Lian walks two deliberate steps ahead of Takeshi, creating as much distance as propriety allows. The morning sun bathes Yuanxin's central plaza in golden light, cherry blossoms drifting like pink snow across the cobblestones. Merchants call out their wares, the scent of steamed buns and spiced tea mingling in the air. None of it improves her mood.

  She can feel his presence behind her like an unwanted shadow, steady and immovable. Each time she quickens her pace, he adjusts effortlessly, maintaining that precise distance—close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to give the illusion of independence. The thought makes her jaw clench. This is the third day of her unwanted escort, and each morning the indignity burns deeper than before.

  A group of young cultivators from the local academy passes by, their green robes marking them as wind affinity students like herself. They glance at her with curiosity, then at the scarred warrior following her. Their whispers reach her ears, and Lian lifts her chin higher, pretending not to notice how their eyes widen in recognition of the man behind her.

  "I've been walking this route for three years without incident," she says over her shoulder, not bothering to check if he's listening. "Father's paranoia is completely unwarranted. The worst danger in this part of the city is merchants overcharging for silk ribbons."

  She scans the familiar storefronts, noting how shopkeepers who normally greeted her cheerfully now cast curious glances at her silent shadow. Her fingers brush against the jade pendant at her waist—a focus for her wind techniques that doubles as a symbol of her status. The weight of it reminds her of everything she's capable of, everything her father refuses to acknowledge.

  "The city guard patrols here hourly," she continues, her voice carrying just enough to reach him without seeming like she's actually trying to engage. "And half the merchants are retired cultivators themselves. What exactly does Father think will happen?"

  Takeshi says nothing, his footsteps steady behind her. His silence only irritates her further.

  "I'm not some helpless noble's daughter who needs constant protection." Lian quickens her pace slightly. "I've been training since I could walk."

  A group of children darts across their path, chasing a rolling hoop. Lian navigates around them with practiced ease, noting how Takeshi adjusts his position, keeping her in sight without crowding her space. His eyes never settle, constantly moving from rooftops to alleyways to passing carts.

  "My wind techniques are already better than half the instructors at the academy," she continues, her frustration building with each step. "Last month, I disarmed Senior Brother Wei in front of everyone. He's supposed to be their star pupil."

  A street vendor calls out to them, holding up fragrant skewers of grilled meat. Lian ignores him, but notices how Takeshi's gaze lingers on two rough-looking men standing beside a teahouse, their attention fixed too intently on passersby. His hand doesn't move toward his sword, but something in his posture shifts slightly.

  "Are you even listening to me?" She turns her head just enough to catch his profile in her peripheral vision.

  "Yes." His voice is low, matter-of-fact.

  Lian huffs, facing forward again. "Then you understand how ridiculous this is. I don't need a babysitter."

  They pass beneath an archway covered in climbing jasmine, its white flowers contrasting with the pink cherry blossoms that line the avenue ahead. Normally, Lian would appreciate the beauty, but today she sees only another stretch of road where she's forced to endure this unwanted companion.

  "I've been practicing the Flowing Wind Stance since I was ten," she says, unable to keep the pride from her voice despite her irritation. "My instructors always criticize my form, say I'm not following the traditional patterns, but I know in my heart that the wind doesn't move in rigid lines. When I let my body follow its natural instincts, I can feel the currents so much more clearly." Her fingers trace small circles in the air, unconsciously following invisible patterns. "The ancient scrolls show one way, but the wind itself shows me another. Sometimes I think the masters who created these techniques forgot to actually listen to the elements they claimed to understand."

  Takeshi remains silent, but she feels his attention shift momentarily from the surroundings to her words. Something about that subtle change makes her want to prove herself further.

  "I can maintain a qi barrier for nearly an hour now," she adds, embellishing slightly. Her record is actually forty-three minutes, but he doesn't need to know that. "And I've developed my own variation of the Whisper Step technique that lets me move without disturbing even a single blade of grass."

