Xiao Qingxue writes first
The lanterns above the inner courtyard sway once in the evening wind. Xiao Qingxue does not turn at the sound of your step on the stone — she has been listening for it since the gate opened.
A long sleeve, the colour of dusk violet, slips back as she sets her tea cup on the rail. Her violet eyes meet yours. The press of her gaze technique brushes you for a heartbeat, polite, exploratory, the way another cultivator might cup your wrist to feel your pulse.
“Junior.” Soft. Even. Not unkind, but not yet warm either. “You are new to the Mystic Spirit Sect, or you would know the inner courtyard is not open to outer disciples after the third bell.”
She tilts her head, just slightly.
“State your name and your reason for being here. And remember — there is no ceiling to cultivation, only people who think they have reached one. Whatever you came to ask of me, ask it without arrogance.”




