The steps were shallow.
That was the first thing the old man noticed as he followed the attendant into the courtyard. Each step required little effort, as though the mountain itself had adjusted to his pace. His breathing, which usually grew uneven after only a short climb, remained steady.
Too steady.
He became aware of it only when they reached the top.
The courtyard opened before him, enclosed on three sides by wooden structures whose proportions felt perfectly balanced. No single part drew the eye, yet the whole commanded attention. The wood was smooth, its grain subtle and unblemished, carrying neither the scent of age nor that of fresh lacquer.
It simply existed.
The fourth side opened toward the mountain slope, where clouds drifted lazily past, sometimes obscuring the view, sometimes revealing distant peaks layered endlessly beyond one another.
The old man stopped again.
"This place…" he murmured.
The attendant waited without urging him forward.
After a moment, the old man shook his head lightly, as if clearing stray thoughts, and stepped into the courtyard.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, a sensation washed over him—gentle, encompassing. It was not warmth, nor pressure, nor any feeling he could easily name. Only a subtle awareness, like the world had acknowledged his arrival.
His spine straightened unconsciously.
"Please be at ease," the attendant said. "You are a guest."
The words were polite. Proper. Yet they carried no inflection, no attempt at reassurance. It was a statement of fact.
The old man nodded, uncertain why his throat felt tight.
They passed through the courtyard into the main hall. Inside, the space was simple. A low table. A few cushions. Windows open to the mountain air. Light filtered in softly, illuminating the room without casting harsh shadows.
There were no decorations.
No calligraphy.
No statues.
No symbols.
The absence itself felt deliberate.
"Please sit," the attendant said.
The old man lowered himself onto one of the cushions. The fabric yielded slightly beneath him, neither too firm nor too soft. As he settled, a long breath escaped him—slow, deep, effortless.
He frowned faintly.
When had breathing become so easy?
The attendant moved soundlessly to the side, pouring tea into a plain ceramic cup. The liquid was clear, faint steam rising from its surface.
"Drink," he said.
The old man lifted the cup with both hands.
The tea tasted like nothing he could recall—neither bitter nor sweet, neither strong nor weak. Yet the moment it passed his lips, warmth spread gently through his chest, flowing outward until it reached his fingertips.
His vision blurred.
He lowered the cup quickly, startled, but the sensation did not overwhelm him. It receded just as calmly as it had arrived, leaving behind a clarity he had not felt in years.
"I…" He paused, unsure how to continue. "What is this place?"
The attendant met his gaze.
"This is the Immortal Courtyard."
The answer felt complete, though it explained nothing.
"And you?" the old man asked hesitantly.
"I am an attendant," the young man replied.
That, too, felt sufficient.
The old man studied him more carefully now. His features were ordinary—too ordinary. No scars. No lines of age. His eyes were clear, reflecting the light without depth or concealment.
Yet standing before him, the old man felt no sense of familiarity.
Only distance.
"May I ask," the old man said slowly, "how long I may stay?"
The attendant paused.
It was subtle—so subtle the old man might have imagined it—but for a brief instant, something shifted behind the young man's eyes, as though he were listening to something beyond the room.
"You may stay until you are rested," the attendant said at last.
Rested.
The word echoed quietly in the old man's mind.
He nodded.
"That is enough."
The attendant inclined his head slightly. "Your room has been prepared."
He led the old man through a side corridor to a small chamber overlooking the clouds. The room contained only a bed, a low table, and an open window. No mirrors. No clocks. No signs of time's passage.
When the old man sat on the bed, his body relaxed immediately, as though it recognized the place.
"I will be nearby," the attendant said. "If you require anything."
The old man hesitated. "The one who brought me here…"
The attendant waited.
"I did not ask his name."
The attendant considered this.
"You may call him what you wish," he said. "Names matter less here."
The old man nodded slowly.
When the attendant left, the room fell silent.
The old man lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted without urgency, memories rising and fading without weight. The ache in his chest was gone. The constant dull pain in his joints had quieted to a distant echo.
For the first time in a long while, he did not feel like he was waiting for something to end.
Outside, clouds rolled past the window.
His breathing slowed.
Unnoticed by him, faint currents of something unseen gathered around his body, responding not to effort, but to stillness.
Far away, beyond the mountain and the courtyard, Lin Yuan watched in silence.
No instructions had been given.
None were needed.
End of Chapter 3