed softly at something a taller boy said—one of those clipped, graceful sounds that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

  “She won’t talk to most of us,” Shen Li added. “Unless you’re useful. Or impressive.”

  Rulan watched her a moment longer. “She doesn’t look strong.”

  “She doesn’t need to it,” Shen said simply. “Cultivators aren’t like that.”

  Rulan looked down at her bowl.

  That, more than anything, made sense.

  Shen Li gestured again, this time towards a boy standing with a group near the edge of the basin.

  “Wen Yan. His clan commands most of the shipping between the southern seaports. Water-path cultivators, all of them. He's their heir.”

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a jade clasp holding back dark hair and a laugh that made people lean in to hear it better. A handsome man, by all qualifiers.

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  “He’s dangerous,” Shen said, “but smart enough not to show it.”

  “And the others with him?”

  “Second sons. Shields. Echoes. They’re here to help him shine.”

  Rulan didn’t comment. She didn’t have to. She had lived long enough to understand orbiting stars.

  They were quiet for a moment.

  Rulan stirred her porridge, though she was already nearly finished. It was almost too much food.

  “You… know all this?” she asked, hesitant.

  Shen Li shrugged. “I listen.”

  It wasn’t said like a boast. Just a habit.

  “Names mean something here,” she added after a moment. “And silence is a kind of currency. You can buy attention with it. Or use it to avoid being seen.”

  Rulan hesitated. “…And what are you buying?”

  That earned her a sidelong glance.

  Shen Li didn’t smile. But her eyes held something quiet.

  “Time,” she said.

  Rulan nodded once.

  Then asked, low, “And that boy from yesterday?”

  Shen Li didn’t pretend not to know who she meant.

  “Yao Shen. Son of the western branch of House Yao. Or what’s left of it. His uncle was the one who tried to splinter off, form a faction under the Moon Council. Failed. Publicly. The emperor’s decree burned three generations of the name from the registry.”

  “Then why’s he here?”

  “Because there are still a few branches left,” Shen said. “And the sect owes favours. Or wants to watch him. Or both.”

  Rulan frowned. “Why would he take a place like this?”

  “He didn’t. The sect chose. That’s the rule.”

  “So he’s not special?”

  Shen Li looked back towards where he leant against a pillar, laughing with someone who clearly wanted his attention.

  “He thinks he is. And that’s more dangerous than the truth.”

  Rulan didn’t speak again for a while.

  She let Shen point out two more girls—one from the Qian lineage, fast with a sword and faster with her mouth; the other from a family known for fire-crafting, already marked for the combat trials.

  She memorised the names. Not allowed. Not visibly.

  She just folded them into herself like threads she might need to pull later.

  When the bowl was finally empty, she set it gently on the stone besides her feet.

  She still wasn’t sure why Shen Li talked to her.

  Still wasn’t sure if she liked it.

  But she was starting to understand this much:

  Listening was another kind of weapon.

  And Shen Li knew exactly how to sharpen it.

  Rulan could respect that.

  The courtyard was starting to stir.

  Disciples drifted towards the platforms along the southern slope—white stone pavillions set beneath arched awnings, each one ringed by low lanterns that burned with soft flame despite the dawn. The mist was rising, slow and reluctant, leaving wet prints on polished tile.

  Rulan stayed seated longer than she should have.

  Not because she was tired.

  But because she was afraid to choose.

  Across the square, one of the shaded garden platforms was already gathering students. They wore their sashes tight, scrolls tucked under arms, heads bent in low conversation. The air around them had a stillness to it—a weight like water drawn into a basin.

  That was the spiritual arts group.

  Meditation. Breathing. Flow.

  She didn’t move towards it.

  Not because she wasn’t curious.

  But because she couldn’t forget the scroll.

  Because she could still feel the burn of shame in her chest. The helpless silence of knowing her own name was written in strokes she couldn’t read.

  Because she didn’t want to stand there, blank and frozen, while others nodded knowingly around her.

  She stood, slow and stiff.

  Turned away from the mist-slick steps that led to the garden platform.

  And nearly collided with Shen Li, returning from her self-imposed mission of cleaning the bowls

  The other girl had approached without a sound, bowls rinsed and returned, sleeves straight. She didn’t say anything. Just fell into step besides her like it was natural.

  “Physical?” Shen Li asked.

  Rulan nodded.

  “That’s what I’m doing too.”

  There was no surprise in it. No encouragement. Just a fact.

  Rulan didn’t ask why. Didn’t ask if Shen Li had read the scroll or mastered half the breathing forms already.

  She just walked.

  The path uphill was steeper.

  Less ornamental. The kind of stone that scuffed skin when you fell on it, not the kind laid for ceremony.

  They climbed in silence. Mist trailing off the steps behind them like a second breath.

  The physical training field was carved into the slope itself—a wide, flat ring of packed dirt, rimmed with short stone walls and tall pine poles that looked like they’d been there longer than the sect. No banners. No soft bells. Just the smell of dust and pine, and the scrape of someone dragging their foot into a stance at the far end.

  Half a dozen students already stood in pairs or alone, stretching arms, settling into loose breath forms. No one spoke. No one watched anyone else.

  Rulan hesitated at the edge.

  Shen Li stepped forward, choosing a space along the outer ring. Her sleeves rolled back, feet shoulder-width, spine straight.

  Rulan moved a few paces down and mirrored her, not besides her, but near enough to feel the echo.

  She didn’t know where to stand.

  But she knew how to watch.

  The instructor arrived not long after.

  He wasn’t what she expected.

