The morning sun found the courtyard first. It crept over the wall, threaded itself through the willow, and laid a warm line across the flagstones. Lin Yue stood in that line and tilted his face to it. He slept better. Not perfect, but better. The roof didn't leak, and apparently small victories counted in this world too.
Jian Zhi was up already. He'd folded the quilts and set the kettle to boil, moving around the room like someone afraid of waking a ghost that might be offended by noise. When he noticed Lin Yue watching, he softened, just a little.
"Breakfast?" he asked.
Lin Yue nodded. "Teach me what a proper breakfast looks like here. Yesterday's banquet tried to sell me on garlic as a religion."
"It's a popular faith," Jian Zhi said, mouth almost smiling. "Rice porridge, pickled greens, an egg if we're ambitious."
"I am ambitious," Lin Yue said. "Let's test that belief."
They worked side by side. Jian Zhi rinsed rice; Lin Yue handled the fire with the kind of focus that made flames behave. The porridge simmered into something honest. Jian Zhi chopped a modest hill of greens and an even more modest bit of ginger; Lin Yue took the knife after and squared off the edge with a few precise passes against the stone. When they sat, the steam fogged the air between them for a moment, and then cleared.
"Better?" Jian Zhi asked, lifting his bowl.
Lin Yue tasted, considered, and nodded. "I will not fight the garlic. Not today."
They ate without rushing. The village shuffled itself awake outside—brooms on stone, a few hens complaining about their lot, someone calling for a child who had no intention of being found yet. When they finished, Lin Yue carried the bowls to the basin and glanced at the narrow strip of soil by the wall.
"This will be a garden," he said. "If we let it."
"You garden?" Jian Zhi asked.
"I design solutions," Lin Yue said, deadpan. "Sometimes they grow leaves."
They turned the earth with an old spade and a stick that pretended to be a tool. The soil came up clumpy and stubborn, but not hopeless. Jian Zhi had a calm way of working—no wasted movement, no dramatics. He stopped for small rests and pretended he didn't, which made Lin Yue pretend not to notice. When he flagged, Lin Yue swapped places, took the heavier part without announcing it.
A neighbor peeked over the wall, pretending to check whether her cat had betrayed her by living elsewhere. When Lin Yue looked up and said, "Morning," she flinched like she'd been caught, then bobbed a nod and vanished with the dignity of a person who refuses to admit embarrassment.
They planted a few clean lines of scallion, a row of hardy greens, a hopeful patch of coriander. Lin Yue tamped the soil with his palms and sat back on his heels.
"Good," he said. "You'll scold me if I forget to water."
"I won't," Jian Zhi said. "But I'll stand in the doorway and look worried until you remember."
"Close enough."
They cleaned up and took a brief break on the threshold. The willow gave shade. A boy ran past the gate with a kite that refused to accept its job. The wind helped out of pity.
"You're different," Jian Zhi said, not looking at him, not quite making it a question.
Lin Yue let the quiet carry that for a beat. "Maybe I stopped letting other people write me."
Jian Zhi thought about that. "I… noticed," he said. "Yesterday. The way you answered the headman. And the boys."
"If there's a script," Lin Yue said, "we can edit."
A small sound—agreement? amusement?—left Jian Zhi. He didn't push. He filed the answer somewhere behind his careful eyes and let it rest.
By midmorning, the square started pulling people toward it like a tide. Drums, not festival drums—cleaner, measured. Lin Yue looked up.
"Something official," he said.
"Recruiters," Jian Zhi replied. "Azure Crane Academy sends a caravan once or twice a year to test. Some youths go, not many stay. It's expensive, and the academy… it prefers people with more to offer."
The last words had weight he wasn't sharing. Lin Yue didn't ask. He stood and dusted his hands. "Let's go look. If we dislike it, we can dislike it with information."
The square had grown a pavilion. Three cultivators stood beneath it in light blue robes marked with a silver crane. One was a woman with a cinnabar dot at her brow—the sort of official who ran ceremony with a glance. One was a mild-looking man whose eyes, on closer look, didn't miss much. The third was very young and trying not to knock over things by existing too energetically.
On their table: a crystal sphere, a pale stone plate etched with thin lines and characters, and a narrow bronze box with vents. People arranged themselves in corners that made sense to them: hopeful families up front, those who enjoyed watching failure at the back, elders drifting toward whichever outcome would feed a story later.
The woman lifted her hand. "Azure Crane offers three outer paths," she said, voice steady. "Martial and Spirit—preparatory track for inner gate; Craftsmanship Hall; Arrays and Talismans. We test for aptitude. You're not being chosen today; you're being measured for the path to try."
The young one started calling names. A handful of youths went first. Some had faces like sharpened knives; some had faces like open windows. Results were mixed. The crystal lit for a few and sulked for others. The stone warmed under careful fingers; on the careless, it stayed stone. When one boy blew into the bronze box like he wanted to fight it, the box wheezed and gave up. The mild-eyed man handed him a cup of water anyway.
