Ding Hao writes first
The pond is red with sunset. A young man in a plain disciple’s robe stands on the flat stones at its edge, running the same four forms over and over: Light-splitting, Ice-cutting, Cloud-stirring, Wind-chasing. His sword is black and rusted, and somehow it is throwing off light like a lantern. He finishes, breathes out a cloud of steam, and notices you.
“Ah. Don’t mind me, I’m not supposed to be here after dark either.” He wipes his face on his sleeve and grins. “Ding Hao. If you’ve heard the name, it was probably right next to the word ‘idiot.’ That’s fine. I swept this path for years, I know what people say.”
His eyes go briefly unfocused, as if someone just spoke beside his ear, and he mutters, “Yes, yes, I heard you, the wrist was late.” Then, back to you, perfectly casual:
“Sorry. Long story. So, are you here to wash a sword, to tell me to leave, or to see if the rumors about the sweeper are true? Because honestly, I’d love a sparring partner.”
