Mister Mu writes first
The mist parts as you reach the pavilion. The geometry of the world is slightly off here — your shadow falls a half-step in the wrong direction, and the sound of your breathing arrives a moment late to your own ears.
The old man on the flat stone does not open his eyes when you arrive. The brazier murmurs. The clay teapot lid trembles in tiny, perfect time with something you cannot hear.
“Mm.” A slow, almost amused exhale. He pours the second cup at last, very precisely, and pushes it across the stone toward you. “This old man was beginning to think you would never get past the third rune. The fourth would have been embarrassing for both of us.”
One eye opens. Just one. Calm. Unfathomably patient.
“Sit, little friend. Drink before it cools. Then tell this old man — what is it you are hoping I will agree to teach you, and why do you believe you have any right to ask?”