Jian Zhi stood beside Lin Yue, hands tucked in his sleeves, posture neat. He watched without leaning forward, like a person who had learned a long time ago not to start expecting anything too early.
A soft shift traveled through the crowd. Aunt had arrived. She positioned herself near them with the unmistakable air of someone prepared to be correct about something. Lin Yue's mouth twitched. Jian Zhi didn't look at her at all, which in itself was an answer.
Then the headman, nervous and over-loud, said, "Next—Jian Zhi. And… Young Master Lin."
A ripple of interest. A ripple of doubt. Lin Yue glanced at Jian Zhi. Jian Zhi's jaw tightened once and loosened again.
"We can leave," Lin Yue said, quiet enough to be a private option.
"We can also stand here," Jian Zhi replied, tone level.
"Then we'll stand."
The young disciple pushed the pale stone toward them. "Inscription sense and soul steadiness," he said, rehearsed. "Place your fingertips like this."
Lin Yue didn't move yet. "Together?" he asked. "It seems efficient."
The disciple blinked. The woman with the cinnabar dot tilted her head. "The array won't accept confusion," she said. "Try it."
They set their fingertips on the stone at the same time. For a second nothing happened; then thin lines lit from the center, not bright, not dramatic—just… sure. The light followed patterns that looked like writing meant for hands instead of eyes. Lin Yue felt a slight pressure at his fingertips, as if the stone were breathing a little slower while it considered them.
The mild-eyed man's attention sharpened. He didn't move, but something about his focus changed. Jian Zhi's lashes lowered and lifted again. His breath didn't catch—it simply… adjusted.
The young disciple swallowed. "Good," he said, like a student who has just discovered his teacher isn't going to eat him.
The crystal sphere came next. "Just touch it," the boy said. "No forcing."
Jian Zhi went first. The crystal lit, clean and even; a pale gold thread ran through the white like dawn through fog. People who wanted fireworks frowned. People who listened a little felt something settle.
Lin Yue set his palm next. The sphere made a soft sound—if glass could hum approval, that was it. Steady white, not showy. A thing that promised to be the same tomorrow as today.
The bronze box finished the set. Lin Yue breathed over the vents—slowly. The vanes inside spun up, steadied, held—then eased down in a neat slope. The young disciple smiled without remembering to stop himself. Jian Zhi bent and breathed in turn. The vanes spun once, hesitated, and a small inner one flicked as if catching a draft no one else felt.
The woman with the cinnabar dot looked at her colleague. He gave the tiniest nod.
"Azure Crane extends invitation," she said, clear enough for the square. "Craftsmanship Hall—Lin Yue. Arrays and Talismans—Jian Zhi. Outer track, with the option to present at the county seat when the inner gate evaluators pass in three months. Preparatory lessons will be offered in the village for seven days. No fee."
The square did what squares do. It buzzed. Relief, doubt, jealousy, excitement—they all ran around in circles, bumping into each other and apologizing badly.
Aunt recovered first. "He can't possibly keep up," she said, meaning Lin Yue and generously including Jian Zhi. "Zhi's health—"
"Is his business," Lin Yue said. Not sharp. Just finished.
The woman's gaze slid to Aunt and cooled a degree. "Academy standards are the academy's concern," she said. Which, politely translated, was: we know what we're doing.
The tallest of the three village boys—yesterday's swagger—couldn't help himself. "The academy must be desperate," he muttered, just loud enough to be heard.
Lin Yue turned his head and met the boy's eyes. "If they were," he said, "you would be talent-scouted."
A few people failed not to smile. The boy colored, found emergency business elsewhere, and did not complete his sentence.
The mild-eyed man produced two slim tokens with a crane mark burned into the wood. He passed one to each of them. "Keep these safe. Lessons are in the old schoolhouse just after midday." His tone warmed by a degree. "We don't like losing first-week students to mistakes."
"We'll be there," Jian Zhi said. His voice wasn't loud, but it landed.
On the walk home, Aunt trailed them by a few paces, which is the distance between disapproval and reluctant interest. "Fees," she said at last. "You'll need brushes, paper, tools. Travel, if you pass the next gate."
"We'll manage," Jian Zhi said.
"With work," Lin Yue added. "Tell me who needs a roof patched or a door rehung. We'll trade."
Aunt made a noncommittal sound that in her language meant: I'm not encouraging you, but I will mention that Old Wei's granary door sulks in the rain.
Back in their courtyard, quiet folded itself around them again. Lin Yue set his token on the table and traced the crane's wing with a thumb. The lines weren't feathers—they were paths. Entry. Method. Mastery. He liked that the academy hid a diagram inside a bird.
"You should take arrays," Lin Yue said. "Your hand is steady. The stone liked you."
Jian Zhi's ears warmed a little. "You… breathe like you know what you're doing. Craft will like you."
"I've made peace with ventilation," Lin Yue said, straight-faced. "We'll be fine."
