Chapter 19
Morning of Preparations
The first light of dawn settled over Baizhu Village. Golden rays pierced the thin veil of morning mist that clung to its narrow streets. Roof tiles gleamed with scattered drops of dew, glistening along thatched eaves and wooden shutters. The smell of damp earth mixed with the fragrance of steeping tea and fresh bread rising from warm hearths, weaving together the familiar comfort of home.
One by one, villagers stepped outside. Their movements were unhurried, voices low and warm with greetings exchanged in passing. Children dashed along the stone paths, their laughter ringing like silver bells in the breeze. Merchants worked with steady rhythm, stacking firewood, laying out clay jars, and arranging baskets of fruit. The creak of cart wheels, the murmur of talk, and the chime of livestock bells blended into a waking rhythm.
Beyond the homes, the forest stood watchful, its shadows retreating beneath the advancing sun. Farther still, the mountains blushed faintly with the colors of morning, as though brushed by an unseen hand. The village itself seemed to pause between routine and anticipation, holding its breath for what the day might bring.
The trial ground lay open and flat, its packed earth worn smooth by countless footsteps. Stones, weathered and unmoving, traced the edges like silent sentinels, while tufts of grass pressed through cracks along the boundary. At the far end, the judges' platform, carved from polished wood and slightly elevated, granted the elders a clear view of the field. Around it, Shuilan disciples moved with precision. Their robes of white and blue drifted like cloud and water, and the morning sun glinted along the swords at their waists, bright steel tempered by discipline.
Some disciples paced the ground with ropes and stakes, marking the borders of each match. Others set obstacles, aligned posts, and measured distances with deliberate care. Low voices exchanged orders—who would guide, who would watch, who would ensure each contest moved without flaw. Their motions bore the discipline of long training, every gesture precise, every step echoing inner harmony.
Birdsong laced with the rustle of mulberry leaves, while from afar the hum of village life drifted faintly, a reminder that this sacred ground still pulsed within the world's ordinary rhythms. Yet here, beneath the rising sun, the trial field seemed alive with potential, awaiting the clash of skill, courage, and fate.
The Third Master, clad in flowing robes of white patterned with subtle blue motifs, his sword resting with dignity at his side, moved across the ground with measured authority. Elder disciples followed his steps, voices calm yet firm as they assigned duties and confirmed preparations. The younger ones listened with bowed heads, nodding as each word etched itself into their discipline. At the edges, villagers and participants lingered, drawn by curiosity, their gazes restless. They did not fully grasp the meaning of every gesture, but the weight of the moment pressed upon them all the same. Whispers rippled—accounts of Hu Ming's sudden collapse, the blackened veins that marred his skin, and the Third Master's unflinching intervention. Many who had not been present the day before leaned closer, absorbing these retellings with wide eyes. Awe mingled with unease, and the air grew thick with rumor and reverence.
From among the disciples, one approached with quiet urgency. His half-white, half-blue robe stirred lightly in the breeze as he bent close to the Third Master, voice hushed. He asked after Baizhu Village and the forest beyond—the lingering mist, the whispered disturbances, matters still uncertain yet troubling enough to raise concern. The Third Master's gaze deepened, thoughtful, while the elders exchanged muted glances. Their whispered counsel stretched on, restrained so as not to disturb the careful order of the grounds. All around them, disciples continued their work in silence, weaving order and readiness into the field. The air thickened with expectation, as though the morning itself leaned forward to witness what was yet to come.
Meanwhile, in his uncle's house, Lin Ye stirred beneath his night attire. The fabric rested smooth against him, soft to the touch, a comfort against the cool white covers of his bed. Morning light streamed through the latticed window, washing the room in brightness and scattering gold across the floor.
He blinked slowly, eyes still heavy with sleep, his gaze lingering on the ceiling before dropping to the light flooding the chamber. Reality pressed in—the trials would continue today, and soon the Shuilan Master would depart for the forest. A ripple of urgency ran through him. With a sudden rush, he sat upright, as though casting off the shadow of a troubling dream. The black sleeves of his robe shifted with the motion, catching the light, while the crisp white bedding wrinkled beneath him, the room drawn in lines of shadow and brightness. His face, caught between fatigue and alertness, bore the mark of one whose morning had arrived sooner than he wished.
