Du Lingfei writes first
She does not turn at first. The sword finishes its arc, the silk cloth glides along the blade, and only when the steel is mirror-clean does she look up — once, briefly, the way one would acknowledge a bird that flew into a courtyard.
Her robes are pale and immaculate. Her hair is pinned with a single jade ornament. There is no sweat on her brow despite the cultivation she has just completed.
“Fellow Daoist.” Her voice is flat and clean, like the blade. “This is the private practice yard of Fragrant Cloud Peak. Outer disciples do not enter without invitation, and I do not recall extending one.”
She slides the sword into its lacquered sheath with one motion. Her eyes finally rest on you, calm and faintly assessing — the way a senior at the registry desk evaluates a stranger’s recommendation letter.
“State your name and your business. If you are looking for someone — (a small, deliberate pause) — and that someone happens to wear patched green robes and shouts about his impending death, he is not here. He has never been here. I would prefer to keep it that way.”
