“To host Master Ren of the Azure Scroll Monastery in this humble dwelling of the Ming, is truly a blessing beyond measure!” “Ha, Patriarch Ming, you flatter me. Such words shame this humble monk. As a token of goodwill from the Azure Scroll Monastery, please accept this Auspicious Jade Bloom, a treasure said to grace the earth once a millennium.” The Ming Estate, a sprawling collection of courtyards and intricate gardens, offered a suitably impressive setting. Pavilions rose gracefully beside tranquil ponds, and elaborate rockeries hinted at countless hours of careful arrangement. Tonight, the main hall buzzed with around a hundred guests. A modest number, perhaps, but each represented a formidable lineage or spiritual order within the vast Azure Empire. These were not mere gentry; they were Practitioners of the Inner Arts, figures of considerable influence, each household capable of standing as an equal, or even a rival, to the House of Ming itself. Patriarch Ming, ensconced in the place of honor, surveyed the gathering. The sight of so many esteemed guests gracing his hall seemed to infuse him with a renewed vitality, a vigor perhaps more spiritual than physical. He mused, no doubt, upon the echoes of past glories, when the House of Ming had commanded similar, if not greater, respect. A pity, then, that subsequent generations had proven less... adept. Their once-expansive holdings had dwindled, their influence shriveled to merely overseeing the Willowbend Ward of bustling Yanwu City. There was a time, legend whispered, when many of these present dignitaries would have bowed their heads to the Ming name, seeking patronage and protection. Now, the House of Ming could again bask in such splendor, albeit with the unspoken acknowledgment that much of this borrowed prestige stemmed from the impending alliance with the formidable House of Wei. A peculiar sort of resurgence, built not on intrinsic merit, but on a well-placed marriage, a delicate arrangement of power rather than an eruption of genuine capability. Patriarch Ming, radiating a gentle benignity that belied his internal calculations, raised his cup. “Esteemed guests,” he began, his voice resonating with carefully cultivated warmth, “allow me the honor of the first toast. Tonight marks the auspicious union of my grandson, Ming Shen, and the esteemed House of Wei. To their happiness, and to all of you!” He drained his cup with practiced ease, an act promptly mirrored by the hundred or so assembled luminaries. A chorus of well-rehearsed praises and felicitations swelled through the hall, each pronouncement adding another layer to the Patriarch's already expansive smile. He savored such declarations, a connoisseur of carefully crafted compliments. Yet, a fleeting shadow crossed his features, a momentary tightening around the eyes. The Nine-Lives Spirit Cat. The memory, a persistent thorn, still pricked. Why had she abandoned them? His gaze, momentarily distant, flickered to a nearby table where his grandson, Ming Shen, was engaged in boisterous camaraderie with a gaggle of equally unremarkable young men. A deep, familiar frown etched itself onto the Patriarch's brow. Ming Shen, a truly incorrigible specimen, seemed determined to embody every negative stereotype of a spoiled young master. Still, he was family. And while the House of Wei might be marrying off what some considered a “lesser” daughter, Patriarch Ming had personally appraised Wei Ruolan. Her grace, her striking beauty – these were beyond dispute. A truly stunning bride, quite wasted on Ming Shen, but a magnificent acquisition nonetheless. He simply needed to bide his time. Soon, an elder from the House of Wei would present her, and the ceremony would proceed as ordained, the alliance secured. Across town, or perhaps just a few bustling streets away, Li Xuan found himself approaching the imposing, vermillion-lacquered gates of the Ming Estate. Linglong, his companionable feline, a creature of surprising composure, peered from the folds of his simple robes, her emerald eyes surveying the scene with quiet, almost discerning curiosity. A surprisingly large crowd of ordinary citizens had gathered outside, drawn not by any particular interest in the specific marital arrangements of the powerful, but by the general promise of festivities. A chance for a good meal, perhaps, and a rare glimpse into the opulent, often bewildering, world of the Inner Arts practitioners, a world Li Xuan often found himself observing from a detached, yet gentle, distance. He presented the rather plain, almost unassuming invitation, a testament to his deliberately unostentatious status, to the guards, who, after a moment of mild confusion and a quick, dismissive