They reached the mountain road at dusk, a ragged line of disciples framed by a sky blazing copper. Blood dried black on torn sleeves; claws had raked robes like calligraphy. Qiu Ran was carried between two men, charred and silent. Zhao Kun walked under his own weight with his jaw set, refusing help on pride alone. Wu Ming trotted ahead like a herald who'd swallowed thunder.
The Azure Spirit Sect's gate guards straightened when they saw the spear at the front—swept clean, steady as a banner. Whispers leapt the wall.
"They're back—"
"Qiu Ran's burned—"
"That one with the spear… that's him. Lin Xuan."
Wu Ming didn't so much arrive as detonate. He vaulted the last few steps, spun, and threw his arms wide at the crowd gathering like tide.
"Open your ears and shut your doubts! Witness the return of the Wolf-Slaying, Fire-Reversing, Talisman-Throwing-Back, Formation-Forging—Senior Brother Lin!"
He pointed both hands at Lin Xuan as if unveiling a treasure. Gasps rippled. Heads turned like flowers to light. Even the indifferent looked twice.
Lin Xuan kept walking.
He didn't bow. He didn't luxuriate. He moved as if returning from a morning drill: calm gait, level eyes, spear at an easy angle. But that very ordinariness stoked the blaze—how could someone look so untouched by glory with wolves' blood drying on his robe?
"Is it true he broke a Core talisman?"
"They say he redirected it with a spear. A spear!"
"Qiu Ran's the one who brought those talismans—who gave them to him?"
"Hush—do you want your tongue measured for a jar?"
The timid girl from the Seven Stars drill clutched her blade and stared at Lin Xuan like a pilgrim at a shrine. The lanky boy, stooped from exhaustion, still tried to stand straighter when he caught Lin Xuan's eye. He nodded once. Lin Xuan returned it, slight as a falling pine needle—and the boy looked as if a mountain had bowed back.
Wu Ming was already halfway up a crate, breathless, eyes shining. "Do you want the short tale or the truth? The truth is longer! It begins with a howl that cracked rock, a beast the size of three spirit oxen stacked rudely—"
"Wu Ming." Lin Xuan didn't raise his voice.
Wu Ming blinked. "Right. Tasteful brevity. There were wolves, we lived, Qiu Ran burned his own eyebrows, Senior Brother Lin did not die. Consider yourselves honored!"
Laughter broke in a relieved wave; even the guards smothered grins. Relief breeds worship. Worship breeds envy. Envy breeds knives. Lin Xuan felt them all like shifts in wind.
Too much attention. Too soon.
A man in outer-instructor robes pushed through the throng, scar pulling at his cheek. His gaze flicked over bandages, burns, shaky stances—counting losses and miracles. When his eyes settled on Lin Xuan, the lines at their corners deepened, unreadable.
"You return," he said. "Alive."
"Enough to work tomorrow," Lin Xuan replied.
A snort that might have been approval. "Elder Ji has called for report at first bell." He cast a flat look over the crowd. "Disperse. This isn't a market."
It might as well have been. Rumor-sellers needed no stalls. By the time Lin Xuan crossed the Outer Court, the air itself carried new stories: that he had held a beast's jaws with bare hands, that he had stared down fire and made it kneel. The truth did not matter. Only the pulse did.
Meng Zhao's men felt it too. They lounged like cats near the practice square, smiles lacquered over unease. One stepped forward—sleek hair, sharp chin, voice oily-smooth.
"Brother Lin," he purred. "Congratulations on your fortunate survival. Some men are kissed by Heaven."
Wu Ming bristled. "Heaven? Please. Heaven tried to bite him. He bit back."
Lin Xuan's gaze slid past the man. "Stand aside."
A heartbeat of tension stretched. Behind the lackey's smile, something brittle clicked. He shifted left. A path opened. Lin Xuan walked through it, and the crowd parted as if the spear's shadow cut them gently.
Back at his quarters, the lamplight was humble, the floor clean, the door paper patched with care. Wu Ming shoved in after him with a sack of buns stolen from somewhere, eyes still hot with hero-witness fire.
"You heard them," he said around a mouthful. "They'll write songs."
"No," Lin Xuan said, sitting cross-legged. He placed the spear across his knees like a sleeping snake. Blood had dried where wood joined steel. He took a clean cloth and wiped it with patient attention until it shone. "They'll whisper. Songs take truth. Whispers take fear."
Wu Ming swallowed. "Then let them fear. Better than scorn."
"Both sharpen blades," Lin Xuan said. The cloth slowed at the tip. He could still feel the talisman's heat trembling in old wood, ghost warmth in his bones. Forced fusion, meridians torn thin. Next time, the price will be higher. He breathed slow, counting the pain down to an ember.
A shadow crossed the paper screen; a knock followed, soft, twice. The timid girl stood with a lacquered box clutched to her chest.
"I—" she said, then blurted, "Thank you. For not letting us die like dogs in a ditch."
Wu Ming sprang to intercept. "Tribute accepted! He likes buns, pears, and flattery—"
Lin Xuan lifted a hand. "Come in."