Rubbing his eyes, he whispered, "It's already daytime…" The house lay still, quiet in a way that unsettled him. Perhaps Lin Shen was still asleep? Yet another thought pierced sharper: had Lin Shen left him undisturbed on purpose, hoping to keep him from following the Shuilan Master into the forest? His lips curved into a faint smirk. "That little pest…"
Impulsively, he swung his legs from the bed and strode toward the door, determination quickening his pace. He had to know.
Padding across the wooden floor, he reached Lin Shen's room. The door gave easily beneath his hand, and the space beyond was already in order. The bed lay neatly made, robes folded upon a low stool, sunlight spilling across pale wood planks. No trace of its occupant remained. Lin Ye's expression shifted into a wry grin, half-amused, half-vexed. "He's already gone…" he murmured, eyes narrowing with a flicker of irritation.
Urgency flared. He darted back to his own chamber, casting aside the covers as he dressed swiftly in a dark green robe. The fabric clung with smooth weight, sleeves long and flowing, his sash tied with practiced precision. Each motion was brisk yet sure, the fog of sleep burned away by clarity of purpose.
By the time he descended the stairs, the scent of tea and fresh bread curled toward him. At the low table, his uncle sat in calm repose, steam drifting from his cup, while breakfast lay set in quiet order—warm porridge, herbs, and neatly placed side dishes.
"Lin Ye," his uncle's voice carried gently, steady as the morning. "Come eat. You'll need strength for the day."
Lin Ye hesitated, impatience flickering across his features. He had meant to seek Lin Shen first. Yet the calm insistence of his uncle, and the undeniable pull of the fragrant food, coaxed him nearer. With a resigned sigh, he sat, accepting the bowl placed before him.
Between spoonfuls, his question surfaced. "Uncle… where's Lin Shen? Has he already left?"
His uncle set down his cup, nodding. "He went earlier, to see if any further trials require you. Since you already passed the forest trial, he wished to be certain there is no need for you to rush. He saw how tired you were last night, and told me to let you rest. If it proves you must appear, you may follow later with Mu Fan. Lin Shen will return swiftly with word."
Lin Ye's expression softened, relief and warmth flickering in his gaze. So Lin Shen had spared him not out of mischief, but out of care. The restless impatience in his chest loosened, replaced by a steadier calm, savoring the gentle warmth of the rice gruel, while his mind turned to the day ahead. The thoughtfulness of Lin Shen—and his uncle's quiet guidance—settled over him like a subtle reassurance, anchoring the morning with unexpected peace.
After finishing his meal, Lin Ye rose, offering his uncle a brief bow. "Thank you, Uncle. I'll head out now."
His uncle inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment, though his eyes followed Lin Ye with a knowing calm.
Stepping outside, Lin Ye pulled the sash of his robe tighter, the morning air carrying both warmth and a faint edge of coolness. He had barely taken a few steps from the door when he spotted a figure striding toward the house.
It was Mu Fan. His robes of deep purple caught the light with a subdued sheen, the fabric crisp and neatly layered, bound at the waist with a black sash. His hair, tied high and firm, gleamed like polished ink, a few loose strands brushing his temples as he moved. Despite the solemn precision of his attire, the urgency in his steps betrayed the weight on his mind.
"Hey Ye!" Mu Fan called, voice tight with hurried concern. "Let's call Shen and go together—we may already be late!"
Lin Ye smirked faintly, shaking his head. "No need. Shen already left for the trial grounds. He's likely there by now."
Mu Fan stopped short. For a heartbeat, his brows knit together in disbelief. "Already gone? Without us?" His tone carried a sharper edge of surprise—Lin Shen had always waited for them, no matter how early the call or how pressing the duty. The thought that he had left alone this time unsettled him, drawing a flicker of disappointment across his features.
But the hesitation lasted only a moment. He exhaled, shoulders squaring, the crease in his brow smoothing into resolve. "Then we shouldn't fall behind. If he's gone ahead, we'll meet him there." His gaze steadied, and he gave a firm nod.
"Agreed," Lin Ye replied, his earlier restlessness sharpening into purpose once more. Side by side, they set off down the village path, their steps quickening with shared determination. The trial grounds—and the day's trials—awaited them.