The tea tasted like someone had strained it through a boot.
Jin Wuya drank it anyway. Three copper coins bought him a seat by the window and a view of Silverpeak City's main plaza, where disciples from the great sects strutted around like they'd invented martial arts yesterday.
"Zhou Ming from Crimson Blade Hall just walked past!"
"He made Master realm at twenty-five. Twenty-five!"
"My cousin knows someone who saw him spar with an elder—lasted thirty exchanges!"
Wuya watched Zhou Ming cut through the plaza in robes so red they practically screamed for attention. The crowd melted away from him like he had a disease.
*Thirty exchanges.* Wuya took another sip. *Either the elder was taking it easy, or this kid's ego is about to meet reality.*
"Mind if I sit?"
A girl about his age stood by the table. Traveling clothes, weathered pack, eyes that didn't miss much.
"Go ahead."
She dropped into the chair. "Shen Liya. My family deals in silk and spices."
"Jin Wuya."
Silence. She waited for more.
"That's it?" she said finally. "No sect? No fancy title?"
"Clearwater Sect."
"...Never heard of it."
"Yeah, most people haven't."
A crash exploded from the plaza. The crowd scattered. A young man in servant's clothes went tumbling through a fruit stall, melons rolling everywhere. He staggered up, blood streaming from his nose.
Three disciples in green robes circled him. They were laughing.
"Idiot walked straight into Senior Brother Wei," one called out.
"I didn't—"
"You calling Senior Brother a liar?" The disciple kicked him in the ribs. Not enough to kill. Just enough to hurt. "Think you need to learn some manners."
The crowd watched. Nobody moved. The fruit seller—an old man who'd probably been working that stall for thirty years—stood there with his produce scattered across the stones.
Wuya put his cup down. Stood.
"Please tell me you're not—"
"Tea's awful anyway."
"That's Emerald Peak Sect—"
But Wuya was already walking out, hands tucked in his sleeves, moving at an easy pace across the plaza. Not running. Not hurrying. Just walking.
The disciple raised his boot again.
"Hey."
Three heads turned. Senior Brother Wei looked Wuya over—gray robes with no emblem, cheap sword, nobody face.
"Walk away. This isn't your business."
"Can't do that."
Wei's lip curled. "Got a mouth on you for someone wearing nothing. What are you, some wandering trash?"
"Maybe." Wuya shrugged. "But that kid didn't bump into you. You stepped in front of him on purpose."
The whole plaza went dead quiet.
Wei's hand dropped to his sword. His qi burst out like a thunderclap. Half the crowd stumbled back from the pressure alone.
Wuya stood there. Didn't release anything. Didn't even tense up. Just looked at Wei like he was mildly interesting.
"Last chance," Wei said. "Apologize. Walk away. Keep breathing."
"No."
Wei's sword came out fast. Qi wrapped around the blade in green fire as he lunged straight for Wuya's throat.
Wuya stepped left.
The sword cut air. Wei's eyes flickered, but he was already pivoting, bringing the blade down in an overhead slash that should've split Wuya in half.
Wuya leaned back.
The blade missed by an inch.
Wei roared and went all-in. His two friends spread out to box Wuya in. Green light carved through the air as qi-enhanced strikes came from three angles. One. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Wuya moved between them. Sword still sheathed. No qi. Just footwork and timing.
"STOP RUNNING, YOU COWARD!" Sweat poured down Wei's face.
"I'm not running." Wuya tilted his head. "I'm right here."
The two friends attacked together from both sides.
Wuya stepped through the gap and tapped Wei's wrist. Two fingers. Light touch.
Wei's sword hit the ground with a clang.
Everything stopped.
"Dropped something," Wuya said.
"Senior Brother Wei."
New voice. Sharp and cold. Everyone turned.
A man in green robes with silver trim walked forward. An elder. He took one look at the scene and understood everything.
"Elder Shan!" Wei hit his knees so fast it had to hurt.
"Shut up." Elder Shan looked at Wuya. Really looked. "What sect are you?"
"Clearwater."
"Never heard of it." He stepped closer. His qi pressed down like a physical weight. "You just embarrassed my disciple without even drawing steel. That's impressive. Or you're an idiot."
"Could be both."
Something like amusement crossed Elder Shan's face. Then it was gone. "My disciple acted poorly. The servant can leave." He waved a hand. The young man ran. "But you've made Emerald Peak lose face in public. Tomorrow morning, first match of the preliminaries—you'll fight our sect's choice."
It was obviously rigged. Random draw, except when it wasn't.
"Fine," Wuya said.
Elder Shan smiled like a knife. "Excellent. We'll see what Clearwater Sect is really about."
The green-robed disciples filed out. Wuya walked back to the tea house.
Liya was staring at him like he'd grown a second head. "You just made enemies with a mid-tier sect. Before the tournament even starts."
"Didn't make enemies." Wuya sat. His tea was ice cold now. He drank it. "They did that themselves."
"You didn't even use qi. How—"
The door banged open. A young official stood there, breathing hard.
"Jin Wuya? Clearwater Sect?"
"Yeah."
"Match draw just posted. Tomorrow morning, first bout." The official looked sick. "You're fighting Yan Feng from Emerald Peak. He's one of their best. Betting odds just opened at eighty-to-one against you."
Every conversation in the tea house died.
"What time?" Wuya asked.
"Dawn. Main arena."
"Got it. Thanks."
The official bolted. Everyone stared at Wuya like he was a corpse that didn't know it yet.
Wuya stood and dropped some coins on the table. "Nice talking to you."
"You're going to die tomorrow," Liya said quietly.
Wuya paused at the door. Looked back. The corner of his mouth twitched up. "Maybe."
Outside, the city swallowed him. Silverpeak was massive—way bigger than anything back home. Elder Feng had given him directions to the tournament grounds and enough silver for a few nights at an inn, but that was it. After that, Wuya was on his own.
He found a place wedged between a noodle shop and an herb store. Three silver coins got him a room the size of a closet and a look from the innkeeper that said he'd probably get robbed.
The bed was lumpy. Through paper-thin walls, someone was snoring like they were dying.
Wuya lay down and stared at water stains on the ceiling. Somewhere in this city, Yan Feng was probably in silk sheets, surrounded by sect brothers telling him how he'd destroy the nobody from nowhere tomorrow morning.
They were probably right.
But probably wasn't the same as definitely.
Wuya closed his eyes.