She placed the box on his low table like an offering. Inside lay bandages, salves, and three pale spirit dates.
"My aunt keeps medicines," she said, eyes on the floor. "It's not much."
"It's enough," Lin Xuan said. He meant it. To be remembered after the howl was to have moved something that wasn't only fear.
When she had gone, Wu Ming tore a date in half and handed it to Lin Xuan with a conspirator's solemnity. "We are rich."
They ate in silence. Outside, the court buzzed like a hive kicked by a boot. The stories would run ahead of dawn, scaling walls Lin Xuan had not yet seen.
Far above, in a pavilion lit like a jewel, Meng Zhao poured wine and watched the night ripple. "Let him climb," he murmured to his circle. "The roof is a fine place to fall from."
In another courtyard, a youth with a scholar's fan smiled into the dark. "A spear that redirects fire? Interesting."
And on a high balcony washed in moon, Yue Shuang stood alone, hands on the railing, eyes half-lidded. The wind brought her the faintest threads of rumor, salted with awe and envy. She let them pass through her like cold spring water. You walk upward as if it is level ground, she thought. How far until the sky refuses you?
At first bell, the bronze tongue struck the mountain's heart. The Outer Court spilled toward the inner steps, eager to taste the next chapter. Lin Xuan's door slid open. He stepped out, robe clean, sleeve bound tight where claws had kissed. Wu Ming hovered, jittering with a hen's energy.
"Do you want me to speak first? I can describe the Alpha as 'a dog the size of a house.' That's accurate and insulting."
"Listen," Lin Xuan said.
They climbed.
The Hall of Eight Pillars breathed sandalwood and stone. Elders sat in their crescent, jade pendants still, eyes like winter water. Meng Zhao had arrived early; he knelt at the edge with a sorrowed expression that fit like a borrowed mask.
Elder Ji nodded once. "Report."
Lin Xuan gave it with the same economy he used in battle: no embroidery, no omission. Shadowfangs, Alpha, Qiu Ran's talismans. He did not name saviors or cowards. He did not claim. He placed the events on the floor between them like stones and let the elders count.
When he finished, silence pooled.
The hawk-eyed elder spoke first, voice clipped. "Using a Core talisman during a disciple mission is breach of protocol."
Meng Zhao bowed low, voice silk. "Elder, rage and fear make boys fools. Qiu Ran will accept punishment. But—if not for Lin Xuan's… unusual methods… more would have died."
A murmur skated the room. Praise dressed as poison. If the elders drank it, Lin Xuan would be marked by the same tongue that damned him.
The silver-haired elder leaned forward, staff tapping the floor. "Unusual is the threshold of greatness. Or did the sect begin for fear of new steps?"
Elder Ji lifted his palm, stopping debate with a breath. His gaze rested on Lin Xuan, long enough to weigh a soul. "Reward for service," he said at last. "Punishment for breach," he added, flicking a glance at the empty space reserved for Qiu Ran's report. "And for you, Lin Xuan… observation."
A ripple of reaction—satisfaction, discontent, relief—all at once.
Ji went on, voice smooth as slate. "You will receive a merit stipend and access to the Outer Repository's second tier. You will also submit to monthly assessments. If rumors of… unnatural methods prove false, they will fade. If true—"
He let the end hang.
Wu Ming's breath hissed beside Lin Xuan. Lin Xuan bowed. "Understood."
"Good," Ji said. "Go. Rest. Tomorrow, work."
Outside, the steps were already thick with faces. As Lin Xuan emerged, the whispers rose to meet him like surf: gratitude, fear, jealousy—each a thread trying to tie itself to his name.
Zhao Kun stood off to the right, face sallow, bandage peeking from his collar. His mouth worked. Finally, he spat to the side and turned away. Not thanks. Not yet. But not a knife in the moment he could have chosen to stick it. For now, that was enough.
Wu Ming exhaled like a punctured wineskin. "Observation, shmobs—obs. We got books! Second tier! Do you know how many naps I can take in there?"
"None," Lin Xuan said.
"Ah. Then think of how many I will almost take."
They walked back through the court in a wake of eyes. Children of the sect followed at a distance, their faces bright with the simple hunger to be near a story as it was being told. The timid girl trailed three paces behind, hands wringing her sleeve. The lanky boy carried logs that were clearly too heavy just so he'd be walking along the same path.
Back in his room, Lin Xuan closed the door against the hum. He sat, spear across his knees, and let the quiet take him in both hands. The System's hum deepened, the way a river deepens in spring flood.
[System Notice: Rewards pending—Merit acquired, Repository access unlocked. Hidden Quest chain updated: "Walk under sharper skies."]
He exhaled. The lamp flame steadied. Outside, clouds slid over moon like a hand over an eye.
Across the sect, in a pavilion with walls thin as old paper, Meng Zhao finished his wine and set the cup down with care.
"Let the Outer Court sing," he said softly. "Tomorrow, we tighten the strings."
And on a high balcony, Yue Shuang lifted her gaze to the dim line of mountains and smiled—not warmly, but with the feral delight of someone watching a blade be forged.