As they turned into one of the quieter streets—less noise, more flowers lining the walls, the sound of strings from a distant zither performance threading through the air—Han Yun slowed his pace just a little.
His voice dropped too, softer now.
"So what was it like?" he asked. "Growing up as someone like you?"
Mu Qinglan didn't respond at first. Her steps stayed even, eyes on the path.
He didn't push.
"I mean," he continued, "you've got that look. The icy, polished, 'elders love me but I trust no one' thing. Makes me wonder what the story is."
She stopped walking for a breath. "You're making assumptions."
"I'm good at those."
"…I grew up in the northern branch of the Mu Clan," she said finally. "My father is the head. My mother died when I was young."
He blinked, a little surprised she answered.
"Clan upbringing," she continued, voice steady. "Expectations. Structure. Very little room for error."
Han Yun nodded slightly, hands still tucked in his sleeves.
"Sounds exhausting."
"It was," she said simply.
He glanced at her. "Any siblings?"
She hesitated.
Then shook her head. "None I talk to."
That was all she offered.
But to Han Yun, that was something. She hadn't shut him down. She hadn't brushed him off.
She kept walking beside him.
"I used to think girls like you were born unbothered," he said, half teasing. "Turns out, you just learned to hold your breath longer than most."
She glanced sideways, just for a second.
Then looked forward again. "Don't get ahead of yourself. I haven't decided if I like you enough to let you psychoanalyze me."
He grinned. "Progress, though."
As they kept walking, Han Yun led her off the main road and toward a section of the plaza that had turned into a pop-up street fair.
It was quieter here. Less vendors screaming about spirit-enhanced vegetables and more relaxed, playful things—paper lantern workshops, lucky draw stalls, calligraphy tables, and…
"Oh," Han Yun said, spotting it. "That looks promising."
He pointed to a street artist hunched over a wooden stool, hurriedly sketching caricatures for passing couples and cultivator friends. The results? Questionable at best.
He smirked and turned to Qinglan. "Let's do it."
She gave him a suspicious look. "Do what?"
He was already walking toward the stall, dragging her along by the edge of her sleeve.
"Sit," he said, grinning.
She stared at him, unmoving.
He looked at the artist. "Two, please. Something flattering."
The old man nodded without a word, already scribbling.
Qinglan gave in with a quiet sigh and sat beside him, arms crossed. "You better not make me regret this."
Five minutes later, the artist handed over the sketch.
Han Yun took one look and immediately burst into laughter.
It was awful.
His face looked like a drunken goose in fancy robes. His jawline was crooked, his fan drawn like a piece of fried bread. Qinglan had big sparkling anime eyes and a bow in her hair she very much did not wear.
"It's—oh dear heaven! Look at your hair," Han Yun gasped, clutching his stomach.
Qinglan snatched the paper from his hand and stared at it.
Then stared harder.
"…He gave me eyelashes the size of sword fans."
Han Yun wheezed.
She pouted slightly, lips twitching.
"Yours looks like a cursed duck."
"Accurate, honestly."
She held the paper up again. "…I want to burn this."
"Frame it."
"Do it, and I will burn you."
He was still laughing, but there was something light in the air now. Her arms had uncrossed. Her shoulders were more relaxed.
Later on, as the two wandered deeper into the fair, they passed a small puppet stand tucked between two tea vendors. A few spiritual strings dangled from above, controlling a clumsy-looking marionette dressed as some righteous cultivator, complete with oversized eyebrows and a fake golden sword.
The puppet was mid-performance, trying to defeat a "demonic cultivator" who was clearly just a red paper cutout with googly eyes. The movements were stiff, the lines awkwardly delayed—no charm, no flow. A total mess.
Qinglan glanced at it, unimpressed, and kept walking.
Han Yun stopped, tapped her arm, and pointed. "Wait, wait. Look at that."
She turned, slowly. "It's just a puppet show."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he mimicked the puppet's lurching stance with both hands raised, eyes wide, putting on a ridiculous, dramatic voice:
"Fear not, maiden! I—Holy Sword Saint of the Nine Heavens—shall protect your… spiritual vegetables!"
Then he staggered sideways, twisted his body, and dramatically fake-fainted into the stall.
The old lady running the booth blinked.
Qinglan stared, blinked once—
And for a split second, her lip curved. The faintest ghost of a laugh. Almost.
Han Yun turned his head, eyes narrowed like a hawk.
"Did you just—?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I saw it. The corners of your mouth moved."
"They didn't."
He leaned in. "They did. That was a smile. A whole micro-smile. I caught it in the wild."
She turned away. "You're seeing things."
He followed with a victorious grin, hands behind his back again. "And here I thought you had no soul."
