The training yard was already loud when Lin Yue arrived. Sticks cracked, feet thudded, and someone yelped when their partner's block landed too honest. Mist lifted off the bamboo fence in thin threads. Red ribbons hung over the gate for the academy week—bright, a little damp, like they'd been scolded by the weather.
Jian Zhi was waiting beside the rack of practice spears. He tossed one without warning. Lin Yue caught it against his palm and shoulder, the impact stinging in a clean way.
"You need to stop catching with luck," Jian Zhi said, faint amusement in his voice. "One day luck will be late."
"I'll invoice it," Lin Yue said. He spun the spear once to feel the weight. The shaft had a hairline split near the base. He adjusted his grip, filed that away as a future fix.
"Pair up!" Instructor Han called from the shade. He was a square man who pretended tea was a personality. "No heroic flourishes. Feet first, then hands."
They stepped into the packed dirt. Jian Zhi didn't pose. He simply set his spear down like a ruler on a page. Lin Yue tried a low feint; Jian Zhi slid the block in, silent, easy. Wood touched wood with a dull knock. People drifted closer in the way people don't drift closer.
"Again," Jian Zhi said.
Lin Yue changed angles. Jian Zhi followed, matching without looking like he was trying. Calm. Too calm.
"Stop reading me," Lin Yue said, breath even.
"You're very legible," Jian Zhi said. Tap—light—a warning to Lin Yue's ribs. "Close your tells."
Before Lin Yue could fix anything, the ground gave a small shiver. Not enough to knock anyone off balance. Enough to make eyes lift to the ridge.
Conversations cut off mid-word. The bamboo fence creaked. A ward strip above the armory door twitched.
Han didn't look at the mountain. "Keep going," he said, but he reached for his tea and missed the handle by a finger's breadth before finding it.
They resumed. This time Lin Yue pushed, stepped in too close, and crowded Jian Zhi's space. It worked for half a heartbeat. Jian Zhi hooked his shaft, turned, and the world tipped; Lin Yue landed on his heels, not his back. Barely.
"Better," Jian Zhi said. "See? Not all problems require elegance."
"Some require rude," Lin Yue said. His mouth wanted to smile; he didn't let it.
Near the well, Han Feng and his two shadows pretended to practice. Mei Ling—ink on her cheek again like a badge—didn't bother pretending. She leaned on the fence and yelled, "Footwork, Han Feng! You're building a house with missing stairs!"
"Your face is missing stairs," Han Feng muttered, but he fixed his heel.
A small gust ran through the yard. It carried a metal taste, like the air before a storm. Chimes under the eaves rattled once and went still. The hair along Lin Yue's forearms lifted.
Jian Zhi looked straight at him and not at the ridge. "Again," he said calmly.
They went faster. Not for show—just to have something to do that wasn't thinking about the mountain. Lin Yue found a rhythm, let the spear move in small arcs instead of long reaches. He stopped trying to win outright and started trying to not be wrong.
Tap to shoulder. Tap to wrist. He adjusted.
When Han finally clapped them to a halt, sweat had drawn a clean stripe down Lin Yue's spine. His shirt stuck to him. He didn't mind; it felt earned.
"Break," Han said. "Outer lesson at the schoolhouse by mid-day. If any wards in your homes crackle or smoke, take them down and paste new ones. Don't argue with paper."
"Paper argues back," Mei Ling said.
"Paper wins," Han said without looking at her.
They racked the spears. Lin Yue checked the split near the base of his and slid it out of the rack so no one else would use it. He'd sand it later, glue a brace, make it last one more week.
"Lunch?" Jian Zhi asked.
"Market. We need thread. And Aunt will ambush us if we go home," Lin Yue said.
"Aunt always ambushes us," Jian Zhi said, tone neutral, eyes amused.
They cut across the square.
The market had decided noise was courage. Vendors shouted prices twice as loud as usual. A boy ran past waving a paper kite shaped like a carp; the string slipped, the kite smacked Lin Yue's shoulder, and the boy gasped like he'd hurt a temple bell.