glance, waved him through. As he stepped past the polished gates, a sharp, disdainful voice, thick with unearned authority, cut through the general murmur behind him. “Hmph, a flock of utterly useless commoners, all scrambling for a free meal. Truly, they’ve never seen a grand event in their lives. The audacity.” Li Xuan's step faltered for a fraction of a second, a barely perceptible hesitation. He did not turn. There was little point, after all, in acknowledging the fleeting judgments of strangers, especially when one had long made peace with the quiet, unglamorous path one had chosen. He simply continued his quiet progression into the estate, a man content with his own observations. Linglong, however, observed her human with an almost imperceptible twitch of a whisker, a subtle sign of her ancient amusement. Here was a master of the healing arts, capable of wonders that bordered on the miraculous, of insights that reshaped destinies, casually dismissed by a gate guard whose own spiritual cultivation barely surpassed that of a common street vendor. Yet, Li Xuan remained utterly unperturbed, his aura as calm as a still pond. Such profound equanimity, the feline mused, was a rare and formidable power in itself, a shield more potent than any spiritual barrier. Even she, Elder Linglong, in her full glory, might struggle to maintain such an utterly indifferent demeanor under similar circumstances, especially when such blatant disrespect was aimed at someone of true, albeit unacknowledged, eminence. The sheer scale of the banquet hall was impressive, vast enough to accommodate a multitude of guests. The less distinguished attendees, mostly ordinary folk like himself, were directed to tables relegated to the periphery, a safe distance from the true centers of power and prestige. “Ah, Master Li! You’ve arrived!” “Good to see you, Master Li! Do find a comfortable seat, the fare is quite exquisite tonight!” Scattered greetings drifted towards him. It seemed almost everyone at the “lesser” tables had, at some point, sought his unassuming counsel or gentle remedies. Li Xuan offered polite nods and small, genuine smiles in return, before settling into an available spot. Before him, a vibrant array of dishes, some familiar, some surprisingly exotic for a wedding on this scale, had been laid out. Linglong, ever discerning, gracefully disembarked from his lap and surveyed the table with a knowing gaze. High above the common revelers, Patriarch Ming stood on a slightly elevated dais, accepting the adulation of the more prominent guests. He seemed, to Li Xuan's detached observation, to radiate an almost palpable aura of self-satisfaction. “See him? Up there? That’s Patriarch Ming himself,” Artisan Lu, a jovial stonemason seated beside Li Xuan, nudged his shoulder, his voice tinged with a blend of reverence and wistful envy. Lu had, in his younger days, attempted the path of the Inner Arts. Though he never progressed beyond the Awakened Seed stage, his spiritual core shattered in an unfortunate dispute, he had seen enough of the wider world to speak with some authority on such matters. Li Xuan, ever accommodating, turned his gaze towards the elevated figure. “Ah, yes. I see,” Li Xuan replied, his tone devoid of particular emphasis. He had, truthfully, never encountered a person of such elevated spiritual stature. Not that it bothered him. His own journey had long since diverged from that path, and he had found a certain quiet contentment in the ordinary rhythms of a mortal life. There was, he often thought, a peculiar freedom in being simply human. “Alas, Master Li, your perspective is truly... limited!” Artisan Lu shook his head with a show of mock exasperation, though his earnestness was entirely genuine. “Patriarch Ming reached the Grand Ascendant rank a century ago! There are barely a dozen such masters in the entire Azure Empire, figures whose very presence can shift the currents of qi! We are fortunate indeed to witness such a personage in our lifetime!” He punctuated his pronouncements with a series of mournful “what a pity”s, lamenting Li Xuan's apparent lack of conventional awe, a quality Li Xuan had long ago misplaced, if he'd ever possessed it. Li Xuan, while not entirely captivated by the intricacies of spiritual hierarchy, offered a polite murmur of agreement, a small gesture to maintain the pleasantries. *This human is truly a marvel of patience,* Linglong mused, a silent flick of her tail betraying her internal thoughts as she daintily sampled a sliver of spiced fish. *A thousand years have I walked this earth, witnessed countless epochs, and yet, his quiet composure remains unparalleled.