  A figure slips quickly into an alley ahead of them. Takeshi's pace changes almost imperceptibly, bringing him half a step closer to Lian. She pretends not to notice, continuing her one-sided conversation.

  "Last year, I challenged all three of the senior disciples simultaneously," she says, tossing her head. "Father doesn't know about that, of course. He thinks I'm just learning pretty forms for ceremony and display."

  They approach a busy intersection where merchants have set up temporary stalls. The crowd thickens, forcing Lian to slow her pace. Takeshi moves slightly to her right, positioning himself between her and the denser part of the crowd. His vigilance is constant but unobtrusive, his eyes never resting on one spot for more than a moment.

  "The problem is that no one takes me seriously," Lian continues, her voice dropping slightly. "They see a lord's daughter and assume I'm just playing at cultivation, that it's some kind of hobby before I'm married off to strengthen some political alliance."

  A group of young men, probably merchant sons by their dress, stare a bit too long as Lian passes. She ignores them, but notices how Takeshi's gaze locks onto them briefly, assessing and dismissing the potential threat in seconds.

  "I don't need protection," she says, the words coming out sharper than intended. "What I need is someone to actually see what I'm capable of."

  * * *

  Lian strides through the entrance gates of the Jade Crane Academy, head high and shoulders squared. The familiar sounds of practice—wooden swords clacking, feet shuffling across stone, instructors barking corrections—fill the courtyard. This isn't her usual training ground, but Father insisted she maintain her studies while under "protection." As if she needs formal lessons at all.

  Behind her, Takeshi takes position outside the gate, leaning against the wall where he can observe the entire courtyard. His presence irritates her, but at least he's not hovering directly over her shoulder. She feels his watchful gaze like an itch between her shoulder blades—another unwanted guardian assigned by Father, as if she were some delicate porcelain doll rather than a cultivator in her own right. The knowledge that those battle-hardened eyes are tracking her movements adds an unwelcome pressure to perform flawlessly. She straightens her back further, determined to show this so-called legendary warrior that the Feng daughter needs no protection.

  Master Zhou, the academy's owner and Head Instructor, stands at the center of the yard, surrounded by five senior disciples in their distinctive green sashes. His voice carries across the space as he gestures toward different training areas.

  "Young Lady Feng," a voice calls. An assistant instructor bows slightly. "Please join Disciple Lin's group for today's session."

  Lian follows his pointing finger to where several children around her age practice basic forms under the watchful eye of a tall young man. She recognizes Lin Bai—one of those mediocre talents constantly praised for their "dedication" rather than any real skill.

  "I'm to train with beginners?" she asks, not bothering to hide her displeasure.

  "Master Zhou believes all new students should demonstrate proficiency in fundamentals before advancing," the assistant replies with practiced patience.

  Lian snorts but moves toward the group. Five children, probably merchant children by their clothing, execute clumsy versions of the Steady Mountain stance. Lin Bai notices her approach and offers a formal bow.

  "Young Lady Feng, welcome to our humble academy. We're honored by your presence."

  "I'm sure," Lian replies coolly. She glances at the other students, noting their sloppy footwork and weak qi circulation. "Will we be doing anything beyond these elementary exercises today?"

  Lin's smile tightens slightly. "First, let's see your execution of the Five Foundation Forms."

  Lian sighs dramatically but takes position. When Lin gives the signal, she flows through the sequence with deliberate precision, her movements crisp and efficient. She infuses each stance with a hint of wind qi—not enough to be showy, but sufficient to demonstrate her superior control.

  The other students watch with varying expressions of awe and resentment. Lin nods, clearly surprised by her proficiency.

  "Very good," Lin says, though his voice carries a hint of reluctance. He gestures toward her right foot. "Though your heel was slightly elevated in the third transition. A minor flaw, but one that could compromise your balance against a stronger opponent." His tone carries the unmistakable satisfaction of finding something—anything—to critique. "Now let's practice the—"

  "I've mastered these forms years ago," Lian interrupts. "Perhaps we could move to something more challenging?"

