The afternoon sun painted everything in shades of honey and gold, casting long shadows beneath the ancient peach tree that stood sentinel behind the ancestral hall. Sect Leader Jiang and Master Zhou sat in companionable silence, sharing a pot of wine that had aged as long as their friendship. Petals drifted down like scattered thoughts, but for a long while, neither man disturbed the peace with words.
Finally, Jiang's voice cut through the stillness like a blade through silk. "It's been years, hasn't it? Since you brought that boy back."
Zhou's smile was bitter as winter wine. He lifted his cup with hands that had once been steady as stone but now trembled with the weight of memory. "Chen Xinyu was only five. Gods above, he was so small—trembling in that pool of blood like a broken sparrow. I can still see his eyes... wide with terror, yet silent as the grave."
Jiang's sigh carried the weight of mountains. "You still carry that day with you."
"I miss them," Zhou murmured, his voice barely louder than the whisper of falling petals. "Miss Daiwu, Mister Chen... if only that cursed night had never come to pass."
"You never told him, did you?" The question hung in the air like incense smoke, heavy with unspoken sorrow.
Zhou drank deeply before shaking his head. "No. I... I couldn't bear to. What if the truth shattered what little peace he'd found? How do you look into a child's eyes and say, 'Your parents were murdered'? Even now, after all these years..." His voice cracked like autumn leaves. "I'm still too much of a coward."
"He's stronger than you think," Jiang said softly. "Stronger than he appears."
Zhou's smile was sad as moonlight on water. "He truly is..."
---
Meanwhile, the training courtyard buzzed with the frantic energy of approaching battle. Disciples threw themselves into last-minute preparations with the desperation of drowning men grasping for driftwood—all except for one very notable absence.
"Two days," Lan Xueyao muttered, her frown could have carved stone. "Where in all the hells has Chen Xinyu disappeared to?"
Lu Rourou sprawled dramatically on the ground like a wilted flower. "Maybe he finally came to his senses and ran away. Or perhaps he fell into another cave? Got snatched by hungry ghosts again?"
Yan Zheng rose with the fluid grace of drawn steel. "Enough speculation. I'm going to find him."
Shen Yao stretched with feline laziness, thoroughly unbothered by their collective concern. "No need for heroics, shixiong. A junior disciple spotted him at the back mountain, practicing sword forms like a man possessed. Our dear little Yu is finally attempting usefulness—I'm genuinely moved to tears."
Yan's expression remained skeptical. "And if something's happened to him?"
Shen shrugged with maddening nonchalance. "Then he'll die dramatically, and you can compose tragic poetry about it later."
---
Within the shadowed elegance of his pavilion, Prince Hua Ling sat motionless as carved jade. Before him lay an ancient text on formation arrays, its pages unturned for the past hour. His dark eyes kept drifting to the empty courtyard beyond his windows—a courtyard that had remained conspicuously quiet for two entire days.
Two days without the chaotic whirlwind that was Chen Xinyu disrupting his carefully ordered world.
Two days without catching even a glimpse of those muddy robes or hearing that ridiculously cheerful voice.
He set the book down with deliberate precision, the soft thud echoing louder than thunder in the silence. *What is that fool up to?*
---
Elsewhere in the sect, Qingze crouched behind a screen of emerald bamboo, shadow-walking with the patience of a trained spy. His target: Chi Ruyan and her simpering handmaiden, Chao Chao. His Highness had commanded surveillance, and Qingze obeyed without question.
Chao Chao fanned her mistress with mechanical devotion while Chi Ruyan sipped tea with the languid air of a cat sunning itself. Everything appeared perfectly, mundanely normal.
"She seems harmless enough," Qingze murmured to himself before vanishing like morning mist to report back.
Only... appearances could deceive even the most careful observer.
The moment Chi Ruyan sensed she was truly alone, her delicate facade cracked like ice in spring. She rose with predatory grace, her lips curving into a smile sharp enough to draw blood.
"Finally shook off that persistent little spy," she purred.
Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles white as bone. "Chen Xinyu... how dare you let my prince carry you? How dare you exist in his world?"
Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "In the tournament... I'll ensure you regret drawing breath."
She turned to Chao Chao with eyes cold as winter stars. "Go. Change the tournament pairings. I want that little worm matched against me."
---
High on the back mountain, Chen Xinyu moved through sword forms with single-minded determination. Sweat had long since soaked through his robes, plastering them to his skin like a second layer. His muscles screamed protests, but he pushed forward with stubborn resolve.
The spiritual peacock Lingque perched nearby on a moss-covered boulder, watching his efforts with the expression of someone witnessing a particularly tragic performance.
"At this rate," she observed with dry eloquence, "you'll collapse from exhaustion before the tournament begins. Your sword work is still atrocious."
Xinyu paused mid-thrust to glare at her. "You're a bird. What could you possibly know about swordsmanship?"
Lingque preened a wing with insulted dignity. "Considerably more than you, evidently."
Something about this boy nagged at her—a feeling like half-remembered music, important and elusive. After a moment of internal debate, she made her decision.
"I'll help you," she announced.
Xinyu's blade wavered in surprise. "Help? You mean lend me spiritual energy?"
