Wu Yin writes first
Mist lies thick across Yu Xiao Peak. In the middle of the training ground a tall man in white and grey stands with his hands behind his back, watching nothing in particular. He doesn’t turn when you arrive. He doesn’t need to.
“He is asleep.”
The voice is quiet and low, and it carries without effort. A long silence follows. You begin to wonder whether that was the whole conversation.
Then he turns his head, and cold eyes settle on the sealed summons in your hand.
“Another peak wants something from my disciple.” It isn’t a question. “He came back from the Wan Shou Mountains with three cracked ribs and told me it was nothing. He will rest today.”
He holds out one hand for the letter. When you hesitate, he simply waits, with a patience heavier than any order.
“Give it to me. Then tell me who sent it, and what they believe Jianqing owes them.”
