The winner's purse from the knife-throwing contest was modest—twenty silver taels and a small pouch of spirit stones—but it was enough.
Enough to rent a tiny courtyard house on the edge of Yānchéng for three nights. Enough to buy clean clothes, a real meal, and a battered practice sword from a second-hand weapons stall that smelled of old oil and regret.
They moved in at dawn, after the masquerade lanterns had guttered out and the streets turned quiet except for drunk stragglers singing off-key love songs.
The house was small: one main room with a low table, two sleeping mats, a tiny kitchen alcove, and a back door that opened onto a narrow path leading straight to the base of a low cliff. A thin ribbon of waterfall spilled over the rock face there—more trickle than roar, but constant. Cold. Clean.
Perfect.
Sùyīn dropped her wooden box in the corner and immediately started unpacking herbs.
"You're not sleeping," she said without looking up. "Not yet. If you're going to survive the final round tonight—and whatever comes after—you need to stop relying on dead people's reflexes and start building your own."
Mei stood in the doorway, still wearing the black-and-silver mask even though the fight was over. She pulled it off slowly. Her face felt naked without it.
"I thought the hairpin—"
"The hairpin is a crutch," Sùyīn cut in. "A very sharp, very talkative crutch. It's keeping you alive, yes. But it's also burning your lifespan every time you draw on its memories. I felt your qi flicker during that throw. You're leaking."
Mei touched the jade pin. It was cool now—almost sullen.
Sùyīn finally looked at her.
"Three hours. Waterfall training. No qi. No hairpin tricks. Just body and breath. You want to face her again? Then prove you can stand in front of her without dying the second she looks at you."
Mei exhaled.
"Fine."
They walked the path to the falls.
The water hit the stone basin below in a steady hiss. Mist rose in thin veils. The rocks were slick, black, smoothed by centuries.
Sùyīn pointed to a flat ledge directly under the strongest part of the flow—barely wide enough for one person.
"Stand there. Face the wall. Hands behind your back. Let it hit you."
Mei stepped onto the ledge.
The first cascade struck like a slap from a giant.
Cold shocked through her scalp, down her spine, into her bones. She gasped—couldn't help it. Water pounded her shoulders, her head, her closed eyes. Breathing was a battle; every inhale felt stolen.
Sùyīn sat cross-legged on a dry rock nearby, watching.
"Count your breaths," she called over the roar. "Don't think about the cold. Think about the next breath. Only the next one."
Mei tried.
One… two…
Her legs shook. Muscles she didn't know she had screamed. The hairpin twitched—wanting to help, wanting to flood her with borrowed endurance—but she clenched her jaw and ignored it.
Three… four…
Time dissolved.
At some point her knees buckled. She caught herself on the rock wall, palms scraping. Blood mixed with water, pink rivulets running down the stone.
Sùyīn didn't move to help.
"Again," she said.
Mei straightened.
More breaths.
More cold.
More pain.
Eventually the shivering stopped—not because she was warmer, but because her body had simply decided trembling was pointless. Her mind went quiet. Not empty. Focused. The waterfall became rhythm instead of punishment.
When Sùyīn finally called time, Mei's teeth were chattering so hard she couldn't speak.
Sùyīn tossed her a rough towel and a steaming cup of ginger tea she'd brewed while waiting.
"Sit. Drink."
Mei collapsed beside her. Wrapped the towel around her shoulders. Sipped. The heat hurt in the best way.
Sùyīn passed her a steamed bun stuffed with pork and chives—still warm from the house.
"Eat. Then we do forms."
They spent the next two hours in the courtyard.
Sùyīn taught her the basic seventeen movements of the Flowing River Sword style—simple, practical, nothing flashy. Mei's new body remembered pieces of more advanced forms, but Sùyīn made her strip them down. No flourishes. No qi bursts. Just footwork, hip turn, wrist snap, breath.
Mei drilled until her arms burned and the practice sword felt like it weighed as much as a horse.
Between sets they ate dumplings Sùyīn had bought on the way back—pork and cabbage, dipped in black vinegar. They laughed—short, tired laughs—when Mei accidentally flicked sauce onto Sùyīn's nose.
"You fight like poetry," Sùyīn said at one point, wiping her face. "All grace and tragedy. But poetry gets you killed in real fights. Learn to be ugly. Learn to survive ugly."
Mei nodded. Sweaty hair stuck to her forehead.
"I want to be someone she can't look away from," she said quietly. "Even if it's ugly."
Sùyīn looked at her for a long moment.
Then she reached out—hesitant—and brushed a wet strand of hair from Mei's eyes.
"You already are."
The touch lingered half a second longer than necessary.
Mei's cheeks warmed. Not from the tea.
They trained until the sun slid behind the cliff and long shadows filled the courtyard.
Only then did Sùyīn call it.
"Rest. Eat properly. Tonight's the final round. And after that…"
She didn't finish.
After that was the trial.
The Mirror of Intent.
The academy gates.
And her.
Mei lay on her sleeping mat that evening, body aching in a good, earned way. The hairpin was silent—almost respectful.
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time since waking in this world, her dreams weren't memories that belonged to someone else.
They were her own.
A silver-haired girl standing under moonlight.
No mask.
No frost.
Just a small, uncertain smile.
And Mei—still nameless, still trembling—reached out.
Not to fight.
To touch.
She woke to Sùyīn shaking her shoulder gently.
"Time to go."
Mei sat up.
The hairpin pulsed once—warm, eager.
The final blade dance waited.
And somewhere in the lantern glow of Yānchéng, a white fox mask was already turning toward the platform.