"That, and perhaps teach you techniques that won't result in immediate death."
"Deal!" His face lit up like sunrise over mountains. "But first..."
She tensed. "What now?"
"I get to name you properly."
Lingque's magnificent wings flapped in alarm. "Absolutely not! I already possess a perfectly elegant name—Lingque! It speaks of grace, of beauty—"
"I'll call you..." Xinyu paused, stroking his chin with theatrical consideration.
"Don't you dare—"
"Fluffycock."
Lingque froze as if struck by lightning. Her proud posture deflated like a punctured silk balloon. "...Excuse me?"
Xinyu grinned with the innocence of someone about to be murdered. "It fits perfectly! You're fluffy, and you're a cock—I mean, a bird."
"I am a PEACOCK, not some barnyard fowl!"
"You complain a lot for a chicken."
"That's—! ENOUGH!" She shrieked, seizing him by the back of his robes and launching skyward.
"WAAAHHH—PUT ME DOWN, FLUFFYCOCK!" Xinyu's scream echoed across the mountainside.
"You said it again!"
"I'M SORRY! I WAS GRIEVOUSLY MISTAKEN!"
With great dignity, Lingque deposited him safely on solid ground, though perhaps not as gently as she could have managed.
Xinyu staggered upright, dripping and disheveled but miraculously intact.
"So... we're contracted now?" he asked weakly.
Lingque muttered something about questioning her own sanity.
"Excellent. I've never had a spiritual beast before." He paused thoughtfully. "You're just like me, actually."
Her head tilted with curious grace. "How so?"
"Annoying, and probably regretting all your life choices."
For a long moment, Lingque studied him with ancient eyes that seemed to peer beyond flesh and bone. When she spoke, her voice carried notes of profound mystery.
"There's far more to you than you realize, Chen Xinyu."
The wind sighed through pine branches. Somewhere beneath his collar, the mark on Xinyu's neck pulsed with faint, otherworldly light.
---
By the time Chen Xinyu dragged his exhausted body back from the mountain, stars had claimed dominion over the heavens. His limbs felt like overcooked noodles, his robes clung damply to his skin, and all he desired was to collapse into bed and sleep until the tournament became someone else's problem.
But as he approached the small arched bridge near the lotus pond, his steps faltered.
There—bathed in liquid silver moonlight, robes stirring like captured wind—stood Prince Hua Ling.
He looked ethereal, untouchable as a figure from ancient paintings. His obsidian hair cascaded over his shoulders like spilled ink on white silk, and his gaze was fixed upon the mirror-still water as if seeking answers in its depths. The sharp line of his profile, the elegant curve of his neck—all of it seemed carved from moonbeams and shadow.
Something strange and warm unfurled in Xinyu's chest, fluttering like caged butterflies.
He hadn't meant to witness this private moment. Didn't deserve to intrude upon such solitary beauty. Step by careful step, he retreated into the sheltering darkness, breath held like a sacred secret.
Hua Ling never turned. Never noticed the quiet observer who watched him with newly awakened eyes.
Silent as falling snow, Chen Xinyu melted back into the night.
---
"HEY! YOU LAZY TURNIP!"
Xinyu jolted awake with a strangled yell, nearly tumbling from his bed in a tangle of blankets. Shen Yao loomed over him like an avenging spirit, hair messily tied back, expression caught between irritation and amusement.
"Planning to sleep through your own tournament?"
Xinyu rubbed his eyes blearily. "Five more minutes..."
"Absolutely not. Do you have any idea what day this is?"
Reality crashed over him like a bucket of ice water.
*The tournament. THE TOURNAMENT.*
He'd promised Fluffycock—Lingque—that he'd fight for the top three. That he'd prove himself worthy. That he'd stand tall and earn some fragment of respect.
He vaulted upright. "Ancestors preserve me! I'm catastrophically late!"
Shen Yao tossed him fresh robes and a piece of fruit. "Eat while running. If you faint from hunger in the arena, I'm leaving your corpse for the crows."
---
The tournament grounds pulsed with electric anticipation. Disciples packed the viewing stands like colorful flowers in a garden, elders sat in dignified rows with the gravity of mountains, and the main arena gleamed with golden talismans and shimmering barrier formations. Energy crackled through the air thick as summer lightning.
All eyes briefly tracked one particular figure: a wild-haired boy sprinting at full speed, robes disheveled, panic written across his features, fruit clutched between his teeth.
"Isn't that Chen Xinyu?"
Near the preparation area, Lu Rourou knelt with hands clasped in fervent prayer, whispering desperately to any deity willing to listen.
"Merciful heavens, I don't wish to die! I only want to grow rich and marry well—surely that's not too much to ask?"
Watching her pathetic display, Xinyu thought with grim humor, *She's somehow worse off than I am...*
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena like thunder from clear skies: "THE FIRST ROUND BEGINS! ALL DISCIPLES PREPARE!"
Standing at the battlefield's edge, heart hammering against his ribs like a caged bird, Xinyu gripped his sword until his knuckles went white. Lingque's voice echoed in his mind, dry and fond:
*"Try not to die like a complete fool."*
He drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with courage and morning air.
"I won't disappoint you, Fluffycock."
The tournament had begun.