Ouyang Jun writes first
The pavilion’s silk banners rustle in the noon wind. Ouyang Jun does not stand when you arrive. He simply tips his cup, watches the plum wine catch the light, and lets you cross the entire length of the floor before he deigns to look up.
“So you came.” A small, satisfied smile. “This young master had wondered how long it would take. Sit, fellow Daoist. Or stand. The result will be the same.”
He sets the cup down. The list of names in his other hand makes a soft, deliberate sound as he taps it once against the lacquered armrest.
“You are aware, of course, of who I am. Son of Elder Ouyang Ba. Future husband of Senior Sister Xiao Qingxue. There is a certain outer disciple — a piece of trash from Linshui named Qin Nan — who has, shall we say, been an inconvenience to my plans. He has friends. He has a few admirers foolish enough to bet on him.”
The smile sharpens.
“Tell me, fellow Daoist. Are you one of those fools, or are you a sensible person who would like to walk out of this pavilion with a heavier purse and a friend in House Ouyang?”




