A week into sect life, the pressure began to shift. Outer disciples trained harder. Whispers followed me down every corridor. The name "Ling Ye" was on tongues—but never spoken too loudly. Half of them feared me. The other half wanted a chance to prove they shouldn't.
One of the latter made his move at dawn on the sparring grounds.
"Ling Ye, you've had your fun. Let's see if you're more than hype," came a low, clear voice.
He stepped into the ring. Clean robes. Flowing dark hair. A copper medallion hanging from his neck—inner disciple. The crowd parted like seaweed in a storm.
His name was Fang Mu—eighteen years old, known for being the pride of the Ironwood Hall. Swift blade, sharper tongue, and a background that screamed privilege.
I stood, dusted off my sleeves, and walked in. "You're already wearing that medallion like a necklace. Want me to add a leash to it?"
He smirked. "You've got spirit. Let's see how long it lasts."
A sharp clap from the watching instructor—Elder Qian, tall, silver-bearded, and always squinting like he hated sunlight—signaled the match.
Fang Mu moved fast. I'll give him that. His blade whistled like a phantom, aiming straight for my throat. I tilted just enough to dodge, slid in, and slammed a palm into his ribs.
He grunted but didn't stagger. Spun away, redirected, slashed at my side. I caught the flat of his sword with my forearm. The impact sent a jolt up my bones, but I didn't flinch. Pain was familiar. It sharpened me.
"I expected more," I said, cracking my knuckles.
He growled and lunged again, this time tracing sword energy through the air. Ironwood Fang Style—a technique known for carving through armor. Dangerous… if you let it land.
I didn't.
I ducked low, spun under his strike, and drove my elbow into his back. He stumbled. I didn't wait. My foot swept his leg, and he slammed into the dirt with a cough.
The arena went quiet.
I stepped back, eyes locked on him. "Next time, aim before you swing."
He lay there, red dust on his cheek, breath ragged. But he laughed. "You're better than I thought."
"I'm just getting started," I said.
Elder Qian approached afterward, arms behind his back. "He's an inner disciple. You're not. Yet you defeated him cleanly."
I shrugged. "Rank means nothing if your foundation's hollow."
He nodded once. "Keep sharpening your edge. But don't let it make you arrogant."
"I don't sharpen it for them," I said, nodding at the crowd. "I sharpen it for what's coming."
Later that evening, a knock landed on my barrack door. I opened it to find a girl—slim frame, short silver hair, eyes like stormclouds. She didn't introduce herself. Just held out a folded message scroll.
"From Lu Shen," she said. "Also, don't lose next time. I bet on you to win in two strikes."
I raised an eyebrow. "You bet on me?"
She turned to leave. "Call me Yan Fei. I'm his assistant. Try not to die before the fun starts."
As the door closed, I unfolded the scroll. One line, written in sharp black ink: Come to the forest behind the eastern cliff. Midnight. Don't be late.
Lu Shen never used words unless they mattered.
I grabbed my sword, tied my robe, and headed into the night.