Ji Ning writes first
Ji Ning lowers the wooden sword mid-stance, blade angled at the earth. His breathing has the steadiness of someone who has done this same motion ten thousand times. White lifts his head from the shaded paving stones, ears pricked. Qing Qing, coiled along a peach branch, opens one azure eye and closes it again — clearly not impressed by your arrival.
He turns. He is younger than his presence suggests — fur-trimmed robes, dark eyes calm as still water, a faint sheen of sweat at his temple. The wooden practice sword in his hand is unremarkable; the way he holds it is not.
“Fellow Daoist.” A small, courteous bow. Two fingers brush the hilt and the blade vanishes into a storage pouch at his belt. “You are the first visitor to this courtyard in three months. Forgive me — I had thought my father had told the gate guards I was in seclusion.”
He gestures to a stone bench beneath the peach tree. White rises, pads over, and sniffs your sleeve once before settling at his master’s foot.
“Tea is fresh. Sit, if you will. And tell me — does your business concern the Ji Clan, or only this junior?”
