The next morning, I woke up with something I hadn't felt in weeks: purpose.
Was it noble? No.
Was it important? Also no.
But it wasn't embroidery or silently naming koi fish, so I was fully on board.
I got dressed with the speed and enthusiasm of a kid on a school field trip—hands slightly shaky, hair mildly chaotic, heart very much alive. Before I could wonder whether I looked presentable or like a deranged noblewoman on the brink of spiritual crisis, there was a knock at the door.
I opened it to find two young guards standing rigidly like they'd just stepped out of a training manual.
"Miss, we are here to escort you to the training ground," one said, all politeness and posture.
Naturally, Madam Hui chose this moment to materialize like a worried specter. Her expression was the usual mix of war general and disapproving aunt.
"Remember, Miss Mei Lin, you are to remain within the boundaries of the training ground," she said, enunciating each word like I might try to somersault into the middle of a sword fight.
She then turned to my two ever-present servant girls. "You will accompany her at all times."
The girls bowed in perfect sync. Honestly, I wasn't sure if they were servants or synchronized swimmers.
"Yes, Madam Hui," I said with the kind of smile you give to someone who clearly doesn't believe in smiles.
Internally, I sighed.
As I stepped outside, the fresh morning air hit me like a cool splash of optimism. I felt light—not spiritually awakened, but at least spiritually not-bored. The walk to the training ground was, admittedly, gorgeous. The palace gardens looked like they'd been curated by a floral god with OCD—vibrant peonies, orderly hedges, and a breeze that somehow smelled like serenity and expensive incense. Birds chirped as though rehearsed. Even the trees seemed to have better posture than I did.
By the time we arrived at the training grounds, I was practically buzzing.
And then—oh wow.
The training ground was big—imposing enough to impress, but not absurd. Think ancient colosseum vibes, minus the bloodsports, plus elegance. Tiered stone seating circled a wide-open field. Practice dummies stood at the ready, weapons lined up in polished racks, and clusters of cultivators moved with a kind of fluid discipline that was both beautiful and terrifying.
In the center of it all, I spotted Lan Wangji instantly.
Of course I did. It's hard not to notice someone who looks like a divine painting stepped off a scroll and decided to lead combat training.
Dressed in pristine white robes, he stood out like a lone snowflake in a battlefield—serene, precise, and completely unbothered by the chaos around him. With his unsheathed sword, he moved through the ranks of cultivators, wordlessly adjusting stances and correcting posture like a sculptor fine-tuning his masterpiece. Not a single movement was wasted. It was all so... annoyingly graceful.
My inner fangirl nearly exploded. Wow, I thought. It's just like a drama. The synchronized movements, the silent authority, the impossibly good posture. Can they fly on swords too? Shoot spiritual beams? Do somersaults in the air while yelling poetic threats?
I was busy mentally composing an Oscar-worthy narration for the scene when I suddenly noticed Lan Wangji striding toward me.
Graceful, deliberate, zero sound.
Seriously, does he even walk, or does he glide? It's like he has a built-in wind machine.
He stopped in front of me, his expression the usual—unreadable. A little bit "I am contemplating ancient philosophy," a little bit "you might be mildly annoying."
"You made it," he said, voice calm and clipped.
"Yes, thank you for arranging this," I said, trying to keep the squeal out of my voice. "It's incredible watching them train. Like… just like in the drama."
He blinked, brow furrowing ever so slightly. "Drama?"
Oops. Time to self-edit.
"Uh — never mind. I meant… it's amazing to see it for real. Very inspiring. Lots of… discipline and form. So much honor."
Nice save, I told myself. Gold star.
As we stood side by side watching the practice unfold, my gaze landed on a man barking orders across the training ground. He moved with the kind of authority that didn't need explanation—every soldier obeyed before he even finished speaking.
"That's General Luo," Lan Wangji said, noticing where I was looking. "Luo Jianhong."
The man was… impressive. Towering and broad-shouldered, he looked like he could probably lift a horse and still have energy left for a sword duel. His every move radiated controlled power, like he was born to command—or possibly to star in an ancient military drama as the emotionally tormented general with a tragic past.
Even from a distance, I could see the sharp lines of his face—high cheekbones, strong jaw, all carved in the exact way historical dramas try to recreate with perfect lighting and too much contouring. And his eyes—deep amber, intense, focused—scanned the soldiers like he could see their mistakes before they made them. He was the kind of man who looked like he could kill you… and then give an impassioned speech at your funeral that made everyone cry.
There was something deeply intimidating about him—but not in a cruel way. It was the kind of strength built on years of loyalty, discipline, and probably a lifetime of out-angsting everyone around him.
So naturally, I was intrigued.
I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of admiration for the sheer dedication and skill on display. These weren't just drills—it was art in motion, with a side of lethal.
"Do they really fly on swords?" I asked, curiosity getting the best of me. "And, you know... shoot glowing energy beams and all that?"
Lan Wangji didn't even blink. "Only the most advanced cultivators are able to sword-fly. It requires immense spiritual power and years of disciplined training."
In other words: don't try this at home.
