Elder Han did not summon Chen Mu.
That was the first clue.
Summons came with ceremony, however modest—an attendant, a sealed note, a specific hour. This did not. Instead, Chen Mu encountered Elder Han in the way one encountered damp stone or inconvenient weather: by discovering that avoidance was no longer efficient.
They met in the corridor outside the Hall of Measured Conduct, a narrow space where foot traffic slowed naturally and conversation could occur without drawing attention. Elder Han stood beside a lattice window, hands folded inside his sleeves, posture relaxed to the point of deliberate carelessness.
"Disciple Chen," he said, as if the meeting were coincidence.
"Elder Han," Chen Mu replied, bowing appropriately.
Neither of them moved on.
A pause settled between them. Not uncomfortable. Merely present.
Elder Han was not one of the sect's combat instructors. He oversaw discipline, scheduling, internal harmony—the soft structures that kept sharper ones from cutting the wrong things. He was known for remembering names, habits, and small deviations. He rarely raised his voice. He almost never asked direct questions.
"I hear you've been busy," Elder Han said mildly.
Chen Mu considered the statement. "I've been assigned tasks."
"So you have," Elder Han agreed. "And yet you've found time for… additional pursuits."
Chen Mu nodded once. "Time tends to appear when needed."
Elder Han smiled faintly. "That is a dangerous philosophy in a sect."
"So I've been told."
The smile lingered, then shifted—no longer polite, not yet sharp. Curious.
They began walking together, their steps naturally matching pace.
"You've been training differently," Elder Han said, still not asking.
"Yes."
No elaboration followed.
Elder Han waited three steps. "Differently how?"
Chen Mu tilted his head slightly. "In ways that are not prohibited."
"Many things are not prohibited," Elder Han said. "They are merely discouraged."
"Yes."
Another pause.
Elder Han stopped walking. Chen Mu stopped with him.
"Disciple Chen," the elder said, tone gentle enough to be almost kind, "do you believe the sect discourages things arbitrarily?"
"No," Chen Mu said. "I believe it discourages things for reasons that made sense when the discouragement began."
Elder Han laughed softly. "Ah. History is cruel that way."
He gestured toward the window. Beyond it, junior disciples crossed a courtyard in neat lines, laughter contained, motion orderly.
"You've become… noticeable," Elder Han said. "Not through misconduct. Not through failure. Through ambiguity."
Chen Mu accepted that without comment.
"Ambiguity," Elder Han continued, "is uncomfortable for institutions."
"I imagine it is."
"And yet you persist."
"Yes."
The elder studied him sidelong. "You are aware that your peers have begun to speculate."
"Yes."
"They speculate about ambition."
"Yes."
"They speculate about hidden instruction."
"Yes."
"They speculate about arrogance."
Chen Mu nodded. "That one is my fault."
Elder Han chuckled. "You admit it freely?"
"I don't correct it."
"Why not?"
Chen Mu answered honestly. "Correction would require explanation."
"And explanation would…?"
"Not improve understanding."
Elder Han stopped again, this time more deliberately. He turned to face Chen Mu fully.
"You speak as though understanding were optional."
"In many cases," Chen Mu said, "it is."
That earned him a longer look.
"You are careful," Elder Han said. "But not evasive."
"I try to avoid waste."
"Conversation is waste?"
"Only when it circles conclusions neither side is prepared to accept."
Elder Han smiled despite himself. "That's almost insulting."
"Almost," Chen Mu agreed.
They resumed walking.
"Tell me," Elder Han said, "are you dissatisfied with the sect?"
"No."
"Are you dissatisfied with sword cultivation?"
"No."
"Are you seeking an alternative path?"
Chen Mu paused before answering. Just long enough to be accurate.
"I'm walking one."
Elder Han raised an eyebrow. "That was not the question."
"No," Chen Mu said. "But it's the answer."
The elder sighed, the sound light but genuine. "You're very good at this."
"At what?"
"Answering questions in ways that leave more work behind."
"I was trained here," Chen Mu said.
That earned a quiet laugh.
They reached a small side garden where conversation could plausibly continue under the pretense of reflection. Elder Han gestured toward a stone bench. They sat.
"You understand," the elder said, "that deviation is not itself a problem."
"Yes."
"But unarticulated deviation invites concern."
"Yes."
"And concern invites correction."
"Yes."
"And correction," Elder Han said carefully, "is rarely subtle."
Chen Mu folded his hands in his lap. "I understand."
"And yet you do not preempt it."
"No."
"Why?"
Chen Mu considered the question fully this time.
"Because preemption would require me to define what I'm doing in terms the sect recognizes," he said. "And doing so would distort it."
Elder Han studied him. "Distort how?"
"By making it appear as something it is not."
"And what is it not?"
Chen Mu smiled faintly. "Ambitious."
The elder blinked. "That's not what your peers think."
"I know."
"And they're wrong?"
"Yes."
Elder Han leaned back, folding his own hands. "That is… inconvenient."
"Yes."
Silence stretched. A breeze moved through the garden, rustling leaves that had never been particularly impressive to begin with.
"You realize," Elder Han said eventually, "that from the outside, walking a path without naming its destination looks very much like concealing one."
"I realize," Chen Mu said.
"And yet?"
"And yet the destination would be misleading even if named."
Elder Han sighed again. "You're not being difficult."
"No."
"You're being precise."
"I prefer to think so."
"That's worse."
Chen Mu accepted that.
"Let me ask you something," Elder Han said. "If an elder were to instruct you tomorrow to resume orthodox training exclusively—no experimentation, no deviation—would you comply?"
Chen Mu did not answer immediately.
He did not want to lie.
He did not want to provoke.
"I would listen," he said finally.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the most accurate one I can give."
Elder Han rubbed his temple. "You see the problem."
"Yes."
"And you are not attempting to solve it."
"No."
"Because?"
"Because the problem is not mine alone."
Elder Han looked at him sharply now. "That borders on insolence."
"It borders," Chen Mu agreed. "But does not cross."
Another pause.
"You haven't violated any rule," Elder Han said. "You haven't taught others. You haven't disrupted instruction. You haven't refused correction because none has been issued."
"Yes."
"And yet," the elder said slowly, "you make people uneasy."
"Yes."
Elder Han laughed quietly, shaking his head. "That may be the most dangerous talent I've seen in years."
Chen Mu considered that. "It's not a talent."
"No?"
"It's a byproduct."
"Of what?"
"Paying attention."
Elder Han stood.
"Well," he said, straightening his robes, "this has been… informative."
"I'm glad," Chen Mu said, standing as well.
"I'm not," Elder Han replied, still polite. "But I am not displeased either."
They bowed to one another.
As Elder Han turned to leave, he paused.
"One last thing," he said, without turning. "Do you believe what you're doing will end quietly?"
Chen Mu answered honestly.
"No."
Elder Han nodded once, as if that confirmed something he had not wanted confirmed, and walked away.
Chen Mu watched him go, noting the elder's gait—measured, controlled, but carrying a faint stiffness that had not been there before.
Unsettled.
Not threatened.
Not convinced.
Unable to categorize.
Chen Mu exhaled slowly and returned to his path through the sect, aware that misunderstanding had solidified into something more durable than rumor.
Not conflict yet.
But inevitability.
And for the first time, he found that the knowledge did not weigh on him.
It simply occupied space.
Where it went next, he would deal with when it arrived.