Chapter 8: The Morning of Falling Petals:
"A dragon watches, a petal drifts.
And the one who looks away first forgets what it means to rise."
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Wei Yehan was dreaming of clouds. Soft, warm, endless. He floated on them like a celestial immortal, napping in some peaceful realm beyond reach. There was music, too—faint and distant, like bamboo flutes played by the wind.
Then the clouds were ripped away.
Quite literally.
A sudden chill hit his back as someone yanked his blanket off with the force of divine retribution.
"Rise and rot, Yehan! We're going to be late!"
That was Su Jin, voice sharp enough to slice through steel, crouched beside him with murder in his eyes and two fingers jammed into his sides.
Wei Yehan yelped and rolled like a cat tossed off a rooftop. "Gaoo—Su Jin! My dream! I was floating!"
"You'll be floating in punishment if we don't get to the ceremony grounds now!"
Behind Su Jin, another disciple—Meng Ke—was dramatically fanning himself. "He's always like this. Sleep like death, attitude like a courtesan. How did our pavilion even accept him again?"
"Clearly a clerical error," someone else muttered.
"Maybe they liked his face," added a fourth, who was helpfully rummaging through Wei Yehan's satchel. "Hah! He brought snacks. I'm taking one."
Wei Yehan sat up blearily, hair a complete disaster, blanket tangled around one ankle like a defeated snake. "You're all traitors. Vultures. Is this how brothers treat each other?"
Su Jin snorted. "You're lucky we didn't pour water over your head. That was my first idea."
Meng Ke flicked his forehead. "Would've steamed off like mist. He's full of hot air anyway."
Off to the side, leaning against a pillar near the doorway, stood Ling Zheming.
Arms crossed. Sword sheathed. Expression unreadable.
But his eyes flicked toward the group. Briefly. Amused, maybe. Or resigned. Hard to say.
Wei Yehan finally noticed him, blinked, and dramatically threw an arm over his face. "Senior Brother Ling! They're bullying me!"
"Good," Ling Zheming said dryly, pushing off the pillar. "You'll need discipline where we're going."
"Cruel!" Wei Yehan wailed. "Even the dragon is siding with the wolves!"
More laughter echoed in the hall.
Outside, the morning sun crept over the ridges of Lianfeng Mountain, painting golden light across tiled roofs and blooming peach trees. In the distance, bells rang out—soft, clear, ceremonial.
It was time.
Perfect! Here's the continuation with a touch of elegance and bustle as they head to the ceremonial grounds:
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The outer courtyards of Lianfeng Sect were already alive with motion.
Disciples from all five sects moved like streams of color down the jade walkways, their ceremonial robes fluttering in the morning breeze. Pale incense smoke trailed from the central pavilions, curling into the air like whispered prayers. Birds called from the trees, and somewhere, a guqin was playing—soft and distant.
Wei Yehan stumbled after the others, still rubbing his eyes. "Too early. My soul hasn't even returned yet."
"Then we'll drag it down the mountain if we have to," Su Jin replied cheerfully, adjusting his sleeves with militant precision.
Ling Zheming walked a few steps ahead, leading their group at an even pace. His posture was immaculate, the golden hilt of Yanxiao glinting faintly at his hip. Several passing disciples from other sects turned to look, but he didn't acknowledge them.
Wei Yehan, trailing beside Meng Ke, muttered, "He always walks like there's thunder under his feet. Does he ever slouch?"
"No," Meng Ke said. "And I bet he meditates with perfect posture too. Even in his sleep."
As they passed under a stone archway lined with blooming wisteria, a pair of Ziyue Pavilion disciples walked by, nodding politely. The younger one whispered, "Is that the Dragon of Longling Pavilion?"
"No, no," the elder replied softly. "Too early in the day. Dragons don't descend until noon."
Wei Yehan choked on a laugh.
Ling Zheming didn't turn—but Wei Yehan saw his ear twitch.
The ceremonial grounds came into view: a great circular platform of polished stone, set above a lotus lake. Wooden bridges extended from five directions, each representing one of the major sects. Elders and honored guests had already begun taking their places on the elevated viewing terraces.
Drums echoed once in the distance.
It had begun.
---
The platform above the lotus lake shimmered with morning light, pale gold reflecting off its polished stone surface. Attendants moved quietly between the bridges, adjusting final details under the eyes of the overseeing elders.
Then—one by one—the other sects began to arrive.
First came the disciples of Yunjian Sect, clad in mist-grey and sky-blue, swords at their backs and their steps silent as falling snow. At their head was a young man with tied-back silver hair and a steady, unhurried gait. Jian Qingzhou. His eyes swept the assembly with the poise of someone already counting threats and allies alike. The breeze caught the trailing end of his outer robe—it did not flutter. It flowed.
"He looks like he woke up inside a poem," Su Jin muttered beside Wei Yehan.
"Or a sword manual," Meng Ke added.
Wei Yehan squinted at Jian Qingzhou, thoughtful. "Or both."
Next came the golden procession of Ziyue Pavilion. Their robes were deep violet edged in moonlight threads, giving the illusion of stars woven into silk. At the front, walking a few paces ahead of his peers, was Yue Chenxiao. Fan in hand. Smile in place. His gaze skimmed across the gathered crowd like a ripple on still water.
"Beautiful," someone whispered nearby.
Too beautiful, Wei Yehan thought absently. And yet, somehow—less distant than he expected. As Yue Chenxiao passed them, his eyes met Wei Yehan's for a single second.
Then the fan opened with a crisp snap, and the moment was gone.
Leishen Sect arrived in sharp lines and sharper silence. Their robes crackled faintly with static, dark blue shot through with streaks of white. The air around them felt charged. No one walked ahead—they marched together, as though daring the others to ask who led them.
"Are they always like that?" Wei Yehan whispered.
"Yes," Ling Zheming replied, his voice quiet but clear. "It's part of the act. Their leader always steps forward last."
True enough, after the others had formed ranks, a tall disciple emerged from the back—aloof, grim, and utterly unbothered. No name was spoken, but the tension in the air shifted as he stepped onto the stone platform.
Then came the sons of Lianfeng Sect themselves, descending from the central bridge. Their golden-lotus robes caught the morning sun, and murmurs spread like ripples.
At the center of the formation stood Feng Yusheng, robed in ceremonial white and gold. He was not smiling. Nor was he solemn. His gaze was calm, unreadable—like still water covering an unknown depth.
As he passed the Longling Pavilion group, Wei Yehan straightened reflexively.
Feng Yusheng did not look at him.
But as the Lianfeng group took their places on the opposite side of the platform, one magnolia petal drifted down between them.
And this time—the petal landed on Wei Yehan's shoulder before he looked away first.