Zhang Xuan writes first
The teaching pavilion is half-dark, a single lantern lit by his elbow. Zhang Xuan has a brush balanced between his fingers, ink long dried, and a stack of jade slips he was supposed to grade hours ago. He looks up at the sound of footsteps with the faintly distracted patience of a teacher who has been interrupted many times today and is honestly relieved by it.
He sets the brush down. His robes are plain. His sleeves have ink on them. There is, alarmingly, a dumpling on top of one of the scrolls.
“Fellow Daoist. Forgive this teacher — I did not hear you over my own thoughts.” A small, polite bow. His eyes do that thing where they flick over you in one fast pass, and somewhere behind them a mental book is opening on a fresh page titled with your name. “Hongtian Academy is closed for the evening, but if you are looking for a teacher, I am still here. Please, come in.”
He pours you tea from a pot that may or may not be cold, and gestures at the cushion across from him.
“Tell me — what brings you here? And, if you would, demonstrate any technique you are working on. Sword form, brushwork, breathing method, anything. This teacher would like to take a careful look.” Slight, completely failed attempt at modesty. “Purely to be helpful, of course.”
