The quiet didn't last.
It never did in places like this.
The training field had barely begun to breathe again when another voice rose—older, sharper, carrying authority that didn't need volume.
"Clear the platform."
The crowd parted instinctively.
A man in darker robes approached from the upper steps, his belt clasp marked with a thin silver line.
An inner sect messenger.
Behind him, two outer instructors straightened like soldiers.
The messenger's gaze swept the field, briefly touched Lin, then settled on Marcus.
"Marcus of Willow Village," he said.
The fact that he used the full identifier village and all made the surrounding disciples stiffen. It meant Marcus wasn't just a rumour anymore.
Marcus didn't bow.
He didn't posture.
He simply waited.
The messenger's eyes narrowed slightly, then he continued.
"You are summoned."
A murmur erupted.
"Summoned?"
"By who?"
"Why would they—?"
The messenger's tone stayed flat.
"Outer Hall. Right now."
Lin's breath hitched.
Outer Hall wasn't a place you went unless the sect wanted to label you.
Punishment.
Interrogation.
Or worse, public humiliation wrapped in procedure.
Lin glanced at Marcus without meaning to.
Marcus didn't flinch.
He simply said, "We're going."
The messenger's eyes flicked to Lin.
"…The boy, too."
Lin's throat tightened.
Marcus stepped forward just half a step, the same protective movement as before.
"Of course," Marcus said.
The messenger's gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.
He turned.
"Follow."
And just like that, the outer sect's training ground became a corridor to judgment.