  He didn’t float down from a cloud or wear golden robes or trail power like incense. He came on foot, climbing the path without rush or ceremony, robes tied high at the waist, sleeves rolled back. His arms were corded with muscle, scarred in lines both neat and jagged. His hair was iron-edged blue, bound with a leather strip, and his eyes were pale—so pale they looked nearly blind, though nothing about his step suggested weakness.

  He stopped at the edge of the field and looked at them all.

  Then said, without preamble, “I am Yan Bei. Inner disciple. Sword path, Mountain Root branch. I will teach you physical foundation.”

  His voice wasn’t loud, but it struck like a falling stone.

  “Some of you are here to build strength. Some of you are here to avoid weakness. There’s no difference yet.”

  He turned, gesturing towards the ring.

  “You will fall. You will ache. You will bleed. If you do not, you are not learning.”

  No one moved.

  He pointed to a girl near the front. “Name.”

  “Xu Liyang,” she said, voice strong.

  “Step into the ring. Show me your stance.”

  She obeyed without hesitation.

  Yan Bei circled her once, eyes flicking from heel to hip to jaw. Then nodded once.

  “Good.”

  He gestured to the rest.

  “Copy her.”

  The lesson began like that. No lectures. No stories.

  Just action.

  They moved through stances—low, rooted, breath held in the gut. They walked in slow, circular patterns. Shifted weight between feet until calves burned. Repeated hand strikes that snapped the joints awake, again and again, until bruises bloomed.

  Rulan followed.

  Not well.

  Not precisely.

  But with focus

  She was smaller than most. Leaner. But her body obeyed.

  And when she stumbled, no one laughed.

  When she got up, no one cheered.

  The work was its own answer.

  Shen Li moved through the forms besides her—precise, efficient, not showy. She didn’t correct Rulan. Didn’t offer help. But her rhythm gave Rulan something to match, even if her steps fell a beat behind.

  Yan Bei walked among them, correcting with sharp taps and shorter words.

  When he passed Rulan, he paused.

  Her foot was off by an inch. Her elbow too high.

  He tapped her shoulder once—firm, not cruel—and moved it into place.

  She didn’t flinch.

  His mouth twitched.

  Then he moved on.

  The lesson ended not with a bell, but with stillness.

  Yan Bei stepped to the centre, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Your body remembers what you repeat,” he said. “Do not teach it weakness.”

  Then he turned and left, robes dragging dust behind him.

  No bow. No thanks.

  Just absence.

  Rulan stood in the ring a moment longer, sweat cooling on her back, her breath slow but deep.

  Shen Li stepped besides her, gaze still on the path where the instructor had vanished.

  Rulan didn’t speak.

  She didn’t have to.

  Shen Li nodded once, like marking the moment.

  Then turned towards the path back to the houses. Rulan followed.

  She couldn’t read a scroll.

  She didn’t know a single form name.

  But her legs were sore. Her arms burned, something fulfilling in it, like the burn of her lungs when she outraced the baker with his morning loaves in her hands and a day of food ahead of her.

  They walked back down the slope in silence.

  The path wound between houses and low stone lanterns, the mist thinning now into drifting trails that clung to the trees. The sun hadn’t fully risen, but the light had changed—brighter, cleaner, brushing silver across every wet leaf.

  Rulan’s body ached in places she hadn’t felt in weeks. Her shoulder throbbed where Yan Bei had adjusted it, and her legs carried that quiet, steady heat that promised more pain to come.

  She didn’t mind.

  It was pain she’d earned.

  She could measure it.

  They were nearly back to the tier-three houses when Shen Li slowed.

  She glanced sideways, her steps still easy and controlled.

  “You didn’t choose spiritual,” she said. Not a question. A statement.

  Rulan didn’t answer right away.

  She didn’t need to.

  Shen Li already knew.

  She gave her a moment. Then added, matter-of-factly, “You can’t read.”

  Rulan tensed.

  Not because she was surprised.

  But because it still stung to hear it out loud.

  She looked away, jaw tight. “That a problem?”

  Shen Li snorted, short and warm. “Yes.”

  That made Rulan blink.

  Shen Li looked at her fully then, and for the first time since they’d met, she smiled—not the sharp flicker of amusement or politeness. A real smile. A quick, fierce little thing. All teeth. No cruelty.

  “Because you’ll disappear here without it,” she said simply. “And decided I don’t want to watch that happen.”

  Rulan frowned. “…So?”

  “So I’m going to teach you.”

  The words dropped like stones into still water.

  Shen Li kept walking.

  Rulan stared at her for two steps before catching up.

  “You don’t even know if I can learn,” she muttered.

  “I know you can fight. I saw you mimic three stances before the instructor finished his breath.”

  “That’s different.”

  Shen Li shrugged. “Everything starts with watching. Reading’s just watching ink behave.”

  Rulan didn’t know what to say to that.

  She didn’t know what to do with someone who offered help without pity, without strings, without a smug little smirk to say,

  Shen Li wasn’t better. Just ahead.

  And she wasn’t reaching back to pull her up.

  She was walking next to her. And saying

  “…Why?” Rulan asked.

  “Because I listen,” Shen Li said.

  And then, with a glance that held more challenge than kindness:

  “And because I want to see what happens if you stop hiding.”

  Rulan didn’t have a response to that.

  But she didn’t walk away.

  That, she figured, was answer enough.

  She’s always been pretty adept at dogging someone else’s steps. When she inevitably fails, maybe Shen Li will need a good person to employ.

  Rule number one: always have a back up plan.