Rain misted the air over Three Pines Stronghold, thinning to a fine drizzle that made stone steps glisten and wooden eaves drip at irregular intervals. Lin An watched droplets slide off the dull roof tiles of the Outer Dormitory, their faint patter blending with the low hum of distant wards. No one in the courtyard spared him a second glance; he was just another young novice bound for daily chores. And that suited him perfectly.
He scanned the chalkboard at the dorm's entrance, where a smudged list detailed the day's work. The Southeastern Walkway needed sweeping. The Outer Storehouse required an inventory check. Menial tasks, but tasks that would let him move unnoticed through the stronghold's winding passages—ideal for someone who wanted to see more than anyone realized.
Lin An set off, careful to keep close to the courtyard's edges to avoid the shoving of bigger, older disciples. The Southeastern Walkway stretched along the fortress's perimeter, hugging cliffs that dropped into swirling fog. Each gust of wind threatened to rip leaves off the stunted pines clinging to the mountainside. A line of stone pillars rose at intervals, faintly etched with wards that flickered whenever a stray charge of Qi passed through.
He began sweeping damp leaves from the slick stones, mindful of how the walkway curved high above the abyss. Under normal circumstances, it might have terrified him. But to Lin An, new vantage points offered potential secrets. If illusions could be woven into the fortress wards, such knowledge might become an invaluable trump card later.
Partway through, the sound of squeaking wheels drew his attention. An older disciple—thin and haggard, hair showing strands of gray—pushed a rickety cart loaded with crates. It stuck against a raised stone edge, scraping loudly. The man sighed, shoulders sagging.
Lin An lowered his broom. "Need help?"
"Yes, please," the disciple said, relief in his voice. "Cart's heavier than it looks."
They pushed together, guiding the cart forward along the walkway. The man introduced himself as Su Ren, a caretaker tasked with delivering surplus training gear to the Outer Storehouse. Between grunts and wheezes, Su Ren mumbled about how the sect was short-handed: elders demanded more from outer disciples, while the Windpeak Alliance increased pressure for tributes.
"You'd think the alliance would offer relief," Su Ren grumbled. "But rumor says they're sending an inspector soon, probably to squeeze us harder."
Lin An feigned polite curiosity. "I only arrived recently. Didn't realize things were that tense."
Su Ren managed a wry chuckle. "Our stronghold's near the alliance's frontier. Minor sects like Three Pines shoulder burdens the bigger ones ignore. Keep your head down—someone's always recruiting novices for dangerous side jobs."
At that, Lin An's interest piqued. Dangerous side jobs. Another small thread. He filed it away, grateful for the conversation as they steered the cart toward the storehouse's squat stone building.
Inside, the Outer Storehouse smelled of musty wood and stale incense. Crates and sacks lay in haphazard piles, novices weaving between them with ledger sheets and quills. A stern woman named Sister Lai directed everything. She pointed to an empty corner for Su Ren to unload, then ordered Lin An to inventory each item on a worn parchment pinned near a desk.
He knelt by the first crate, scribbling down the item count and condition. His mind, however, was only half on the task. A flash of movement in the shadows drew his eye: Duan Ting, scowling as he spoke with a cloaked figure near the back wall. The figure's voice was low, impossible to catch in detail, but Lin An caught enough to sense tension.
"…need more from you next time," came the rasp.Duan Ting growled, "I'm trying. The novices barely have tokens left.""Find a way," the cloaked figure hissed. "Or we'll find another agent."
The figure slipped out through a rear exit, vanishing into the dim corridor. Duan Ting kicked a loose plank in frustration before storming out by another route. Lin An resumed writing on the ledger, pulse racing. Someone was pulling Duan Ting's strings, demanding results—results that likely meant extortion or worse.
Su Ren finished stacking crates, then wiped sweat from his brow and nodded farewell, leaving Lin An to complete the paperwork. The whole time, Lin An's thoughts churned. This was proof Duan Ting was just a middleman for a bigger scheme. If illusions could disrupt that network at a critical moment, the damage would be immense. But first, he needed to learn more—like the identity of this cloaked master.
When his chore ended, Lin An slipped out, the drizzle finally tapering off. He found himself at a vantage point above the sloping farmland beneath the fortress. Though mist still clung to the valleys, he glimpsed wagons crawling along muddy roads—caravans that might one day be pawns in illusions, if he learned to cast them wide enough. The brush in his dreams whispered of rewriting entire gatherings of people, a tantalizing possibility if only he could refine his Qi.
A voice behind him broke his reverie. "Taking in the view?"
He turned. Yan Hua stood a few steps away, wearing a damp gray robe that clung to her slight frame. "I finished my assigned chores," she said, approaching the stone railing. "Or tried to. Something about a burst pipe in the laundry yard. Anyway, they sent me off until it's fixed."
Lin An nodded. "Strange how we have water issues here in the mountains."
"Everything's strange lately," Yan Hua murmured. "Herb garden demands double harvest tomorrow. The caretaker claims it's mandatory. People say the alliance might enforce heavier tribute soon, and Duan Ting's group…" She shook her head. "I don't know. Feels like the sect is a tinderbox waiting for a spark."
He said nothing, only offered a faint, knowing smile. She stared at him, brow creasing slightly, but said no more. Her unspoken anxieties floated in the damp air, echoing broader fears Lin An had already sensed. He let her go, mind sorting potential illusions that might incite or assuage such anxieties—whichever served him best.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that half the day had gone. He made his way to the Outer Disciples' Mess Hall, an open-sided pavilion with rough-hewn benches. A large pot of watery porridge simmered at its center. While waiting in line, he listened to two older novices gossip:
"…caravans from the next valley, all halted. Beast attacks, or maybe bandits.""Either way, the alliance expects Three Pines to fix it fast.""And we're short on resources. It's a mess."
