For a brief moment, Lu Mao did not move.
He was still on the ground, breath uneven from the scuffle, dust clinging to his sleeves as the world around him seemed to shift—not in sound, but in pace.
Everything slowed.
His gaze fixed ahead.
Yan Mei.
She had not risen in haste, nor with force. Instead, her movement unfolded like something already decided, her form steady and unhurried even as Chen Rong's blade descended toward her.
What followed did not feel like a clash.
It felt… measured.
Her leg lifted with quiet precision, her foot meeting the hilt of the sword at just the right moment. The strike did not stop—it was guided, its path altered as though redirected by an unseen hand.
Before the motion had even settled, she turned.
The follow-through came naturally, her other leg striking cleanly against Chen Rong's jaw, the impact sharp yet controlled, as though it had been placed rather than thrown.
Lu Mao's eyes narrowed slightly.
Fast…
But it was not just speed.
It was rhythm.
Her braid swayed with the motion, dark strands catching the light as they followed the arc of her turn. What had seemed moments ago like delicate, almost fragile features now sharpened into something entirely different—focused, precise, and unyielding.
Then came the lash.
It moved like a living thing.
Her wrist flicked, and the thin line snapped forward, cutting through the air with a soft whistle before coiling around Chen Rong's neck. The movement was not wild, nor forceful—it was controlled, as though she were guiding it rather than commanding it.
Like taming a serpent.
The pull followed seamlessly, her timing exact. Chen Rong's momentum betrayed him, his footing breaking as he was drawn forward and thrown past her with a force that did not feel excessive, only inevitable.
To Lu Mao—
It did not feel like a fight.
It felt like watching a performance.
Each movement flowed into the next without hesitation, without waste. Her steps, her strikes, even the subtle sway of her braid carried a strange harmony, as though the entire exchange followed a rhythm only she could hear.
A quiet song.
A dance.
And for a brief, unguarded moment—
Lu Mao forgot to move.
…What was that?
Then—
She moved.
It was not a sudden burst, nor a hurried step. Her movement flowed, quiet and controlled, as though the space between one moment and the next simply gave way to her.
A faint golden shimmer trailed behind her feet, subtle as sunlight caught in drifting dust.
In the next instant, she stood beside Lu Mao.
He barely had time to react.
Her hand closed around his wrist—firm, cool, leaving no room for hesitation.
"Run."
No urgency in her tone.
No panic.
Yet something in it allowed no refusal.
Lu Mao didn't argue.
They moved.
Through narrow alleys where shadows clung to the walls, over low stone barriers worn smooth by time, across rooftops where the tiles shifted beneath their steps. The city blurred around them—voices, footsteps, distant calls—all fading behind the rhythm of their movement.
She did not pull him harshly.
But she did not slow either.
Lu Mao matched her pace, eyes flicking once toward her, measuring.
Fast… but not wasteful.
He let out a short laugh, breath light despite the speed.
"You're crazier than me."
A faint smile touched her lips, but she said nothing.
They leapt.
For a brief moment, both were suspended in open air, the sunlight breaking across them, the city stretching wide beneath their feet.
They landed atop a higher roof.
Here, the wind moved freely.
It tugged lightly at their robes, carried the distant echoes of the guild's encampment, and for the first time since the chase began—
stillness returned.
Only then did she release his hand.
Lu Mao rolled his wrist once, more out of habit than discomfort, his gaze settling on her with quiet curiosity.
She turned to face him fully.
"I am Yan Mei," she said.
Her voice was calm, steady, as if names held little weight unless given purpose.
"I noticed you on the roof."
Lu Mao tilted his head slightly, a faint hint of amusement returning to his expression.
"…Did you?"
Her gaze held his, unwavering.
"You are Jin Wu's son."
The lightness in his posture faded just a fraction.
"…You know my father?"
"Yes," she replied simply.
There was no hesitation, no need to think.
"He is someone I admire. The Phantom Hand of the Golden Sparrow Guild."
The title settled between them.
Lu Mao's eyes flickered faintly.
A brief pause followed.
Then she added—
"He spoke of you."
Lu Mao frowned, the expression subtle but real.
He did?
He searched her face, as if expecting some sign of jest—but found none.
"And you are Lu Mao," she continued, as though confirming something already known.
Then, almost as an afterthought—
"He is also my godfather."
That—
That caught him off guard.
The words did not land loudly, but they stayed.
Lu Mao said nothing for a moment.
His thoughts shifted, searching through memory, through half-spoken words and long silences. Yet nothing surfaced to explain it.
Why didn't he ever mention this…?
He looked at her again, more carefully this time.
"You're going to the guild trials," she said.
It was not a question.
"Yes," he replied after a brief pause.
"And you?" he asked.
For the first time, something in her smile changed—still faint, but carrying a quiet knowing that did not quite reveal itself.
"You will learn what you do not know," she said, "once you enter."
The wind shifted.
Her braid stirred lightly against her shoulder.
She stepped back.
Not abruptly—just enough to create distance.
Lu Mao watched, eyes narrowing slightly.
Again… like before.
Without warning—
She turned and stepped off the edge of the roof.
Gone.
Only faint golden glimmers lingered in the air where she had been, fading slowly like the last traces of sunlight.
Her voice followed, soft but clear—
"I will see you there."
***
The next day, Lu Mao stood among the applicants.