"It's fine," Lin Yue said, tucking the string back into the boy's hand. "Hold with two fingers. Not your whole life."
The boy nodded solemnly and sprinted off.
They stopped at the brush stall. Jian Zhi tested a cheap brush with quick lines on scrap. He didn't make a show of it, but the seller watched the strokes flatten and brighten like a face smoothing into a smile.
"Fox hair?" Jian Zhi asked.
"Mostly," the seller said. "A little goat."
"One copper off," Jian Zhi said, polite.
"Half."
"Done," Jian Zhi said before the man could regret it.
Next stall, herbs. The Chen family had arranged their bundles in perfect rows. Chen Yun weighed a paper packet without his usual joke about "medicine for your lazy bones."
"Strange day?" Lin Yue asked.
"Roots are jumpy," Chen Yun said, keeping his face aimed at the scale. "And someone saw lights in the pines last night. Probably wine. But." He flicked his eyes north.
"But," Lin Yue agreed. He paid for cheap ginger and two handfuls of greens that would forgive cooking mistakes.
A cart rattled past with two covered cages tied down. One corner of a cover had slipped. A glossy black paw curled through the gap, hooked the slat, and scraped once. The cartman swore, smacked the crate, and the paw withdrew, slow as a bad thought.
"Spirit ferret," Mei Ling said, appearing at Lin Yue's elbow. She had a rice cake in one hand and ink on the other. "Why is it down from the high slope? They don't like our food."
"Maybe it heard about Aunt," Lin Yue said.
"Everyone hears about Aunt," Mei Ling said, then bit her rice cake like she'd just remembered it.
Near the well, Instructor Shen stood with a bronze box on a low table and a crowd of hopefuls trying to look casual. He spun the lid once and said, "The box listens to breath. It has no patience for showing off." He looked up, spotted Lin Yue, and lifted the lid an inch in a small greeting. "Afternoon," he called. "Bring your better air."
"I'll bring the good lung," Lin Yue called back. Shen's mild smile made three kids straighten as if they'd been caught slouching.
Aunt materialized like a properly timed scolding. "You two. Food." She shoved two rice cakes at Jian Zhi and one at Lin Yue, then reconsidered and shoved Lin Yue a second. "Academy boys need meat on their bones. You look like a broom."
"I am a broom," Lin Yue said. "I sweep problems."
Aunt snorted, which meant approval, then glared at the sky for thinking about anything. "Be home before shadows stack," she said to Jian Zhi. "Eat hot food. Don't be elegant about it."
"We won't," Jian Zhi said gravely, because elegance was a thing he wore without trying.
"Good," Aunt said, and was gone, leaving behind the smell of sesame and authority.
The chimes under the apothecary's eaves rattled once; a glass jar on the counter rang in sympathy. The apothecary lifted an eyebrow at the ceiling as if it had interrupted a sentence.
Han Feng, hair still holding a little morning sand, strolled up with his two shadows. He planted his feet like roots and said to Lin Yue, "You think you're special because Instructor Shen talks to you."
"Everyone thinks I'm special," Lin Yue said. "It's a problem."
Mei Ling laughed. Han Feng's ears reddened a degree.
"You breathe on a box," Han Feng said, grasping at dignity. "So what."
"So I'll keep breathing," Lin Yue said. "It's good practice for life."
"Your footwork looked better," Han Feng blurted. Then scowled, like the compliment had slipped past his gate guard. "But you still think too much."
"I'll try thinking less," Lin Yue said. "Just for you."
Han Feng opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "Fine," and stomped away in a line that was almost straight.
"End of the world truly near," Mei Ling said. "He was almost nice."
"Careful," Jian Zhi said. "If you say that too loud, the world will hear and argue."
They left the market with thread, oil, and a cheap whetstone. On the way, they passed the blacksmith's yard. He quenched a horseshoe; the water hissed. The ward strip under his awning, replaced that morning, lay flat and quiet. Lin Yue nodded at it in relief he didn't bother hiding.