"I still might."
"But you smiled."
"Shut up."
They eventually found a quieter corner—a small pavilion built over a koi pond, tucked behind a temple garden that wasn't as flooded with people. A soft breeze moved through the trees, rustling the paper tags tied to the shrine posts. The noise of the festival was still there, but distant now. Just a low hum.
They sat on the bench overlooking the water. Han Yun leaned back slightly, elbows resting on the rail, gaze trailing the lazy movements of the koi beneath them.
His voice was different this time.
"Hey," he said. "Can I ask you something weird?"
Mu Qinglan glanced over. "You already do."
"Fair," he muttered, then exhaled lightly.
"…If you had a choice," he asked, eyes still on the pond, "would you rather have grown up as a farmer's daughter? Or the Mu Clan's prized genius?"
She didn't answer immediately.
He waited. No teasing, a quiet space between them.
After a while, she leaned forward a little, resting her arms on her knees.
"I don't know what it's like to be a farmer's daughter," she said.
"But I know what it's like to wake up every morning and feel like if I fall short just once, I become disposable."
Her voice didn't shake. It never did.
Han Yun didn't interrupt.
"…So I think if I had to choose," she went on, "between expectations and simplicity—I'd pick the one where I could actually breathe."
He nodded quietly.
"Yeah," he said. "Same."
She looked at him sideways.
"You? You don't strike me as someone who had much responsibility."
"I didn't," he said, lips tugging into a faint smile. "But I still spent my life feeling like I missed something. Like I was meant for more, but no one told me what."
A pause.
Then her voice, softer this time. "That's not better, you know."
"I know."
The koi moved slowly beneath them. Neither of them said anything for a while.
Han Yun leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the water like he was watching a drama unfold beneath the surface.
A pair of koi had drifted into view—one small and bright red, darting around with quick little flicks of its tail, and another larger one, a deep, silvery blue, gliding slowly, more elegant, almost bored in how it moved.
He pointed.
"Those two," he said, nodding. "Yeah, definitely a couple."
Mu Qinglan didn't even look. "They're fish."
"Don't ruin it," he said, lightly elbowing her. "Look at the little red one—obviously the clingy type. Following the other around like: 'Wait for me~!' And then gives that big charming koi smile. Probably thinks he's smooth."
She glanced at the pond, not saying a word yet.
Han Yun kept going, eyes still tracking the two.
"And the bigger one? That one's pretending to be annoyed, but actually secretly enjoys the attention. Told all the other fish she's cold and untouchable, but she's just lonely."
He gave a thoughtful nod. "You know. Classic dynamic."
Mu Qinglan blinked slowly. "So what you're saying is the red one is annoying."
"Yes," he said proudly. "But in an adorable, persistent way."
She looked at him sideways.
He raised an eyebrow. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"
She looked away. "If you say I'm the fish, I will drown you."
Han Yun smirked. "I was just saying you'd make a majestic koi."
She didn't respond.
The streets had started to calm by the time the sun dipped low, painting the sky in soft orange and violet streaks. Festival vendors were winding down, lanterns being lit one by one, casting a gentle glow over the city's stone paths.
After hours of walking, bantering, and quiet moments that said more than words could, Han Yun finally stopped beside a small restaurant tucked near the edge of a side street. The sign was hand-painted, a little chipped, and the tables inside were plain but clean. No formation walls. No golden menus. Just the smell of freshly cooked noodles and warm tea.
He glanced at Mu Qinglan.
"Come on," he said quietly. "One more stop."
Before she could say anything, he reached out and took her hand.
It wasn't dramatic or rushed.
It was smooth—confident in that strange Han Yun way, like he knew it wasn't quite allowed, but did it anyway because he wanted to.
She turned her head immediately, eyes narrowing just slightly.
He caught the breath she took in, probably the start of a very clear "no."
But then… she didn't say it.
She let him hold it.
And followed.
Inside, they took a seat by the window. The air was warm with the scent of herbs and steamed broth. It wasn't crowded, just a few people quietly eating. There were no flashy spirit dishes, no music playing from enchanted wood.
Just peace.
They sat there for a while, eating slowly. No rush to fill the silence. They'd already said a lot today.
When they finished, and the plates were cleared, Han Yun leaned back slightly in his chair, turning his eyes toward the window where the last bits of sunlight were fading behind the buildings.
He exhaled softly, then looked over at her.
"You coming tomorrow?" he asked, voice low, softer than usual. "To the tournament, I mean."
She didn't answer right away, just sipped her tea calmly.
"I'll be out there, probably sweating, maybe bleeding, definitely showing off," he added, tapping the side of his cup with one finger. "It'd help if I knew someone was watching."
