The argument started at dawn, over the last cold scraps of yesterday's hearth-baked bread and hard cheese.
"See, it's like this," Chubbs insisted, waving a crust like he was pointing out a flaw in a gem. "A fellow who's only got the First Wheel, he's a hammer. A mighty fine hammer, can crack any rock. But a chap with the Fifth Wheel? He's the whole toolbox. You swing your hammer at him, and he uses Fen-dow—the Separation—to just… make the air in front of your fist not there. Your arm pops right out of its socket! Or!" He leaned in, eyes wide. "Shidow. He takes the warmth right off your skin from across the room and focuses it 'til it burns a hole in your tunic. It's not about power, my lady, it's about… options. The hammer's got one move. The toolbox has a hundred."
Lorel picked at her piece of cheese, frowning. "A hammer can be used in many ways. Immortal Jiang's primary Wheel was Jingdao. Legends say he could reinforce a falling raindrop until it pierced stone. He could reinforce the sound of his voice to shatter formations. He didn't need other tools. He made everything around him into his hammer."
Chubbs's face did a complicated dance, caught between reverence for the legend and the pragmatic truth now staining the world. "Yeah, well. He's—"
The door slid open. Baili stood in the frame, holding the same simple wooden cup he'd used last night. The cold morning light cut his sharp features into a mask of icy impatience. "Enough about legends," he said, his voice flat. "They make for poor breakfast. We move. Now."
Chubbs scrambled up, brushing breadcrumbs from his tunic. "Right! The, uh, the fellow to see. About the token."
He didn't lead them out into the stone-paved lanes of Stonewatch. Instead, he shuffled down the inn's narrow, granite-hewn hallway, past the common room where they'd eaten stew the night before, and knocked a specific rhythm—two quick, three slow—on a plain door marked 'Storage.'
It opened to reveal a cramped room that smelled of dust and old ledgers. A man in a patched wool tunic sat behind a desk piled with scrolls. He had the knotted hands of a quarryman, not a cultivator. He looked at Chubbs, then at the two clearly noble youths behind him, and his tired eyes narrowed.
"Phrase," the man grunted, not looking up from a scrap of hide he was marking.
Chubbs puffed out his chest. "The Golden Touch leaves no fingerprint, only a smile on the wind."
The man's shoulders relaxed a fraction. He jerked his head towards three stools. "Sit. The lad with the map, then."
So that's it, Lorel thought, taking a seat. He really does know the shortcuts. A small, unexpected warmth flickered in her chest. Having Chubbs, for all his grand pronouncements and terror, was proving to be a very good idea.
"The map," Baili said, not sitting. "Where's the holder?"
The man scratched another mark on his hide. "West ridge. Squats in a hermit's hole up there. Young Lin. Maybe seventeen winters." He finally looked up, his gaze sweeping over Baili's fine robes, Lorel's delicate features. A dry, humorless smile touched his lips. "Looks like a strong breeze would knock him over. First Wheel. Just the basics. Yet, he's got the thing. Won't sell it. Won't trade it. Just… has it."
The mystery thickened in the dusty air. A boy. A nobody, by cultivation standards. Holding a legend.
"To even get him to listen," the man continued, "you need a Jade Medallion at his door. Shows you're serious. We stamped a hundred. Ninety have walked out of this room in other folks' pockets." He didn't say how. The silence said it—traded, promised, taken. "Leaves ten. In the pot."
Baili's sneer was pure frost. "Ten. So we take one."
The man barked a short laugh, the sound like gravel shifting. "You don't 'take' from this pot. You fight for a dip. Ironwood Grove. East of the wall. It's not a festival. It's a threshing."
"A contest." Baili let the word hang. Then he gave a single, slow nod. "Good. Clean."
The manager's mouth tightened. He'd seen this kind before. The Grove would eat this pride for breakfast. "Board's by the east gate 'til noon. Each fighter needs five wins against others on the board before they can step up for a top-ten slot. Rules are what you'd expect. Wheels. No talismans, no beast companions. Try not to leave a corpse. But if you do…" He shrugged, a gesture that spoke of long experience with messy endings. His eyes lingered on Lorel, then slid back to Baili. "Still clear?"
Baili turned and left without a word. Lorel stood, offering a slight nod the man didn't see. Chubbs scrambled after them.
The registration board was a massive slab of ironwood planted by the gate, names burned into the grain with quick, hot bursts of Shidow that still smoked faintly. Their names were already there, seared into the wood: Baili. Lorel.
The area around the board crackled with a different kind of tension. Lorel's breath caught. She'd expected grizzled hunters, scarred mercenaries. These were her age. Fifteen, sixteen summers. But their auras didn't feel young. Some were sharp as shattered flint, others dense and silent like deep stone. Her own third Wheel foundation suddenly felt like a thin sheet of ice over a cold lake. Could she hold?
"Don't you fret," Chubbs whispered, edging closer. He pointed with his eyes. "Broody one with the rag over his eyes. Calls himself Silent Departure. Word is, his sword cuts the sound of its own swing. Nasty piece. The two blue silks—Kang brothers. Sunset Ridge. Rich, rotten, and they fight like it's two on one even when it's not. And him…"
He nodded toward a boy practically buzzing on the spot. He wore simple off-white robes, but the big, ochre clay jar hanging from his neck ruined any solemnity. He was chattering at the Hao brothers, who stared past him like he was a ghost.
"…that's a loose stone in a landslide," Chubbs muttered. "Name's Juxian. No one knows his clan. Just appeared. Talks to the air."
As if summoned, Juxian spun around. His bright gaze landed on them. A grin split his face, wide and unguarded. He bounded over, the jar thumping his chest.
"New ones! Good!" Juxian's voice was a cheerful shout in the quiet tension. "Friends! Here for the great test too? To see whose foundation is firmest?"
Baili looked at him like a stain on his boot. "We are here for a medallion. Move."
Juxian's smile didn't flicker. He looked at Lorel, his curiosity plain. He reached a hand out, not to touch, but in a gesture of open greeting. "Then we are rivals! But rivals can share tea! I am Juxian! You are—"
Baili's hand didn't lift, but the air around Juxian's wrist thickened, shimmering with forced density. "Touch her," Baili said, the words dropping to a killing chill, "and I separate that hand from your arm."
Juxian blinked, looking at his own wrist as if it had sprouted flowers. He pulled it back slowly, the pressure vanishing. His smile turned thoughtful. Not scared. Interested.
Flushing, Lorel stepped forward, a half-step into the space between Baili's cold and Juxian's unsettling warmth. "He… does not mean to make friends," she said, her voice firming on the last word. It was a small claim, but hers. "And friendship isn't declared. It's… built. From something solid."
Juxian stared at her. Then his smile returned, softer at the edges. He brought his hands together in a formal, grateful salute. "A lesson! Thank you, clear-eyed lady! To build from solid ground! I will remember!" He bowed, the jar swinging, then hopped back. He turned to the crowd, throwing his arms wide. "This will be magnificent! I will face you all with my solid ground! Hahaha!"
His laugh was too loud, too real. Cultivators shook their heads, some sneering, others just looking away.
As Juxian bounced off, Chubbs exhaled. "See? Loose stone."
Lorel watched him go, the jar a ridiculous pendulum. The Hao brothers looked bored. The blind swordsman was a statue. Baili was already dissecting the crowd, picking his first targets.
Her heart thudded against her ribs. Five wins. Against them. The doubt was a cold weight in her gut. But beside it, kindled by Juxian's fearless noise and her own few spoken words, a new spark glowed.
She would work harder. Starting now.