"Lunch and then schoolhouse?" Jian Zhi asked.
"Lunch and then schoolhouse," Lin Yue said.
They ate sitting on their threshold: noodles with greens, a hint of vinegar, the sesame Aunt's voice had somehow commanded them to use. The willow threw broad shade like a generous hand. For one small stretch of minutes, everything behaved.
"Ready?" Jian Zhi asked.
"No," Lin Yue said, standing. "Let's go anyway."
—
The schoolhouse had the clean smell of chalk and old wood. The Azure Crane banner hung behind the table, silver crane threads catching light even when the room didn't offer much. Instructor Mei had written four characters on the board: Hold. Bind. Turn. Listen.
"Again," she said, handing out fresh paper. "Ink should be honest. If it lies, tear it up and start over."
They practiced circles and characters until wrists were warm and the dip of the brush felt like a promise instead of a guess. Mei passed behind them, nudging elbows, tapping wrists, saying very little and making it matter.
When she reached Jian Zhi, she watched him draw one circle, then another, then put her fingertip on the end of his next line. "Don't finish too fast," she said. "Let the line ask to stop."
Jian Zhi slowed a hair. The circle settled. Mei's expression didn't change much, but Lin Yue felt a small thread of pride on Jian Zhi's behalf as if he'd been the one to earn the nod.
Instructor Shen brought out the bronze box. "Breath," he said. He tapped the lid. "It's a poor judge of talent and an excellent judge of hurry."
Lin Yue exhaled. The vanes inside lifted and steadied. Shen watched his face, not the vanes. "Good," he said. "Again."
Nearby, Mei Ling blew too hard; the vanes whipped and died. She made a face, reset, and tried again softer. This time the wheel held. She grinned like a thief getting away with it.
Midway through the review, a hard-edged hush slid through the room. Brushes shook in their cups. The prayer chimes on the eaves clicked twice without wind. Ink bled outward on one unlucky page as if the paper had changed its mind.
"Breathe," Mei said, her voice firm but not loud.
They did. The hush backed off.
Shen glanced at the north window. He didn't move, but the whole of him seemed to grow very still for half a breath, like a man listening for a second knock on a door. Lin Yue followed his gaze. The sky was a plain blue. The ridge sat in its place. Nothing to see. He felt the aftertaste of metal anyway.
"Dismissed," Mei said at last. "You'll paste fresh ward strips tonight. Practice circles until your hand stops pretending to be nervous."
"And if it doesn't?" Mei Ling asked.
"Practice until it pretends better," Mei said.
They spilled back into the day. The square had decided to be normal again and almost managed it. Laughter came easier. The fishmonger told a joke that actually was funny. Aunt scolded someone about garlic being a blessing and a weapon, so use it like both.
"Old Wei's latch?" Jian Zhi asked.
"Old Wei's latch," Lin Yue confirmed.
They fixed three small things on the way—Aunt's back step, Old Wei's latch, and a shutter that had decided to retire early. People thanked them with persimmons, stories, and a narrow smile that meant more than both.
On the path behind the smithy, the air shifted cool, then warmer, like it couldn't choose. A hawk high over the ridge cut the sky in a single line. It cried once, a clean coin-drop sound that made people look up without knowing why.
"Don't like that," Old Wei said, eyes on the ridge. "Hawks don't waste breath."
Lin Yue didn't, either. He filed the sound next to the chimes, the ward, the quiver in the ink.
By late afternoon, the village had settled into its normal rhythm with a little extra muscle. People moved faster. The dog that liked to shout at carts had lost interest. Kids argued about whose kite had flown higher and whose lie was better.
Back in their courtyard, Lin Yue set the new thread, oil, and whetstone on the table. He sharpened the cheap knife until it stopped pretending to be dull. Jian Zhi copied one of Mei's circles onto scrap with small, careful strokes.
"You're different," Jian Zhi said, eyes on the paper.