Her eyes flicked toward him.
He gave a small shrug. "Not just anyone."
Still no answer.
So he leaned in a little closer, resting one elbow on the table. "If you're there, I might fight a little better. Just sayin'."
Mu Qinglan raised an eyebrow.
"You need cheering to perform better?"
"No, no," he said, grinning. "But I wouldn't mind looking cool in front of someone whose opinion I sort of, maybe, kind of care about."
She stared at him for a moment. Then turned her eyes back to the window.
"I'll think about it."
"That's not a no."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't push it."
He leaned back, smiling faintly.
Han Yun watched Mu Qinglan disappear into the growing shadows, her long hair catching the lantern light for a brief second before she vanished around the corner.
She didn't say goodbye.
She never did.
But she didn't elbow him either, and that—well, that was probably the best compliment he was getting today.
By the time he made it back to his rented inn, the sky was a rich navy blue, lanterns glowing like quiet stars scattered across the streets. He closed the door behind him, tossed his outer robe onto the nearby chair, and sat down with a grin stretched so wide it was practically stupid.
He leaned back, eyes staring at the ceiling beams above.
"Damn," he muttered, chuckling under his breath. "Can't remember the last time I enjoyed someone's company that much…"
He thought about the way she walked just half a step ahead of him but never pulled away. The twitch of her lips when she almost smiled at the dumb koi joke. The way she didn't pull her hand back right away.
'Little tsundere' he thought fondly, shaking his head.
He dragged himself to the floor, crossed his legs, and settled into a quiet meditative posture. No reason to sleep. Sleep was nice, sure—but cultivation was better.
And tomorrow, he had a tournament to attend.
But tonight?
He was just going to sit here.
Let his Qi flow. Let his mind quiet.
And maybe—just maybe—hold onto that feeling a little longer.
The sun was still rising, but the city was already alive with movement.
Banners from five different sects fluttered in the wind, hanging high over the buildings like a colorful patchwork of pride. The wide main roads leading to the central arena were flooded—disciples, instructors, vendors, spectators from nearby towns—every corner of Misty Spring City was buzzing.
It was the Five-Sect Junior Tournament, a tradition held once every few years, and for many young cultivators, this was their first real shot to prove something outside their own mountain.
—
[Feng Yiran's POV]
—
He stepped off the spirit-beast carriage with the rest of his sect members, adjusting the strap of the massive sword on his back.
The city air smelled different—fresher than the mountain air, but heavier, somehow. Maybe it was the noise. Maybe it was the people. Or maybe it was the weight of expectation that had quietly settled on his shoulders since the moment they left the sect.
"Brother Yiran," one of the junior sisters beside him said, offering a pouch of spirit powder for focus. "Are you nervous?"
Feng Yiran smiled warmly and shook his head. "Not nervous. Just excited."
She smiled back. "You're really confident, huh?"
He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "A little. Maybe."
He didn't want to brag. That wasn't his style.
But deep down, he couldn't lie to himself.
He'd been waiting for this.
The elders had told him plainly: Bring glory to the sect, and you won't be forgotten. A personal reward from the peak elder himself. Resources. A chance to access higher cultivation grounds. A step closer to the Core Disciple trials.
That alone was more than enough to light a fire under him.
But beyond that…
He just wanted to fight. To test himself. To see how far he'd come from the quiet, barefoot boy in the farmlands who used to swing a stick like it was a blade.
He looked ahead as the great stone arena came into view beyond the crowd—its spires tall, its stands already filling with people.
His hand tightened slightly on the hilt of his sword.
The Misty Spring City Arena had been transformed into a massive dueling ground—two elevated stone platforms side by side, surrounded by towering spectator stands. Hundreds of cultivators packed into the rows, some floating midair with talismans or spiritual treasures, watching from above like perched hawks.
Down below, two wide battle stages had been carved with ancient runes to suppress fatal damage and reinforce the structure—no matter how fierce the fight, the ground would hold.
This wasn't just a test of strength. It was a stage.
A proving ground.
There were two brackets, running simultaneously. Each bracket pulled disciples from all five participating sects, shuffled into rounds through an enchanted stone that drew lots.
Only one from each bracket would reach the final. And only one would stand alone at the end.
That person?
They would be crowned the Rising Star of the Five Sects—a title that didn't just come with rewards and recognition, but status that could last a lifetime.
City leaders were present. Sect elders too. And most importantly, scouts—roaming elders and lone experts who'd come from beyond the region, looking for young talent to mentor, invest in… or steal.
More than pills or spiritual treasures, the biggest prize today was fame.
Everyone knew it.
Everyone wanted it.