The sparring courtyard emptied by dusk. Dust hung in the air where footsteps had been. But the center of the ring — where Kaifeng had stood — remained undisturbed, as though even time had been careful not to step there.
Inside the Qingwu Sect's inner pavilion, the wooden floors creaked as Elder Han walked alone.
Scrolls lined the walls. Most were faded, unread for decades. But one was missing.
The old man stared at the empty slot.
"You found it, didn't you," he murmured.
A knock at the door.
It was the Head Instructor. He didn't enter.
"That boy again. Lián Kaifeng. You saw?"
Elder Han nodded once. "I saw a blade with no metal, no sheath. And no sound when drawn."
Silence passed like incense smoke.
"The sect won't allow him to rise quietly," the Head Instructor said.
"That's not my concern."
"Then whose?"
"Theirs."
Han's finger tapped the empty scroll shelf. "Those who let it happen once."
Far from the elders' whispers, Kaifeng sat beneath a tree behind the east training hall. The bark had been cut once — years ago — a jagged scar across it still visible. He sat beside it, knees drawn up, arms resting quietly. Eyes half-lidded.
Minhao hadn't come to mock him again.
But Minhao hadn't left.
From behind the trees, he watched, jaw clenched, knuckles red where he'd been gripping a branch too tightly.
"He humiliated me. In front of everyone."
He replayed it again — the blur, the disarm, the stillness.
"No technique. Just… nothing. Like I was already losing before it began."
Minhao wasn't angry anymore. Not really.
He was scared.
The boy he used to beat in drills — the silent one, the one they mocked for refusing weapons — had come back wrong. Too calm. Too hollow.
"They say he trained alone after the Northern Pavilion fire."
"But they never found bodies."
"What did he learn out there?"
Minhao didn't know.
But whatever it was… it didn't look like swordplay.
Kaifeng breathed slowly. The sky was dimming.
He was remembering another courtyard.
A child's voice.
"Brother, what's the point of silence if it never speaks?"
He had once answered that question.
"Because silence doesn't beg to be heard. It waits. Until the world listens."
He opened his eyes.
The shadows had grown longer.
And the summons came.
Qingwu West Ridge — Same Evening
Dozens of disciples gathered under lanternlight. A man stood at the cliff's edge, robes fluttering — an outsider. Tall. Thin. Not from Qingwu.
His left arm was sleeved in black bandages. His right hand clutched a jagged blade made from broken glass fused with silver.
"I seek only one," the man said, voice smooth like oil on stone.
"The disciple with no weapon."
The others looked at each other. No one moved.
But Kaifeng stepped forward.
No defiance. No hesitation.
From the crowd, another senior disciple — Wei Qingzhao — turned away in disgust.
"Of course it's him again."
Wei had trained for twelve years. Earned every scar. Held records in five weapon forms. He bled in silence, burned his fingers on broken forms, rebuilt his foundation three times over.
And yet, the instructors watched that boy.
"He never even sparred with the inner ranks."
"But they look at him like he's already beyond us."
Envy twisted in Wei's gut.
"If he stumbles tonight… I'll take his place."
The glass blade split air. The outsider's balance was clean — but in the next second, it faltered.
Kaifeng had moved just once — a short pivot inward — and the man's weapon hit nothing.
Then Kaifeng touched his shoulder.
The outsider dropped the blade and fell. Not bleeding. Not bruised.
Just broken from within.
As silence returned, Wei Qingzhao stepped forward.
"That man wasn't a test," he said, loud enough for all to hear.
"He was bait."
Kaifeng turned slightly. His expression unchanged.
Wei's tone sharpened.
"Don't pretend you don't know. This was staged. They wanted to see you fight."
"And now they'll come again."
Kaifeng didn't answer.
But he didn't deny it either.
From behind a pine tree, Elder Han listened.
He heard the blade not spoken — and the challenge not issued.
"Two paths now," he thought.
"Rival or ally. But never both."