Lin An collected his bowl of porridge and took a seat at a corner bench, letting their words sink in. So the beasts were growing bolder or bandits prowled roads. If caravans failed, trade dried up. The alliance might blame Three Pines for not securing its territory. All these frustrations offered chances for illusions to strike. People who felt cornered were easy prey for rumors and manipulations.
After lunch, he returned to the Southeastern Walkway. The rain had subsided, leaving damp stones glimmering under a pale glow. Venturing farther along the fortress perimeter, he noticed a small corridor partially blocked by crates. Curiosity tugged him forward. Ducking around them, he found a battered wooden door sealed with a rusted padlock. Its faint Qi ward buzzed under his fingertips, but only barely—clearly neglected.
He ran a finger along the lock, gauging how illusions might bypass its wards. Footsteps jarred him from his thoughts. Panicking, he spun back, nearly colliding with Duan Ting. The older boy glared.
"What are you doing here?"
Lin An feigned a quiver in his voice. "S-sorry, Senior Brother. I was assigned to clean the walkway. Noticed this door. Didn't know if it needed checking."
Duan Ting scoffed, but his gaze lingered on the padlock, something flickering in his eyes. "Mind your business, novice," he said, marching off. Lin An kept his head bowed, though inside his heart pounded. Duan Ting clearly recognized the door. Another secret? Possibly a contraband stash or a meeting place. Lin An resolved to hold onto that detail.
His chores finished in late afternoon, allowing him some leeway to roam. A short-tempered disciple ordered him to collect used brushes from a side classroom; Lin An complied, arms piled with ink-stained writing implements. Wandering corridors less traveled by novices, he paused at a large, echoing hall lined with dusty portraits. A cracked sign near the threshold read Hall of Ancestors. Peeking inside, he spotted paintings of elders and sect founders. Faded captions told brief stories of long-ago feats—like sealing a frost beast or mediating an old clan war.
Toward the end of the row, he found a painting of a narrow-eyed cultivator labeled Elder Xun Fei – Master of Mind Arts. The inscription claimed Xun Fei wielded illusions that rivaled standard sword cultivation, once holding entire armies at bay with illusions alone. A thrill coursed through Lin An. So illusions had real standing here in ages past. Maybe part of that knowledge still exists. He yearned to linger and read more, but a caretaker's disapproving cough sent him scuttling away. No novices allowed in the Hall of Ancestors without permission.
Returning eventually to the Outer Dormitory at dusk, Lin An found novices milling about. Some whispered about tomorrow's chores or cursed Duan Ting for snatching tokens. Others fretted over rumors of approaching trouble—more beast sightings, caravans canceled, the alliance demanding bigger tributes. Wei Bao, broad-shouldered and short of breath, approached Lin An with an anxious half-smile.
"Hear the kitchen's running low on staple grains?" Wei Bao asked. "Someone said we're rationing already."
Lin An shrugged. "Wouldn't surprise me." He lowered his voice. "Any news on Duan Ting?"
"Only that he's in a foul mood," Wei Bao replied. "He keeps muttering about 'deadlines' and shortfalls. Must be orders from that boss of his."
Lin An nodded, concealing satisfaction. "Stay cautious. Desperate people do desperate things."
Wei Bao sighed. "You're probably right. This sect life is… heavier than I imagined. Everyone's fighting for scraps."
"Fight smarter," Lin An said gently. "That's all we can do."
Wei Bao watched him for a moment, then meandered off. Lin An observed novices flocking to their straw mats, eyes drooping from exhaustion. In another corner, a few older disciples bartered tokens for extra blankets or morsels of dried fruit. Everything was for sale if you had power or influence. The illusions he honed nightly would be the ultimate currency—once he refined them.
Darkness settled fully by the time Lin An snuck behind the dorm. The moon showed its pale face through ragged clouds, turning the fortress walls silver. He exhaled, letting Qi trickle through his meridians. Within his mind's eye, the phantom brush hovered again, waiting for him to compose the next line of the story.
Focusing, he coaxed a flicker of Qi into the open air. Light shimmered around his palm, forming a tiny flame that danced like a candle's flicker. It dimly illuminated the crates stacked nearby. For several heartbeats, it held shape before guttering out. He felt drained, yet elated. Each day, the illusions grew more stable. One day, illusions might hide entire rooms, or conjure events that never happened. A perfect tool to unravel people like Duan Ting and the nameless master who pulled his strings.
Reentering the dorm, Lin An found most novices asleep, sprawled on scratchy mats. The air smelled of musty robes and sweaty feet. He carefully eased onto his own mat, ignoring the stiff straw poking his skin. Tuning out the snores, he let his mind replay the day: Su Ren's warnings about side jobs, the cloaked figure pressuring Duan Ting, the locked corridor with a warded door, Elder Xun Fei's portrait, and Yan Hua's talk of ration shortages.
So many tattered threads, all weaving an intricate tapestry of tension and hidden fear. Lin An intended to master that tapestry. So long as no one discovered his illusions too soon, he could pull the right strings at the perfect moment—starting small, building a legend around himself and his cunning. For now, though, he was only a nobody. The key was to remain invisible until the illusions were powerful enough that no one could refute their reality.
He closed his eyes. Outside, thunder rumbled across distant peaks, echoing in the hollows of the night sky. He pictured Duan Ting's scowling face, the caretaker's petty theft, the alliance's looming demands, and the hush of that locked corridor. Tomorrow would bring more chores, more cracks in the fortress's façade. If fortune favored him, he might find exactly where to slip an illusion next.
Let the stronghold sleep in ignorance. The day would come when the illusions soared free, rewriting fact into fiction—fact that everyone else would swallow whole.