Xilan, a preening peacock of the Inner Court, flexed his fingers, the pale razor of wind humming between them. He smirked, a cruel twist to his lips, and pointed a finger at Ryunhia. “Run along, kitchen hand. Your master’s just a fraud and you’re a wasted breath. Don’t embarrass yourself further.” Ryunhia didn’t budge. Taiyeng watched from beside the drain, his knuckles digging into his broom handle as she held her stance. The wood in her hands bore only linseed oil and rasp marks, dull against Xilan’s silver steel. “Begin!” the elder roared. Xilan sprang, saber carving low in the opening flourish of the Swirling Cloud Slice. His compressed gale hissed across the sand, kicking grit against her shins. Ryunhia met his charge not with a parry, but a sweep. Her staff, held low and steady, moved in a wide, fluid arc. It wasn’t a block; it was the ‘Riverbed Eradication,’ a kata Taiyeng had taught her for clearing silt and stubborn algae from the stone sluice channels. The tip of her ash-wood staff caught the edge of Xilan’s ankle-guard, not with force, but with a surprising suction, like a mud-dredge. Xilan’s graceful advance stuttered, his footing momentarily compromised. “What in the —!” Xilan stumbled, regaining his balance with an annoyed grunt. He jabbed his saber straight toward her collarbone. “Still playing with a stick?” Ryunhia was already moving, her staff spinning in front of her like a barrier of blurred wood. It was the ‘Wind-Washed Patio’ kata, meant to clear fallen leaves from the vast courtyard stones. The momentum of her spin, subtle yet absolute, turned aside Xilan’s cut with a dull thud. The impact wasn’t violent, but like a water current redirecting a stone, it nudged Xilan off his intended path. He overshot, his lunge carrying him past her. Ryunhia pivoted on her heel, dropping the timber low. She swept the end of the ash-wood along the ground, a smooth, wide motion that caught the trailing edge of Xilan’s silk sash. The sash snagged, tautening, and Xilan, thrown off balance by his own momentum and the unexpected drag, stumbled again, dropping hard onto one knee. His saber clattered on the sand, a humiliating sound. The upper galleries erupted in mutters, followed by snickering. A girl in kitchen sackcloth was practically sweeping the courtyard floor with the pride of the dormitories. Xilan, face scarlet, scrambled to his feet, rage distorting his features. “You cheap trickster! You dare insult me with such a paltry display?” He abandoned his saber, Qi flaring violently around him as he conjured two whistling green crescents of air, one coiled over each fist. “I’ll tear you apart!” Ryunhia didn’t respond. She just held her staff, her breathing deep and even. As Xilan lunged, green arcs whistling around him, Ryunhia dropped into the Torrential Downpour Scrub, shifting weight as if scouring the slick steps to the upper caverns. Her staff became an extension of her body, a blur of motion that wasn’t about blocking, but about *cleaning*. Each of Xilan’s swipes encountered only circular parries. She worked the timber in steady spirals, sweeping his bursts aside like stagnant water. “Stop dodging!” Xilan roared, frustrated tears pricking his eyes. He lunged with a final, overhead cut, crossing both razor arcs. “Take the hit, you cow!” Her damaged core flared, drawing in the wild turbulence. The ‘Torrential Downpour Scrub’ intensified. Her staff caught both wind-shears, drawing the pressurized air straight into the wood. A low, humming thrum vibrated from the ash-wood, growing louder, deeper. The jade-tinted gale drained into the grain, causing the pale ash to flare chalk-white. Then, with a sudden, explosive release, Ryunhia unleashed the stored Qi. It wasn’t a strike, but an *expulsion*. A concussive shockwave erupted from the staff tip, blasting across the courtyard. The pulse took Xilan off his feet, his green spells popping into smoke before he slammed hard into the perimeter stones and went slack. The wake thrummed upward, rattling the grandstand rafters until crossbeams groaned. The bout referee rose from his wicker stool, breath whistling through his teeth. Ryunhia stood encircled by a ring of pale light, her fractured spirit anchoring the wild leyline flow instead of bleeding it away. “A True Soul Awakening!” a voice boomed from the highest tier of the dais. It was Jiaolong, gaunt and swathed in embroidered dragon-silk. “Impossible! A disowned princess, a broken soul… yet such raw potential!” His gaze, predatory and calculating, fixed on Ryunhia. “Bring her to me. Immediately. That girl is not merely a disciple; she is a conduit! With a soul fragmented thus, she can draw power from the leyline without resistance, a living battery to fuel our ascension!” Taiyeng, still leaning on his broom, had watched Ryunhia’s fight with a slowly dawning realization. The way Xilan’s Qi had been absorbed, the sheer, uncontrolled power of her release… it spoke of her unique soul, yes, but also of a terrible fragility. And now, the Sect Leader’s words confirmed his worst fears. They saw her as a tool, not a person. He had sought a peaceful life, to hide away from the cruelty of the cultivation world. He had convinced himself that Qilong, for all its strictures, was different, a place where he could finally lay down his burden. But the hunger for power, the casual disregard for human life, it was all the same. The same rot that had driven him to bring empires to their knees now festered here, in the heart of this ‘sacred’ monastery. And it was targeting *his* disciple. The rage, long suppressed, flared in his chest like a phoenix reborn. It was no longer a matter of escaping his past, or simply protecting Ryunhia in the shadows. It was about tearing down the very foundations of this rotten place, brick by brick, if that’s what it took to keep her safe. His hands, gripping the broom, tightened. The familiar, comforting weight of the ash-wood felt less like a tool of mundanity and more like a weapon. He pushed off the drainage gutter, his movements slow, deliberate, each step echoing with a power he no longer cared to conceal. His eyes, usually clouded with a weary resignation, now burned with an infernal light as he walked towards the arena, towards the Sect Leader, towards the confrontation he had tried for so long to avoid. “She is not a battery,” Taiyeng called out, his voice scraping low over the quiet sand. “She is my student.” Jiaolong turned toward the gutter, brows furrowing. “Who dares—” Before he could finish, the ground beneath them lurched violently. A deep, guttural roar ripped through the air, shaking the very foundations of the monastery. Cracks, wide and jagged, spiderwebbed across the arena floor, dust plumes rising like startled ghosts. The elegant tiles of the viewing pavilion shattered, raining down fragments of carved stone. The iron warning bells above the cloisters began to clang out of rhythm. Through the newly formed fissures in the outer wall, dozens of soot-cloaked marauders poured, black daggers flashing in the sun. Chidao’s army had arrived.

Moping the Floor