The horns rose first.
Long, deep, and unbroken, their echoes rolled across the outskirts of Azure Sky City like a distant storm gathering strength. One call bled into another until the air itself seemed to hum with their weight.
Then came the drums.
Measured. Steady. Each strike firm enough to settle the dust along the riverbanks where the Golden Sparrow Guild had begun its encampment.
From the pointed edge of a tiled rooftop, Lu Mao watched.
He sat as he often did—balanced carelessly, as though the drop below meant little to him. In one hand, he held a half-eaten dumpling, steam still faintly rising from its torn edge.
Below, hooded cultivators bearing the insignia of the Golden Sparrow Guild moved with disciplined purpose.
Tents were raised in neat rows. Wooden posts were driven into the ground with precise, practiced rhythm. Supplies were carried, sorted, stacked. Groups of new arrivals were guided toward marked areas where registration for the guild trials would soon begin.
It looked busy.
It was not disorderly.
Lu Mao chewed slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction as he observed.
Even their chaos has structure.
Most wore common robes—plain, unremarkable. But here and there, figures passed in garments edged with silver. Their movements were quieter, more controlled.
Different.
Not like his father.
Jin Wu wore black, always black, with gold etched into his cloak like a mark of authority that could not be ignored. He did not need to move fast to command attention—his very presence carried weight.
Lu Mao exhaled faintly.
So… higher rank shows itself in silence, not noise.
His gaze drifted again—
—and stopped.
Near the edge of the river stood a girl.
At first, she seemed like any other disciple. Still. Quiet. Facing the water.
But something about her did not blend.
Lu Mao leaned forward slightly.
Her hair was raven-black, tied into a high, practical bun. Two simple silver pins held it in place, yet a thick braid escaped, falling loosely over her shoulder. It was not untidy—just… unconcerned.
A balance between order and freedom.
Her robes were modest, but their colors stood apart. Deep forest-green and charcoal-grey—tones that absorbed light instead of reflecting it. While others wore brighter silks to be seen, she seemed content to remain unnoticed.
Yet—
She was not looking at the camp.
She was watching the river.
Her fingers dipped lightly into the water, disturbing its surface in small, absent motions, as if testing something only she could sense.
Lu Mao's eyes sharpened.
Not distracted… observing.
As though aware of his gaze, she turned.
Amber eyes met his.
Lu Mao stilled.
For a brief moment, the sound of horns and drums seemed distant, as though pushed aside by something quieter, more focused.
He had never seen eyes like that.
Clear. Steady. Not soft, not shy—almost like the gaze of a hunter measuring distance.
He looked away first.
"…Tch."
When he glanced back—
She was gone.
Not hidden.
Not hurried.
Simply gone.
Lu Mao stared at the empty riverbank for a moment longer before exhaling softly. The dumpling in his hand had cooled.
He lifted it and swallowed the rest in one bite.
Strange girl.
"You bastard!"
The shout rose sharp from below.
Lu Mao didn't turn immediately. He chewed, swallowed, then finally glanced down.
Chen Rong stood beneath the roof, sword already drawn, anger burning plainly across his face.
"You dare snatch my dumpling and eat it in front of me?!"
Lu Mao tilted his head slightly.
"Can a man not eat in peace?"
Chen Rong's grip tightened.
"You call that peace?"
They were the same age, yet carried themselves differently. Chen Rong bore the pride of lineage—the son of one of the strongest elders of the Dawn Lotus Sect. Where Lu Mao moved like shifting shadow, Chen Rong stood like drawn steel.
Their rivalry had long since settled into something inevitable.
"This time," Chen Rong said, stepping forward, "I will settle my score."
He raised his sword, two fingers brushing along its length. A faint green aura flickered into existence, clinging to the blade like a thin layer of mist.
Lu Mao's eyes narrowed slightly.
He's improved.
Chen Rong launched upward.
The air cracked as he closed the distance, his strike descending with clean, practiced force.
Lu Mao moved.
Not backward.
Sideways.
The tiles where he had been sitting shattered with a loud burst, fragments scattering across the roof and spilling into the alley below.
Chen Rong landed where Lu Mao had been, already turning, sword raised again.
"This time," he said, "you won't escape."
Lu Mao smiled faintly.
"Let's not talk big. Show me."