  Lin's eyes narrow slightly. "Everyone practices fundamentals, Young Lady Feng. Even Master Zhou begins each day with these same forms."

  "Then perhaps Master Zhou has reached the limits of his potential," Lian says loudly enough for nearby groups to hear. She feels a small thrill of satisfaction as several students gasp at her audacity. Let them be shocked. Let them whisper about the arrogant Feng daughter. At least they'll remember her for something other than being her father's political pawn. She meets Lin's gaze steadily, noting how his composed instructor's facade fractures slightly, revealing the indignation beneath. Good. She's tired of pretending to respect authority that hasn't earned it—tired of bowing to mediocrity dressed in formal robes and ancient traditions that stifle true innovation.

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  Lin's face flushes. "Please join the circle. We'll practice application through light sparring."

  The children pair off, with Lian facing a stocky boy whose stance betrays his nervousness. Lin gives the signal to begin, and the boy lunges with a textbook attack. Lian sidesteps effortlessly, tapping his shoulder as he stumbles past.

  "Too rigid," she says.

  The boy frowns. "That's not how Senior Brother Lin taught us."

  "Then you've been taught incorrectly," Lian replies, loud enough for Lin to hear.

  She dispatches her next two opponents with similar ease, adding cutting commentary after each exchange. The other students begin exchanging uncomfortable glances as Lin's expression darkens.

  "Young Lady Feng," Lin says tightly, "while your skill is evident, your attitude disrupts the harmony of our lesson."

  Lian performs an exaggerated bow, sweeping her arm with theatrical flourish. "My apologies, Senior Brother. Perhaps the lesson simply isn't challenging enough to hold my attention." She straightens, meeting Lin's gaze with deliberate insolence. A small thrill of satisfaction runs through her as she notices several students exchanging glances, their whispers barely audible. Let them talk. Better to be notorious than invisible in this place where everyone seems content with mediocrity. Her father might have forced her to attend this academy, but he couldn't force her to pretend these mundane exercises deserved her respect.

  Lin inhales slowly. "If you find these exercises beneath you, what would you suggest instead?"

  Lian smiles, seeing her opening. "A proper demonstration. You and me—a friendly spar to show these students what real cultivation looks like."

  The training area grows quiet as nearby groups pause to listen, their practice forms freezing mid-movement. Lian notices the ripple of attention spreading outward like wind across a field of grass. Students whisper behind cupped hands, eyes darting between her and Lin with undisguised curiosity. Some look scandalized, others entertained by the spectacle of a new student challenging an instructor. She feels a flutter of satisfaction in her chest—finally, something interesting in this tedious place. Lin glances nervously toward Master Zhou, who remains occupied with senior disciples across the courtyard, his back turned to the brewing confrontation. Lian recognizes Lin's hesitation, the calculation in his eyes as he weighs his pride against the risk of drawing the master's attention. She smiles, knowing she's backed him into a corner where neither option preserves his dignity.

  "That would be inappropriate," Lin says. "I'm an instructor here, and you're a student."

  "Ah," Lian nods with mock understanding. "You're concerned about losing face when a fourteen-year-old girl defeats you. Very considerate."

  Lin's jaw tightens. "Very well. A light exchange only—first clean strike wins."

  They take positions in the center of the training area. By now, most of the courtyard has noticed the unusual pairing, and other groups have paused their activities to watch. From the corner of her eye, Lian spots Takeshi still at his post, his expression unreadable.

  Lin assumes the traditional opening stance of the academy's style—feet planted firmly, hands positioned for balanced defense. Lian adopts a looser posture, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet, hands relaxed at her sides.

  "Begin whenever you're ready," Lin says.

  Lian doesn't move immediately, studying his stance. Lin is technically proficient, but she can already see his limitations—too committed to textbook forms, too reliant on strength rather than adaptation. When he shifts his weight slightly forward, betraying impatience, she strikes.

  Rather than attacking directly, she steps to the side, her movement flowing like a sudden breeze. Lin pivots to track her, but she's already changed direction, circling him with quick, unpredictable steps. His eyes narrow as he tries to anticipate her approach.

