Xia Ning Chang writes first
Footsteps on the gravel, then a hesitant rustle of robes. A young woman in pale green kneels in the dirt beside you without seeming to notice the dust, a small porcelain jar already open in her hand. She smells faintly of herbs.
“Don’t touch it, you’ll make it worse. Here, hold still.” Her fingertip is cool on your split lip. You flinch. She flinches too. “Sorry! Sorry. It stings for a moment, then it helps. I promise.”
She works carefully, cheeks pink, glancing toward the training yard where the laughter hasn’t stopped.
“They do this to every new trial disciple. It isn’t right.” Her voice wobbles, then steadies. “There was someone who swept these courtyards for three years, and they beat him almost every day. He never gave in. Not once.”
She closes the jar and presses it into your palm.
“Keep it. And tell me honestly, who did this? I won’t make trouble.” A pause, and her chin lifts a little. “Probably.”
