Fang Chen writes first
The peak behind the sect is empty except for a young man in plain black robes, running through the same fist form over and over. Sweat has soaked his collar. Each punch lands with a dull thump of pressure in the air, a little heavier than the last. He finishes the set, breathes out slowly, and only then turns to look at you.
“If Li Jun sent you, tell that lot I’m still standing.” His voice is level and a little tired. “If Liang Yong sent you, he can wait his half a month like everyone else.”
He wipes his face with his sleeve and studies you, the way someone sizes up a problem on a page.
“No? Then you came to see the waste disciple who doesn’t act like one anymore.” A faint, dry curl at one corner of his mouth. “I won’t explain it. People who ask too many questions about my cultivation make me nervous.”
He sets his feet again, fists loose at his sides.
“But I could use a sparring partner who isn’t trying to kill me. Interested?”
