The forest gave way to cultivated fields, then to rough-hewn fences, and finally to the stout wooden walls of Three Rivers Cross. The air changed from the scent of damp earth and ozone to a bustling cacophony of woodsmoke, roasting meat, unwashed bodies, and the sharp tang of forge-fires. The gate was crowded, the guards harried, barely glancing at the dusty, travel-worn quartet before waving them through.
Inside, the city was a tide of humanity. It was nothing like the ordered, serene Jiang Capital. Here, people shouted, bartered, argued, and shoved. Cultivators were everywhere—not in the disciplined grey of the monastery, but in a riot of colors and styles: mercenaries in scarred leather, stern-faced clan members with emblematic sigils on their sleeves, lone wanderers with wary eyes and hands never far from weapon hilts. Their auras were a discordant orchestra of power, ranging from the faint hum of First Wheels to the dense, unsettling pressure of a few Fourth or even Fifth Wheels that made Gen's skin prickle.
"Stay close," Madame Su murmured, her voice barely audible over the din. Her own presence seemed to shrink and harden, becoming less a teacher and more a protective shell. "Do not stare. Do not engage. This is not our mountain."
Ting, who had been chattering about the migratory patterns of Ink-Deer, fell silent. He gave a shallow, oddly formal bow. "This is where my path diverges from yours, I'm afraid. Business to attend to. May your steps be steady." Before anyone could respond, he melted into the crowd with an ease that was unnerving, vanishing between two stalls as if he'd never been there.
"Strange man," Liang muttered.
"Good riddance, Canopy-Crasher," Gen said, but his eyes were already sweeping the crowd, assessing, comparing.
They found an inn called The Staggering Ox, a three-story building of dark timber that leaned slightly against its neighbor. The common room was thick with smoke and loud conversation. Madame Su approached the counter where a sharp-eyed woman with a permanent frown tallied a ledger.
"We need a room," Madame Su said.
The woman looked up, her gaze sweeping over Madame Su's elegant, if dusty, features, then down to the two boys. "New in town," she stated, not asked. "Running from the ruins, I'd wager. Lot of that these days."
"We are travelers," Madame Su replied evenly.
"Hmph. Well, you picked a busy time. Jade Palace entrance exams are in a fortnight. Place is crawling with little lords and ladies thinking they're the next Immortal." She snorted. "Lot of good it did him."
Madame Su's jaw tightened, but she said nothing. Gen's head snapped up. "The Jade Palace? Here?"
The woman nodded, slapping two wooden room tokens on the counter. "Only proper cultivation school for a thousand li, now that the mountain's gone quiet. If you don't fancy the long haul to the Four Kingdoms or the corpse of the Immortal's fancy school, it's this or nothing. Price is two Milky Stones a night. Each."
As Madame Su counted out the stones, the woman's eyes lingered on her again, a flicker of something ugly in their depths. "A bit young to be dragging two brats around all alone, aren't you?" she said, her voice pitched just loud enough for nearby patrons to hear. "Or did their father run off to the ruins too?"
A few rough-looking male cultivators at a nearby table turned, their eyes lighting up with interest as they took in Madame Su's quiet beauty, previously hidden by her stern demeanor and travel clothes.
Madame Su ignored the barb, finishing her payment. But Gen stepped forward, his amber eyes cold. "Watch your tongue. She's worth a thousand of you."
Liang moved to stand beside him, a silent, solid presence. "You should apologize," he said, his voice quieter but firm.
The innkeeper woman blinked, then let out a harsh laugh. The men at the table chuckled. "Feisty little guard dogs you've got," one called out, a man with a broken nose and a Third Wheel aura that pressed uncomfortably on the room. "The offer stands, lovely. If you get tired of babysitting, we've got a room with a softer bed." He winked.
Madame Su finally turned her head. She didn't look at the men. She looked at Gen and Liang. A small, genuine smile touched her lips, warmth breaking through the frost. "Thank you," she said softly, to them alone. "But I am the one here to protect you. Not the other way around." She herded them toward the stairs, leaving the laughter and the leers behind.
In the small, simple room, Gen's anger still simmered. "When I'm strong enough," he vowed, staring at the closed door, "no one will ever talk to you like that again. No one will even think it."
Madame Su felt a sudden, sharp pang in her chest—not sorrow, but a fierce, protective pride. She placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know," was all she said.
---
That night, after a meal of stew and hard bread, a battered copper tub was brought up. Madame Su ordered them both into it. "You smell of forest, sweat, and tiger-singe. Clean. Now."
Grumbling but secretly glad, they stripped and clambered into the warm water. The initial awkwardness soon gave way to the simple relief of being clean.
"You're all ribs and elbows, Liang," Gen said, splashing him. "A strong wind would snap you."
"And you're built like a brick privy," Liang retorted, shoving back. "I bet you sink if you try to swim."
They laughed, the day's tensions dissolving in the steam and playful shoving. It was a moment of normalcy, precious and fragile.
"Hurry up in there," Madame Su's voice came from the other side of the screen. "The water's not getting any hotter, and you're not getting any cleaner by playing sea-monster."
They scrambled out, and she handed them rough towels, her expression one of fond exasperation as they clutched them, suddenly shy. "For heaven's sake. I've wiped your noses and set your bones since you were knee-high. You're still children to me. Now dry off and get to bed."
Later, when they slept—Gen sprawled like a starfish, Liang curled neatly—Madame Su took her own bath. The room was silent. She let her robes fall.
Her body, usually hidden by high collars and long sleeves, was a map of old violence. A vicious, silvery scar ran from her collarbone down across her ribs. Another, puckered and deep, marred the smooth skin of her thigh. There were smaller marks, a history of pain etched into her skin. She had the skill, and Immortal Jiang had certainly offered, to erase them with Zhidow. She had refused. They were reminders. Of a life before the mountain. Of the cost of weakness. Of what she had survived to become their guardian.
She sank into the water, the heat doing little to ease the cold weight in her heart. One month, she thought. One month since the sky fell. The General said five years. That means four years and eight months remain.
She looked through the steam, towards the room where the two boys slept. One so fiery, so brilliantly fragile. The other quiet, with a depth of potential that terrified her. The hope of a broken world, snoring and tangled in sheets.
Grow fast, she prayed to no one, her fingers tracing the scar on her ribs. Please, grow fast enough.