The riverbank had grown crowded overnight. Lines stretched in four long columns before a raised platform where a single orb rested upon a carved stone pedestal. It glowed faintly, its light pulsing like a slow breath.
Disciples moved with quiet efficiency, guiding the flow.
One by one, candidates stepped forward.
Hands placed.
Fates decided.
"The orb has not glimmered. You are rejected. Next."
A boy stepped away, shoulders stiff, eyes lowered.
"Accepted. Take the token."
Another left with hurried steps, clutching the small wooden token as though it might vanish if held too loosely.
Lu Mao watched, silent.
His gaze lingered not on the orb—but on the people.
Some hopeful.
Some already defeated before their turn came.
So this is where it begins… or ends.
"Next."
His turn.
He stepped forward.
The elder behind the table did not move much, yet his presence pressed heavily against the air. His long white beard brushed against the surface of the table, and his aged eyes, though calm, seemed to see more than they revealed.
"Place your hand," the elder said.
Lu Mao did.
For a brief moment—
Nothing.
Then the orb shimmered.
A soft light spread within it, steady and clear.
The elder gave a small nod.
"Accepted."
No praise.
No surprise.
Just fact.
A token was placed in Lu Mao's hand—smooth, simple, yet carrying weight far beyond its size.
"Report in three days," the elder added. "Do not be late."
Lu Mao nodded once.
"…Understood."
He stepped away, turning the token lightly between his fingers.
So it begins.
⸻
That night, Azure Sky City felt quieter.
Lu Mao sat by the open window of his small room at the top of the tower. The city stretched below—lanterns flickering to life one by one, distant voices blending into a soft, familiar hum.
Beside him, his cat curled lazily, tail flicking now and then.
Lu Mao rested his elbow on the table, gaze drifting outward.
"I'll miss this place," he said quietly.
The cat let out a soft meow.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"I found you a guardian."
Another meow—longer this time, almost questioning.
"He's annoying," Lu Mao added, glancing down at it. "Talks too much. Gets angry easily."
The cat blinked slowly.
"But…" Lu Mao's voice softened just a fraction, "…he's not cruel."
He reached out, absentmindedly running his fingers through its fur.
"He won't abandon you."
The cat leaned into his hand, letting out a low, content sound.
For a while, neither moved.
The wind slipped through the window, carrying the distant scent of food stalls and river water—familiar things, things that had always been there.
Things that would remain.
Even after he left.
Lu Mao's hand stilled.
"…Don't get used to it," he muttered lightly. "I'm not coming back just for you."
The cat meowed again.
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"…We'll see."
⸻
The next morning—
Chen Rong opened his door.
A basket sat neatly before it.
Inside—
A black cat.
Its eyes blinked up at him without fear.
A small note rested against its side.
Chen Rong picked it up, already frowning.
Take care of it… or the heavens will curse you.
Silence.
The cat meowed.
Chen Rong's eye twitched.
"Lu Mao…"
Another meow.
His grip tightened on the note.
"LU MAO, YOU BASTARD—!"
The shout echoed down the corridor, loud enough to startle a passing disciple.
The cat remained where it was, calm, as though it had already decided this was its home.
By then, Lu Mao was already at the city gates.
The early morning light had only just begun to spread, pale gold slipping over rooftops and narrow streets as Azure Sky City stirred awake behind him. Shopkeepers lifted their shutters, a few early risers swept dust from stone paths, and faint voices rose softly into the air, blending into the quiet rhythm of a familiar morning.
Lu Mao stopped, if only for a brief moment.
A worn cloth sack rested against his back, tied loosely over one shoulder, while the long collar of his sleeveless vest shifted gently in the breeze. Strands of his hair moved with it, brushing against his face as the wind carried with it the scent of the city he had known all his life.
His fingers tightened slightly around the token in his hand as he turned to look back.
Azure Sky City stood before him—quiet, unchanged, and deeply familiar.
Yet this time, he did not simply see it. He remembered it.
He remembered the rooftops beneath his feet, the faint cracks of tiles as he ran under moonlight without a sound. He remembered the narrow alleys where shadows became shelter, where every turn could mean escape or trouble. Small moments surfaced one after another—the careless laughter after a successful theft, the sting of being nearly caught, the taste of a half-eaten dumpling stolen without shame.
A voice echoed faintly in his mind, loud and furious, chasing after him.
And then, quieter still, a small room at the top of a tower, where a cat curled beside him without question.
None of these moments were grand.
Yet together, they had been his life.
The breeze passed again, brushing lightly against him, as if reminding him that time did not wait.
Lu Mao exhaled slowly, his gaze softening just a fraction.
"…Not bad," he murmured.
There was no need for a grand farewell, nor any lingering regret, but his eyes remained on the city for a moment longer than usual, as if committing it quietly to memory.
Then he turned.
The city slipped behind him without resistance, just as it had always let him come and go.
Ahead, the road stretched wide and uncertain, carrying with it everything he did not yet know.
Lu Mao adjusted the sack on his shoulder and stepped forward, his grip firm around the token in his hand as a faint smile formed on his lips. It was not careless, nor entirely lighthearted, but steady in a way that had not been there before.
He did not look back again, yet the thought settled quietly within him.
Someday, he would return.
Not as he was now, but stronger—fast enough that no one could catch him, sharp enough that no one could outwit him.
The wind lifted his collar once more as he walked, carrying him away from the only home he had known and toward a path that belonged entirely to him.
And with that, Lu Mao stepped forward into his next journey.