Muyun Town, a quiet courtyard off Willow Lane.
Sunlight filtered through the treetops, dappling the yard. A black cat lounged on the eaves, its tail flicking lazily in rhythm with the bursts of fistwork below.
In the yard, Layne had already thrown dozens of punches. Sweat beaded his brow, though his steps were still steady.
Qingshui leaned against the doorway, a half-eaten flatbread in one hand. With the other, she occasionally gestured.
"Lift your fist, move your shoulder with it. Step with your hips. Right now you look like you're running away, not striking."
Layne grinned. "Isn't that your 'Life-Preserving School' technique? I'm just putting it into practice."
Qingshui chuckled, swallowing the last bite and brushing her hands.
"Fair enough. Your tongue's sharper than your fists, at least."
She stepped into the yard, body tilting forward slightly, a sly smile in her eyes. She held out her hand.
"Come. Spar with me. Just three moves, don't be afraid."
Layne's gaze tightened.
In a blink, Qingshui's presence shifted. Her sleeve snapped, a palm strike surged down like a mountain collapsing!
Layne twisted back in retreat, barely dodging.
Her body spun, elbow chopping down like an axe!
He darted forward low just before she committed her weight—slipping under again.
"Oh?"
Qingshui's brows lifted. She pivoted, foot pressing into the stone, and lunged. Her third strike came with a cutting gust straight toward him!
This time, Layne flung himself forward, flat on the ground. The movement was awkward, but once again he was untouched.
"Phew—"
He knelt, breath ragged, cheeks flushed red, but his eyes held a faint glimmer of excitement.
Qingshui didn't speak immediately. She drew back her strength, watching him in silence. Her gaze deepened.
"You…" she said slowly, tone edged with surprise. "That last one—you didn't fall by accident. You knew I'd thrust forward, and dropped before I moved?"
Layne gulped, blinking. "I—I don't know. It's like, right before you attack, when you're about to start, I… see something. Tiny moves. And…"
He glanced at her arm, hesitant. "Sometimes your elbow, your fist, your shoulder—there's something flowing, gathering, like a force. I notice it without trying."
He pointed vaguely to the air, where he had felt it.
Qingshui's eyes chilled.
Then she smirked. "So what—you peeked at my anger and dodged?"
Layne scratched his head, muttering nervously. "Don't be mad, Auntie Qingshui. If you were serious, I wouldn't stand a chance."
She turned away, laughing as she walked toward the house. "Relax, I'm not mad."
Only—her eyes darkened as she glanced back.
"That's not eyesight. You've begun sensing Xuanqi."
Her finger tapped her brow. "When Xuanqi stirs, the body follows. If you can predict movement from that flow—it's rare indeed."
Layne's eyes widened. "Then… does that mean I have talent? For cultivation?"
Qingshui didn't answer. She waved him off. "Don't get cocky. You're a long way off. Still—rare. I'll have to change your training path."
Inside, though, her thoughts tightened:
If he really senses Xuanqi currents… where does such talent come from? Could this be why the Water Yao Envoy ordered me to watch them?
—
Outside Sanghe Village, dry grass whispered.
An old man in a worn green robe stood before the stone tower. Fingers held a copper needle, tracing patterns in the air.
Soft azure light spread like vines, crawling across the tower's surface before fading.
It was Qiyuan.
Few knew the truth. To outsiders, he was merely a venerable army physician of Qingzhou, famed for acupuncture and diagnosis. In truth, he was one of the Kingdom's Four Pillar Guardians, holding Haanghai Province for half a lifetime.
"Vegetation's withered, but the earth pulse is calm again."
His eyes narrowed. "The warding tower was too gravely damaged. Those Cersis crones… how deep did they dig, even infiltrating the Seven Yao Envoys? Which one betrayed them?"
He shook his sleeve, stepping into the withered grass. Sanghe Village had been gutted by plague—ten households, one survived; the rest crippled or scarred.
"…Three thousand dead, hundreds maimed, thousands with flesh rotted or organs ruined…"
The thought that Sanghe might have become a ghost village boiled his blood. His beard bristled like steel.
"Cersis witches! Pray I don't catch you. Last time I slaughtered three hundred of your mage corps—it wasn't enough!"
He stowed the needle, wind tugging his robe. His mind returned to what he had discovered.
Mu Wanhua… you and your child are already watched. And I cannot step forward. My aid is limited…
He sighed, leaping into the forest. His form melted without trace.
…
Elsewhere, in a shadowed chamber of the capital, pale soul-fire devoured a report.
A voice in the dark whispered:
"That old relic dares meddle still? To ruin my designs?"
—
Night deepened. The small courtyard glowed with warmth.
In the kitchen, broth cooled in the pot, dishes dried by the stone basin. The bamboo curtain stirred with the night breeze.
Bihua sat outside, sewing Layne's washed clothes with one hand while tallying accounts with the other.
"Three measures of rice, two jars of oil, charcoal, bedding… and that bag of pastries for Qingshui…"
Her mouth twitched, the abacus clicked sharply.
"Almost a hundred coins."
She sighed, yet her gaze softened.
Inside, Layne lay in bed, rolling back and forth. He whispered to himself:
"She didn't expect me to dodge, did she? Maybe I really can cultivate?"
"Heh, just wait—I'll fly one day and shock her!"
"…But first, I better survive tomorrow's revenge…"
A soft chuckle drifted from the window.
Qingshui leaned against the frame, head tilted. "Fly, let me see? And who's planning revenge?"
Layne squeaked, yanking the quilt over his nose. "Wh—when did you get there!?"
She rubbed her forehead, ambling in, pausing only to nod a polite greeting to Bihua.
Bihua turned away without a word.
Unbothered, Qingshui dragged a stool to the bedside, plopped down, propping her chin on her arm.
"Hey, brat."
"W-what?"
"Want to get stronger?"
Layne's eyes flicked toward the doorway's light. He waited.
Qingshui didn't rush. She simply held his gaze, for once touched with genuine warmth.
At last, the curtain shifted. Bihua entered, holding the robe Qingshui had left unwashed. Her voice was steady, cool:
"These past days, we both know what's happened. What I cannot endure is deceit."
A shadow of sorrow crossed her face. Layne's breath quickened.
"But I am grateful. When we needed help, you stood by us. You're greedy for food, but never starved us. You hold skill, yet never used it against us. You've guided us, and more than once, you saved us."
Her voice grew firmer. "For that, I thank you. But gratitude is not license to lie. Whatever your purpose, I don't care. Whatever identity you hide, I don't ask."
She tossed the robe into Qingshui's face.
"To me, you are Qingshui. Layne's teacher. His aunt."
Qingshui froze, then slowly pulled the cloth down. For once she did not jest. Meeting Bihua's misted gaze, she spoke softly:
"…Thank you."
She balled the robe in her hands, stood, and forced a grin.
"Guess I'll wash my own clothes tomorrow."
Bihua turned to leave, steps pausing only to add quietly:
"Good night."
Qingshui watched her back, lips lifting in the faintest smile.
"Good night."
Warm lamplight. A peaceful courtyard.