He moved forward.
The clash was brief but sharp—steel cutting through air, feet shifting over fragile footing. Chen Rong's strikes were direct, each one meant to end the exchange quickly.
Lu Mao did not meet them head-on.
He yielded.
Turned.
Slipped between the lines of attack.
Then—
Chen Rong's blade cut through him.
For a heartbeat, victory flashed in his eyes.
Before—
Lu Mao's body burst apart into a cloud of fine white powder.
Not flesh.
Not blood.
A decoy.
A crude figure of cloth and dust, shattered by the strike.
Chen Rong froze.
"What—?!"
The powder clung to his robes and face, blinding him for an instant. He coughed, wiping at his eyes—
—and through the fading haze, caught sight of movement.
Across the next rooftop—
Lu Mao.
Already running.
"Stop, you rat!"
The chase began.
Across roofs, through narrow alleys, over market stalls not yet fully opened. A basket overturned as Lu Mao leapt past. A hanging cloth snapped free as Chen Rong followed without slowing.
They moved fast—too fast for ordinary eyes to follow clearly.
Like predator and prey.
Like cat and rat.
Lu Mao glanced back briefly.
Still coming…
Chen Rong surged forward, green aura intensifying, his speed increasing just enough to close the gap.
Instead of striking—
He slammed into Lu Mao.
Both crashed to the ground.
Lu Mao groaned, breath knocked from him.
"You bastard—stop following me—!"
"I won't!"
Chen Rong lunged again, this time without his sword, which had fallen somewhere behind them.
The fight turned rough.
Fists. Grabs. Shoves.
They rolled across the ground, each trying to overpower the other, pride replacing technique.
Then—
A voice.
Soft.
Clear.
"Are you two friends?"
Both froze.
Lu Mao turned his head.
Amber eyes.
The girl stood nearby, watching them with quiet curiosity, a faint smile resting on her lips.
For a moment, Lu Mao simply stared.
Then he pushed Chen Rong aside and sat up.
"Friend?" he scoffed. "He's my punching bag."
Chen Rong, still gripping his collar, raised his fist.
"Who are you calling a punching bag—?!"
"Is this yours?"
The girl lifted something between her fingers.
Chen Rong's expression changed instantly.
"My token."
He stood, frowning.
"Did you steal it?"
She shook her head slightly.
"I am no thief," she said calmly. "Unlike your friend."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Lu Mao.
"I found it."
A pause.
"But can you take it from me?"
Chen Rong's eyes narrowed.
"You wear the mark of the Golden Sparrow Guild," he said coldly. "Figures. I don't like thieves—or guilds like yours."
He picked up his sword.
A thin green aura formed again, gathering along Chen Rong's blade like mist clinging to steel.
"Let me see how strong you are."
He stepped in and attacked.
The girl did not rise.
She remained seated on the stone slab, posture relaxed, as though the descending strike was of no concern to her.
Chen Rong's blade fell—fast, direct, carrying both force and intent.
At the last moment—
Her leg lifted.
Not high. Not hurried.
Just enough.
Her foot met the hilt of the sword with precise timing. The impact did not stop the strike outright—it shifted it. The force slid off its path, the blade dragged slightly to the side, its edge losing the line it needed.
A small mistake.
Enough.
In the same breath, her body turned.
Her other leg followed through—smooth, controlled—striking cleanly against Chen Rong's jaw.
The sound was sharp.
His vision jolted. Balance faltered.
His stance, once firm, broke open.
Before he could recover—
A lash snapped forward.
Thin as a ribbon, yet moving with startling speed, it cut through the air with a faint whistle.
It coiled around his neck in a single, fluid motion.
Precise.
Unwasted.
The pull came immediately.
Not brute force—but timing and angle.
Chen Rong's footing gave way completely as he was drawn forward, his own momentum turned against him. The next instant, he was lifted and thrown past her, his body striking the ground behind with a heavy thud.
Dust rose.
Silence followed for a breath.
Yan Mei did not look back at him.
With a slight flick of her wrist, she tossed something behind her.
The sect token.
It spun once in the air before striking Chen Rong squarely on the head with a dull tock, bouncing lightly before landing beside him.
The lash recoiled just as smoothly, slipping back and circling at her waist like a resting serpent, its motion settling as though it had never moved at all.