By dawn, the outer court had already rewritten last night's rumour three different ways.
"Senior Brother Lucian lifted three full water casks—one-handed."
"Four."
"Eight. And he called Mo Xuanyu… his protégé."
"Pretty sure he said 'pet rock.'"
As Joshua crossed the flagstones with the same calm steps as always, voices dipped then rose again behind sleeves.
He neither glanced nor hurried. A breeze tugged his frayed sleeve; he adjusted it once, precise, and kept walking.
At the practice racks, Lucian was already there—of course, he was—idly balancing a wooden sword on one fingertip as if physics were a suggestion.
"Ghost," he greeted, bright as a bell.
Joshua took a practice blade. "Do not call me that."
"Mm, right. My protégé, then." Lucian beamed at the eavesdroppers. Half the row of disciples choked. "Relax," he added, lowering his voice theatrically. "I'm only here to supervise… safety."
Joshua leveled him a flat look. "You are the least safe thing on this field."
Lucian looked delighted. "You do think about me."
"Form pairs!" the instructor barked. "Light sparring. No head strikes. No showboating."
Lucian coughed politely into his fist.
Names were called. Stances reset. Wooden blades thudded. When the instructor reached "Mo Xuanyu—" a familiar smirk cut in.
"I'll take him," said the broad-shouldered disciple from yesterday—the one who had hooked Joshua's ankle. He stepped forward, bowing just deep enough to be technically respectful. "To help him… improve."
A few snickers.
Lucian tipped his head, smile did not reach his eyes. "Instructor," he said, honey-smooth, "shall I officiate this one? For safety."
The instructor eyed him, sighed the sigh of a man too tired to fight talent. "From the side. Hands off."
Lucian flashed a thumbs-up. "Two hands off. Promise."
Joshua stepped to the centre, blade at guard, breathing even. The bully rolled his shoulders, blade tapping his palm in a little rhythm of arrogance.
"Ready?" Lucian called, bright. "Begin."
The bully lunged.
Joshua didn't meet force with force. He shifted a half-step, letting the momentum skim past his shoulder. Wood kissed wood—tok—and slid. The bully recovered fast, cutting low for Joshua's knee.
Joshua's blade dropped, not with panic but with a clean economy that made the movement almost invisible. Another tok. He pivoted around the bigger boy's line, quiet as a turning page.
Whispers grew. "Since when—?"
A third strike came, heavier, meant to batter him down.
Joshua didn't block.
He touched.
A small rotation at the wrist, a soft parry that turned the strike a finger's width the wrong way, and in that narrow space he stepped in, angled, and set his wooden guard against the bully's grip.
The bigger boy's weight took his blade past him.
Joshua's tip lifted.
Stopped at the hollow of the throat.
Silence snapped over the field.
The bully froze, eyes wide, breath catching on the wooden point. Joshua's blade didn't tremble. His other hand had already released, body relaxed—as if this were a form he'd practised a thousand times and only now remembered.
Lucian's voice floated in, unbearably cheerful. "Safety check: throat intact, pride fatally wounded."
Laughter burst—nervous, incredulous, then real.
The instructor cleared his throat. "Match—Mo Xuanyu."
Joshua lowered his sword, took one step back, and bowed—precise, correct, impersonal. The bully stumbled, face red, bowing a fraction too shallow before slinking away.
"Again," the instructor said, testing for fluke. He paired Joshua with a different opponent; the result was kinder but just as clean. By the third spar, the whispers had shifted flavour.
"That footwork—"
"He doesn't rush. He… reads."
"Was he always like this?"
On the fringe, Lucian clapped after each bout with scandalous enthusiasm, as if he were at a festival. "Marvellous. Spectacular. The grace. The poise. The aggressively unimpressed face."
Joshua sheathed the practice blade on the rack. "You are disruptive."
"And you are talented," Lucian said, just as lightly, but the word landed differently—less joke, more truth. He leaned in as if confiding a secret. "Don't hide it when they're watching. Make them blink properly."
Joshua's lashes lowered. "I am not performing tricks for you."
"Not for me." Lucian's smile tilted. "For you."
For a breath, the morning felt very still. Then a group of disciples hurried past, whispering too loudly:
"Senior Brother Lucian's mentoring him?"
"Did you see that parry?"
"Maybe he isn't trash after all."
Lucian straightened, satisfied. "Hear that? The tide changes."
Joshua turned to go. "Tides change back."
"Then I'll keep pushing," Lucian said simply, falling into step beside him. "It's what a very dedicated supervisor of safety does."
Joshua paused at the walkway's edge, the valley opening below, mist lifting in pale ribbons. He glanced at Lucian, expression unreadable, eyes cool as still water.
"…Thank you," he said, barely above the wind.
Lucian stopped walking. The grin that broke across his face was ridiculous, radiant, a sun lurching over the ridge. "Third word today. I'm collecting them."
"Return it," Joshua said.
"Never," Lucian replied, and for once, there was no joke in it at all.
By evening, the story had outrun the sun.
"Mo Xuanyu out-parried Zhang Liang."
"Three times."
"Senior Brother Lucian officiated. Said 'pride fatally wounded.'"
"He smiled at Mo Xuanyu—no, really—like an actual smile."
Windows glowed along the outer quarters. Somewhere, someone practised the same parry, wood knocking wood in imperfect imitation. Somewhere else, a bully reconsidered sticking out a foot.
In his narrow room, Joshua sat cross-legged, palms resting lightly on his knees. The day replayed behind his closed eyes—footwork, angles, breath. A bright laugh laced through it, annoyingly persistent.
A soft chime flickered in his mind.
[System: Micro-achievement — "Held a line." Hidden Respect +3.]
Joshua opened his eyes. The candle's flame steadied.
Outside, on the walkway roof, Lucian lay on his back like a satisfied cat, hands pillowed behind his head, watching the stars with an expression he would never wear in a crowd.
"Project," he murmured, amused at himself. "More like gravity."
A night breeze moved, carrying the faintest sound of a quiet breath from the room below.
Lucian smiled into the dark. "Good. You're listening."