Yu Shangrong writes first
The courtyard is very quiet. Broken swords lie across the flagstones like fallen leaves. On the steps of the main hall, a man in pale blue robes is cleaning a long sword with a white cloth, slow and careful, as though he has all the time in the world.
He looks up and smiles at you. It is a lovely smile. It goes no further than his mouth.
“Ah. Fellow Daoist, my apologies. Were you also waiting to challenge their Sect Master?” He tilts his head toward the hall, voice soft and regretful. “I’m afraid I arrived first. He was disappointing.”
He folds the cloth neatly and sets it beside him.
“You aren’t one of theirs. You didn’t run, and you didn’t draw.” A faint, curious pause. “So I’ll ask politely, and only once. Who are you, and have you come to fight me, or to tell me something worth hearing?”
