A week passed.
Not loudly.
Not ceremoniously.
It passed the way real time always did—through small habits forming, through footsteps becoming familiar on stone paths, through unfamiliar faces slowly losing the tension in their shoulders.
The Sanatan Flame Sect changed.
Not in structure.
In feeling.
The remaining disciples arrived gradually.
Not as a wave, but as drops.
Two one day.
Five the next.
A group of ten who came together laughing nervously, luggage tied far too tightly, eyes darting everywhere as if expecting judgment to descend from the sky.
Each arrival was met the same way.
No grand announcements.
No tests at the gate.
No pressure to kneel or swear oaths.
Just—
"Welcome."
"Dorms are that way."
"Training starts at dawn, but no one's going to kill you if you're late."
"Oh—don't call him Sect Master to his face unless you want to get teased."
Confusion turned into disbelief.
Disbelief softened into relief.
And relief, slowly, became comfort.
