The night hung over the Isle of Whispering Petals like a velvet shroud, deceptively peaceful and fragrant. The air was cool, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the salty tang of the distant sea. From the disciples' quarters in the valley below, the soft, melodious strumming of zithers and the haunting notes of bamboo flutes drifted up on the wind—a nightly practice that wove a protective web of sonic spiritual energy around the sect.
In the luxurious guest pavilion near the summit, Wang Jian sat at a low table made of polished spirit-wood. He held a cup of steam-curling tea, his expression serene as he gazed out at the moonlit ocean. Across from him, Yue Lingshan was reviewing a formation diagram, her brow furrowed in concentration, while Chen Ying polished her Gale-Severing Frostblade with a rhythmic, metallic rasp. Liu Ruyan and Mu Lianhua sat nearby, mediating, though their senses were keyed to the slightest disturbance.