I nodded solemnly, like I was absorbing ancient wisdom, but internally I was just picturing myself clinging to a flying sword, screaming the whole way like I was on a magical rollercoaster.
Meanwhile, the soldiers continued their routines—blades slicing through air with elegant precision, feet moving in perfect rhythm, robes swaying dramatically. It was the martial arts version of Swan Lake, if Swan Lake could knock out ten men with a fan.
I glanced toward the edge of the field, wondering how close I could get before I triggered some kind of palace security alarm. But then, like a tiny alarm bell in my head, I heard Madam Hui's voice echo:
"Stay within the designated area."
Yes, yes, Madam Hui. I get it. One wrong step and I'll ruin centuries of etiquette.
Lan Wangji eventually returned to the field, slipping back into his role like a thread pulled into a tapestry. The soldiers responded instantly, their movements sharper, their focus tighter. The man was basically discipline personified.
I sat back down, still entranced, and sighed. If I could just record this…
My brain, of course, kicked into full 21st-century mode.
If this were on TikTok, it'd have a million likes in five hours.
#AncientWarriors #LanWangjiFanClub #HotAndHonorable
The comments would be wild: "Where is this temple? Asking for a friend.""Do they take disciples?""Lan Wangji > every K-pop idol, ever."
I snorted quietly, half at the thought and half at myself. Stuck in ancient China, and all I could think about was internet clout. I was one sandal away from launching my influencer career: How to Thrive in the Past with No WiFi and Great Skin: A Survival Guide.
Just then, Lan Wangji returned to my side, as silent and sudden as ever.
"How was it?" he asked, calm as always, but there was the faintest flicker of curiosity in his tone — which, for Lan Wangji, was the equivalent of shouting.
"It was incredible!" I beamed. "But... is it over already?"
He shook his head slightly. "Watch."
He nodded toward the training field, where the soldiers had parted into a wide circle, clearing the center like something momentous was about to happen.
Oh. Oh yes.
Two soldiers stepped forward, swords drawn, their expressions focused. The energy shifted. It wasn't just a practice anymore—this was a performance. No, a duel.
The air practically crackled with anticipation. Everyone held their breath — including me.
The two cultivators bowed to each other, a silent show of respect, and then without warning—bam—they launched into motion.
Blades clashed in a blur of silver and silk. Every strike was sharp, calculated, poetic. Their footwork was impossibly light, yet every movement carried weight. It was so fast I could barely track it, and yet so precise I couldn't look away.
Forget dramas. This was the drama.
And I had front row seats.
Suddenly, one of the soldiers made a mistake—a single misstep, barely visible to my untrained eye. In two sharp, consecutive slashes, his opponent struck cleanly across the man's right arm and then his leg. His sword clattered to the ground as he crumpled with a low grunt of pain.
I winced, my breath catching. "Wait, is that—blood?" I blinked hard. Yep. That was definitely blood. Oh my god, they're using real swords?!
Instinctively, I glanced around, expecting someone to rush forward with towels, bandages, maybe even a stretcher.
But no one flinched.
The crowd barely blinked. If anything, they looked impressed. The match was over, the loser limped away, and two more soldiers stepped forward like it was all part of the morning routine.
My stomach turned a little. What the hell kind of boot camp was this?
The wounded soldier sat down near the edge of the grounds, gritting his teeth while a fellow trainee started patching him up with what looked like... a strip of torn cloth and vibes.
I turned sharply to Lan Wangji, unable to hide the alarm in my voice.
"Is there no healer for these kinds of injuries?"
He didn't look away from the match. "Healers are limited," he said in that composed, eternal-snowfall voice of his. "These are minor wounds. In battle, one must continue until the fight ends. Here, the priority is training."
"Minor?" I echoed, staring at the blood still dripping from the soldier's arm. "That slash could easily get infected. Without proper cleaning, it could fester!"
Lan Wangji finally turned to look at me, his expression neutral but listening.
I shook my head. "My sister would lose her mind seeing this. She's always saying, 'Even the smallest cut needs attention or it'll cause trouble later.' And she's right. This—this is how you lose limbs. Or worse."
There was a long pause as my words settled into the space between us. Then it hit me—maybe this was it. My role. The thought ignited something deep in my chest. Something sharper than boredom. Purpose.
"I want to help," I said, more firmly this time. "I'm not a doctor, and I'm definitely not my sister, but I know how to clean wounds, stop bleeding, and wrap injuries. I've learned enough to do some good here."
Lan Wangji studied me for a moment, the corners of his gaze softening ever so slightly.
"That is a noble offer," he said. "But this is still a training ground. It will not be without challenges."
I squared my shoulders, refusing to back down. "I don't care if it's difficult. I'm not asking to be in the way—I'm offering to be useful. Let me try."
He gave the faintest nod. "Very well, then."
And just like that, something in me settled—like a puzzle piece clicking into place. No, I hadn't figured out how to get home, or why I was even here in the first place. But for now, at least, I had something that mattered. A way to be more than just the confused girl who fell into a fantasy world.
I could help. I could do something. And maybe, just maybe, I could belong.