The inn's common room bustled with noise—merchants arguing over grain prices, travelers bragging about distant sect battles, and the clink of bowls on wooden tables.
Through it all, Lin Feng slipped between chairs with a tray of steaming stew. A drunk's elbow nearly toppled it, but Feng twisted smoothly, setting the bowls down without spilling a drop. His grin made the drunk chuckle sheepishly.
At another table, a weary farmer pressed forward a single copper coin, face lined with worry. Feng set the bowl before him anyway, smiling as though the man had handed him silver.
Near the corner, a cultivator slammed down his cup. "Boy! Water. Quickly."
Feng hurried over, filled the cup, and slid it across the table with a cheerful, "On the house, honored guest. You look like you've traveled far."
The man blinked, frown softening despite himself.
Feng never faltered. His father's words guided him still:
Strength isn't only in fists, Feng'er. A smile can protect too.
Even now, years after his father never returned from the hunt, Feng carried that lesson like a blade.
The inn's door creaked.
A young man in neat robes strode in, his bearing sharp enough to draw whispers. Lin Feng's grin widened instantly.
"Qiao Wen! You're late."
The newcomer smirked. "If Father's guards knew I snuck out just to meet you, I'd be chained inside the manor for a week."
Feng laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.
Once, Wen had been cold and distant, his pride sharpened by being the City Lord's son. Everyone who sought his friendship had ulterior motives. Everyone except Lin Feng. His open warmth had worn down Wen's walls, until grudging tolerance turned into loyalty.
Now, they were brothers in all but blood.
Before Feng could drag him away, a small voice piped up.
"Big Brother Wen!"
Qiao Wen turned to see Lin Xue—Feng's younger sister—peeking from behind the counter. She hurried over, tugging at his sleeve with bright eyes.
He crouched down and ruffled her hair. "Still growing like a weed, Xue'er. Soon you'll be taller than your brother."
She giggled and stuck out her tongue at Feng, who rolled his eyes.
"Good evening, Aunt Ruyin," Wen added, straightening and bowing politely to Lin Feng's mother behind the counter.
Lin Ruyin gave him a small, approving nod. "Running off again, Wen? Don't keep my son out too late."
"Of course," Wen said smoothly. For all his sharp edges, he treated Feng's family with a quiet respect—as though they were a rare kind of warmth he seldom felt at home.
"Come on," Feng urged, tugging him toward the back door.
The yard behind the inn was quiet, crates stacked by the wall, a lantern swaying faintly in the night breeze. Fireflies drifted lazily above the grass.
"The Starveil Sword Sect's recruitment," Feng said, eyes shining, "only one month away."
Wen crossed his arms, though his gaze betrayed his excitement. "The most powerful sect in the north. Passing their trial means leaving Sunflower Town behind for good."
"Not just leaving," Feng countered. "We'll join them. Train together, become sword cultivators together, and one day—shock the world together."
Wen scoffed. "You talk as if it's easy. Most don't pass even the first trial."
"Then we'll pass the second!"
"And if we fail both?" Wen pressed.
"Then we'll try again and again," Feng declared fiercely, "until even the heavens grow tired of rejecting us."
Wen stared for a moment, then laughed—loud, genuine. "Sometimes I think your smile really is some kind of cultivation technique."
Feng grinned wider. "Maybe it is."
He grabbed two wooden rods from the firewood stack and tossed one to Wen.
"Let's practice. If we can't even stand our ground with sticks, how will we ever stand before a sect elder?"
Wen caught it, spinning it once in his hand. His smirk sharpened. "Finally, something sensible from you."
They squared off under the lantern light.
The first clash rang sharp in the night—thwack! Wood against wood. Sparks of intent burned in their eyes.
Feng's stance was unrefined, but his energy was fierce, every strike driven by determination. Wen's form, though—his grip, his footwork, his controlled strikes—hinted at hours of disciplined training under watchful eyes. Where Feng's strength was raw fire, Wen's was a blade being honed.
Again and again they struck, sweat beading on their brows. Feng stumbled, took a blow to his shoulder, but came back harder, forcing Wen to brace. Wen's rod grazed Feng's side, but Feng countered with a burst of raw speed that nearly disarmed him.
The air grew heavy with their effort, each swing carrying the weight of their shared dream.
At last, both dropped to their knees, gasping, rods trembling in their hands.
"Next time," Wen panted, "I'll win cleanly."
Feng wiped sweat from his brow, still smiling despite the bruise swelling on his arm. "You can try. But I'll never stop swinging."
They leaned back against the crates, laughing through their exhaustion, gazes drifting up to the stars.
Above them, countless points of light glittered, distant and untouchable. Yet both boys felt it—the unshakable belief that one day, their names would shine among them.