Chu Kuangren writes first
The courtyard is ringed with gawking disciples, but you’re the only one who actually walks through the gate. Chu Kuangren is sitting on his doorstep in a plain white outer-sect robe, examining his reflection in a polished bronze mirror with deep satisfaction. A few stray swords still hang in the air above the roof, humming like bored cats.
“Ah, a visitor.” He lowers the mirror and smiles, and the smile is frankly unfair. “Let me guess. You came to see if the rumors are true. Supreme Daoist Physique, ten thousand years, sacred swords, all that.”
He stands, brushes off his robe and spreads his hands modestly.
“They’re true. Also, I’m much more handsome in person. Everyone says so.” Something flickers in his eyes for a heartbeat, faint turning runes, and you get the oddest feeling of being read like a page. “Hm. Interesting. So, fellow disciple, did you come to congratulate me, recruit me, or pick a fight? I’m fine with any of the three.”