  When she finally attacks, it's not with the academy's standard technique but with a modified version of her own creation—a feint toward his center followed by a swift, circular movement that puts her at his flank. Lin reacts a heartbeat too slowly, his countermove meeting empty air as she slips past his guard.

  Her palm strikes toward his ribs, a touch of wind qi enhancing her speed. For a moment, victory seems certain—but Lin recovers faster than she expected, twisting away from the full impact and catching her wrist. Using her own momentum against her, he redirects her forward, forcing her to stumble slightly.

  Before she can regain her balance, Lin's palm taps firmly against her shoulder blade—a clear hit that would have been a devastating strike with full power.

  "Match," he announces, stepping back.

  Lian straightens, flushing with anger and embarrassment. She had been so close, had seen the surprise in his eyes when her technique nearly succeeded.

  "Your speed is impressive," Lin says, his tone carefully neutral, "but unorthodox techniques leave openings that experienced practitioners can exploit."

  "Your technique is rigid and uninspired," Lian retorts. "You won through brute strength, not skill."

  Lin's expression hardens. "You—"

  "What is happening here?" Master Zhou's authoritative voice cuts through the tension. The Head Instructor approaches, his weathered face set in stern lines. "Disciple Lin, explain this disruption."

  Lin bows deeply. "Master, I apologize for the distraction. Young Lady Feng requested a demonstration—"

  "I challenged him," Lian interrupts, "because the lessons here are too basic to be useful. Your senior disciple barely managed to defeat me, and I'm still learning."

  Master Zhou studies her with piercing eyes. "Young Lady Feng, I've heard reports of your progress from your family's instructors. They spoke of your talent, but also warned of your willfulness and disrespect for traditional forms."

  "Traditional forms that limit rather than enhance natural ability," Lian counters.

  Master Zhou's expression doesn't change. "This academy has trained cultivators for eight generations. Our methods produce disciplined, capable practitioners—not arrogant children who believe themselves above instruction."

  He gestures toward the gate. "You are no longer welcome here, Young Lady Feng. Your talent is considerable, but without humility and respect, it will never mature into true mastery."

  Lian stands frozen, shock giving way to burning humiliation as whispers spread through the watching students.

  "You can't—my father—"

  "I will speak with Lord Feng myself," Master Zhou says firmly. "Please leave now."

  Lian draws herself up, forcing her face into a mask of cold indifference. Without another word, she turns and walks toward the gate, ignoring the stares that follow her.

  Takeshi straightens as she approaches, his expression still unreadable. Before they can leave, one of the senior disciples—a broad-shouldered young man with a green sash—steps into their path. He looks Takeshi up and down, his lips curling into a contemptuous smile.

  "So you're the Crimson Storm everyone whispers about?" he says loudly. "You don't look so tough."

  * * *

  Lian stands frozen in the wake of the senior disciple's challenge, her earlier humiliation temporarily forgotten as she watches Takeshi's reaction. Her breath catches in her throat, anticipation building like a storm inside her chest. This is the moment—the legendary warrior will surely demonstrate his prowess now, putting this arrogant academy student in his place with some lightning-fast movement or intimidating display of power. She finds herself leaning forward slightly, fingers unconsciously curling into fists, waiting for the explosion of violence that stories say follows when someone dares insult the Crimson Storm to his face.

  The legendary Crimson Storm—the warrior whose name alone silences rooms, whose blade supposedly drank the blood of thousands—merely looks at the green-sashed disciple with dark, unreadable eyes. There's no flare of anger, no shift toward his sword, not even a change in his breathing. Just a flat, assessing glance that seems to look through the young man rather than at him. Lian waits, her heart hammering against her ribs, expecting at any moment to witness the explosion of violence that would cement the tales she's heard since childhood.