"So are you," Lin Yue said.
"Since when?"
"Since the mountain started acting like a person who wants to talk," Lin Yue said. It wasn't poetry. It was just how it felt.
Before Jian Zhi could answer, a drum sounded from the square. One beat. Not festival. Not alarm. A call.
They both stood at the same time.
"Go?" Jian Zhi said.
"Go," Lin Yue said.
They reached the pavilion with half the village. Instructor Shen stood with the headman and three minor clan elders. Instructor Mei had a folded paper in her hands, seal broken.
"The county seat sent notice," Shen said, voice carrying without effort. "The first round of academy evaluations is moved up. You'll present in three days, not seven."
The square went bright with noise. Some cheers, some curses, some quick math about supplies and money. Aunt said "Good" like a promise and "Hah" like a warning in the same breath.
Shen raised a hand. The noise thinned.
"Reason given," he said, and let his gaze brush the north. "Unsettled air on the west road. They want our villages to move through the pass before it gets worse."
Mei lifted the paper. "Prep lessons stay. Tomorrow, we begin at dawn. You'll be issued basic ward slips and travel tags. If you are not calm, pretend. Calm is a habit first."
Lin Yue's heart beat faster once, then found its pace. Three days. It was soon. It wasn't impossible. He glanced at Jian Zhi. Jian Zhi's face was steady, but his fingers curled once against his sleeve and relaxed.
The headman took a breath as if to close the meeting. The chimes under the pavilion answered for him, all at once—hard, bright, three sharp clicks. The sound ran down the timber and across the square like a line.
At the same moment, a ripple moved through the air. It was visible only because it lifted dust one finger's width and set it down again. People gasped. Several ward strips along the lane fluttered and then lay still.
Everyone turned to the ridge. Clouds gathered there in a long, slow curve, as if something behind them had pulled.
Shen didn't shout. He didn't need to.
"Inside!" he said, and every elder repeated him in their own homes' dialects. "Paste new wards. One lantern per house. No more. We meet here at dawn."
Lin Yue didn't move for one extra heartbeat, not out of stubbornness, but to listen. The air had a hum under it, soft and steady like a plucked string held with a thumb. It wasn't danger. Not yet. It was attention.
Jian Zhi touched his sleeve. "Lin Yue."
"I'm here," Lin Yue said. They turned with the crowd and ran for home with the kind of order that only villages learn.
They pasted a fresh ward at the gate—Hold, Bind, Turn, Listen—Jian Zhi's hand steady as a clock. Lin Yue pressed the paste smooth with his fingers. The strip settled and the air in the yard loosened, like a tight belt let out one notch.
He looked up at the willow. For a second, he thought he saw pale threads between the leaves, fine as hair, tugging toward the north.
He blinked. Gone.
"Tomorrow at dawn," Jian Zhi said. "We'll be early."
"We'll be early," Lin Yue said, and meant it.
---
POV Shift: Instructor Shen
Shen waited until the square emptied. He stood with his hands tucked into his sleeves and listened to the space between sounds. The ridge held its line against the dimming light. Clouds rolled and rolled and never broke.
"Three days," the headman said at his shoulder, voice low. "Is that enough?"
"For leaving?" Shen said. "Yes." He watched the far spine of the mountain. In the corner of his eye, the air wavered—once, like heat over stone. "For answers? No."
The prayer chimes under the pavilion clicked again. Not wind. Not hands.
Shen turned his head a fraction. For a heartbeat, the pattern of the square's stones looked different to him—lines linking corners, little bright points where dust had not settled, as if an old array under the village had shifted in its sleep.
"Wake the ward hall," he said. "Tell Mei to take the first watch with me."
He didn't look toward Lin Yue and Jian Zhi's lane. He didn't need to. If the ridge was drawing lines, it would tug at anyone who could feel them. He only hoped the lines were gentle.
He touched the old bronze box under his arm. The vanes inside were still.
"Hold," he said under his breath, to the box, to the village, to the unsettled sky. "Hold."