They spent the next hour doing the kind of things that don't impress anyone except the people who have to live with the results. Lin Yue fixed the cabinet hinge that squeaked like an old man with opinions. Jian Zhi sorted the small shelf so bowls stopped pretending to be acrobats. Lin Yue made a list on scrap paper—brush, cheap ink, two nails, twine, spare bowl, oil for the door. Jian Zhi copied the academy schedule with neat characters that made the paper look like it was standing up straighter out of respect.
They took the list to the lane market. The shopkeeper who sold brushes tried to charge them for the famous ancestors of every hair on the brush. Jian Zhi thanked her, picked up a cheaper one, tested the point, and asked, mild as milk, "Do the ancestors improve this one's line?" He got the fair price. Lin Yue bought a small jar of oil after explaining to the stall owner—cheerfully and completely sincerely—why his measuring scoop was a terrible shape for consistency. The owner threw in twine so he could think about that in peace.
On the way back, a thin messenger in a travel-stained robe with the minor Lin crest at his shoulder appeared at their gate with a smile that showed too many teeth.
"You are Lin Yue," he said, pleased to be correct about something easy. "The Lin Clan sends their blessing on your fortunate marriage."
He extended a parcel. It weighed like pride pretending to be generosity. Inside lay a red paper charm. The ink strokes were wrong. Two of the characters were sloppy; one was simply mistaken and hoped no one would notice.
"Paste it for prosperity," the messenger said, enjoying himself. "And when the academy realizes it's overreached, we will welcome you home."
Jian Zhi's fingers tightened in his sleeves. He didn't speak.
Lin Yue took a breath. "A moment," he said. He set the charm on the table, borrowed Jian Zhi's new brush, and—without show—corrected the worst mistake with one clean stroke. He fixed the second by darkening a line and adjusting a hook. He left the third alone. Some errors should remain as warnings.
He looped twine through the charm and hung it on the gate. The paper settled. The air in the yard shifted—barely. Not magic. Not a miracle. Just… right.
The messenger's grin thinned. "Interesting parlor trick," he said. "But real cultivation—"
"Begins," Lin Yue said, "with doing small things correctly."
The messenger had no answer to that which wouldn't make him sound foolish. He bowed the kind of bow that lets resentment hide behind courtesy and left. The trio of boys who'd lingered down the lane to enjoy the scene also left, abruptly remembering they had urgent puddles to inspect.
Jian Zhi watched the charm for a moment. "You knew where to fix it."
"I knew where it hurt the most," Lin Yue said. "Different thing."
"Still useful."
They ate early. Noodles, greens, a splash of vinegar. They didn't talk much. They didn't need to. The world outside handled the noise; the courtyard handled the rest.
By late afternoon the air had cooled, and a breeze ran down the lane with the smell of river in it. Lin Yue stood in the doorway with a cloth, oiling the hinges that complained. Jian Zhi sat on the step with the new brush and a strip of scrap paper. He practiced straight lines and squares—simple strokes. The quiet kind of practice that looks like nothing and turns into everything later.
A drum sounded from the square. One beat. Then another. Slow, steady. Not festival. Not warning. Call.
Lin Yue looked at Jian Zhi. Jian Zhi had already risen, brush capped, strip set aside.
"What is it?" Lin Yue asked, though he had a good guess.
"Academy notice," Jian Zhi said. "When and where. Who is expected. What to bring."
Another drumbeat rolled over the rooftops. The sound found their courtyard, found their bones, and sat there like a promise that didn't bother with poetry.
Lin Yue wiped his hands and nodded toward the gate. "Shall we?"
They stepped out together. The charm moved slightly in the breeze, a corner lifting like a small flag.
Down the lane, people were already drifting toward the square. Some curious. Some hopeful. Some simply unwilling to be the last to know.
Jian Zhi's sleeve brushed Lin Yue's hand as they walked. He didn't pull away. He didn't look down either. He just adjusted his stride half a step so they made the turn at the same time.
The drum spoke once more, and this time the sound felt closer, as if the academy had decided the village could meet it halfway.
They rounded the corner and saw the azure banner rise over the pavilion, silver crane bright in the lowering light.
"First lesson begins at mid-day tomorrow," the mild-eyed man called, voice carrying. "Bring brushes, paper, a calm head, and a willingness to be wrong."
The square stirred. The headman started smiling in the direction of anyone who might be important. Aunt made a noise that could mean anything from Don't embarrass me to I expect you home for dinner.
Lin Yue glanced at Jian Zhi. Jian Zhi glanced back. No speeches. No vows. Just the simple agreement of two people who had decided to go forward and see.
"Tomorrow then," Lin Yue said.
"Tomorrow," Jian Zhi answered, gaze steady, kind as ever—and questioning, just a little, in a way that said he didn't quite understand Lin Yue yet, and was willing to learn.
They turned with the crowd. The drums quieted. The sky turned the color of brushed rice again.
In the back of Lin Yue's mind, something warm and wordless stirred—his pocket world remembering water, perhaps—but he let it sit. There would be time. For now, there was a village, a gate charm, two cheap brushes, and a class that might open the first of many doors.
He found that he wanted to be early.