* It was, of course, amusing to hear Artisan Lu's earnest pronouncements, so utterly unaware of the true gravity of the man beside him. Linglong, who had seen medicinal ingredients in Li Xuan's humble cabinet that defied both categorization and historical record, knew the stonemason's words to be utterly preposterous. If even she, a being of ancient spiritual lineage, could not fully grasp the depths of Li Xuan's latent abilities, then this well-meaning artisan, mistaking him for a mere mortal, was truly blind. This was a sage of healing from an age long past, a man who could distill essences without furnace or spiritual flame, whose quiet words could unravel mysteries of cultivation that confounded Grand Ascendants. She yearned to speak, to correct the gross misunderstanding, to perhaps even roll her eyes at the absurdity of it all. But the potential disruption to Li Xuan's carefully cultivated 'ordinary' existence, and the subsequent displeased glance he might cast her way – a glance that, ironically, often carried the weight of profound, unspoken wisdom – held her tongue. Besides, she had her own agenda for this particular wedding. Patriarch Ming, audacious old man, dared to host a celebratory union, one predicated on her very capture and forced convalescence? Ha! Elder Linglong, the Nine-Lives Spirit Cat, would simply not countenance the insult of being forcibly contained and exploited, even if it meant a temporary indignity. Oh no. This wedding, she predicted with a mischievous gleam in her emerald eyes, was about to acquire a rather... memorable twist, one that would perfectly illustrate the adage that even the most carefully laid plans of men often go awry. The revelry continued, the air thick with celebratory toasts and the comfortable hum of polite conversation. Then, Patriarch Ming cleared his throat, a sharp, deliberate sound that cut through the pleasant cacophony. The assembled guests, as if on cue, fell silent, their gazes drawn upward. A new melody, soaring and ethereal, began to weave through the hall. The moment had arrived. The bride, a figure of anticipation, was making her entrance. Li Xuan, ever the observer, followed the general shift in attention. A woman, swathed in layers of auspicious crimson silk, her face obscured by a heavy bridal veil, moved with an almost ethereal grace. She glided rather than walked, each deliberate step seemingly designed to evoke a profound, almost primal, admiration. Murmurs, hushed and reverent, rippled through the male guests. Beside her, an elder in jade-green robes maintained a solemn, almost grim, expression – a curious counterpoint to the celebratory mood. The ordinary folk, however, remained largely unconcerned with the elder’s demeanor, their attention fixed on the bride. “She’s like a goddess descended!” one gasped. “Tsk, how did the Ming family ever snag such a beauty from the Wei household?” another wondered, clearly impressed. “Rumor has it,” a third whispered conspiratorially, “the Wei family practically pushed her into this. They say the bride… isn’t quite right. A bit of a disappointment, perhaps.” Despite the veiled face, the mystery only seemed to amplify the fascination, drawing all eyes to the crimson-clad figure. Li Xuan’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of something akin to recognition passing through his typically placid eyes. He found himself wondering, rather unexpectedly, about the identity of the woman beneath the veil. There was an unsettling familiarity to her bearing, a certain cadence in her steps that tugged at the edge of memory. Patriarch Ming’s voice boomed, cutting through the rising tide of speculation. “Esteemed guests, today is a day of profound joy for the House of Ming! Wei Ruolan, daughter of the esteemed Head of the House of Wei, now joins in matrimony with my grandson, Ming Shen. I ask you all to bear witness to this sacred union!” The pronouncement reignited the hall's celebratory fervor, eliciting another round of enthusiastic cheers. Ming Shen, a preening smirk plastered across his face, swaggered to his place beside the Patriarch. Wei Ruolan, however, remained an enigma beneath her heavy veil. No one could discern her expression, though a flicker of unease, swift and almost imperceptible, seemed to cross Patriarch Ming’s own face. He, it seemed, had noticed something amiss. And then, as she drew closer, a flash of cold steel erupted. With a decisive, sweeping motion, she drew a shimmering blade, severing the crimson veil that obscured her face. In that same instant, a wave of raw spiritual energy, a formidable power akin to the Spirit Bloom stage, erupted from her, tearing through the illusion of placid beauty, and with it, the very composure of the banquet.

An Unassuming Guest at a Rather Loud Wedding