  Surely the man who brought entire battalions to their knees wouldn't tolerate such disrespect from a mere academy student. She searches Takeshi's weathered face for any hint of the fury that must be building beneath that calm exterior, any twitch of muscle that might precede the legendary storm breaking loose. But his expression remains as still as a mountain lake, betraying nothing of what churns beneath.

  Then Takeshi simply turns away.

  Lian blinks, certain she's misunderstood. But no—Takeshi is walking away, his back to the challenger, as if the entire confrontation never happened. He gives her the smallest nod, clearly expecting her to follow. Confusion washes over her in waves, her mind struggling to reconcile the legends told of a man who carved his reputation with his blade, not someone who turns away from direct challenges like a commoner avoiding a puddle. Her expectations crumble, disappointment bitter on her tongue as she watches the supposed legend simply walk away. Is this truly the fearsome Crimson Storm her father hired? The disconnect between myth and reality leaves her momentarily stunned, rooted to the spot even as Takeshi's retreating figure grows smaller.

  Behind them, the disciple's mouth hangs open, his prepared speech dying on his lips. Snickers ripple through the gathering crowd. Someone whispers, "Did he just...?"

  The fury that rises in Lian's chest is sudden and overwhelming, eclipsing even her embarrassment from the expulsion. Heat floods her face as she stares at Takeshi's retreating back.

  "Are you just going to *walk away*?" The words burst from her before she can stop them, sharp with disbelief.

  Takeshi doesn't pause, doesn't even glance back.

  "He insulted you!" Lian hurries after him, her hands balling into fists. "He questioned your honor in front of everyone! Aren't you going to *do* something?"

  Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment crosses his weathered face. He continues his steady pace down the street, seemingly deaf to her words.

  "Stop!" Lian runs ahead and plants herself in front of him, blocking his path. The wind of her agitation stirs her robes, a subtle manifestation of her qi responding to her emotions. "What kind of warrior just accepts an insult like that? What kind of guard are you supposed to be if you won't even defend your own name?"

  Takeshi halts, finally looking at her directly. His gaze is heavy, carrying a weight she can't decipher.

  "Move," he says quietly.

  "No." Lian crosses her arms. "Not until you explain why you let that nobody mock you. The stories say you've killed men for less."

  "The stories say many things."

  "So they're all lies? The great Crimson Storm is just a—a coward who walks away from challenges?"

  Something flickers in his eyes then—not anger, but something deeper and more complex. For a heartbeat, Lian thinks she's finally provoked a reaction.

  Instead, Takeshi simply steps around her and continues walking.

  Lian stands rooted to the spot, trembling with frustration. The crowd from the academy has thinned, but those still watching whisper among themselves, some pointing, others laughing. Her cheeks burn hotter.

  "Fine!" she shouts after him. "Just keep walking! Prove to everyone you're nothing but a faded legend!"

  Her words echo in the street, hanging in the air between them. Takeshi doesn't break stride.

  Lian hurries after him, seething. Every step feeds her indignation. First her expulsion from the academy for showing her true ability, and now this—her supposed protector revealing himself as someone who won't even defend his own honor. How is she supposed to respect someone like that?

  "My father is paying you to protect me," she says when she catches up, her voice lower but no less intense. "But how can you protect anyone if you won't even stand up for yourself?"

  Takeshi's pace remains steady, his gaze fixed ahead. The absolute indifference of his response—or lack thereof—only inflames her further.

  "Everyone was watching," she continues. "Everyone saw you back down. Do you know what they're thinking now? That you're a fraud. That all those stories about the Crimson Storm were just... just stories."

  Nothing. Not even a tightening of his jaw.

  They've reached a busier section of the street now, merchants and townspeople moving around them. Lian falls silent, acutely aware of the curious glances they're attracting. Her earlier outburst has already drawn enough unwanted attention.

  But the anger still simmers beneath her skin, tangled with confusion and a strange, unwelcome disappointment. The legendary warrior walking beside her operates by rules she doesn't understand at all. It's as if they exist in entirely different worlds, guided by principles so foreign to each other they might as well be speaking different languages.

  And somehow, that realization stings more than her expulsion from the academy.