From a distance, you heard the dramatic wailing of an elderly man, loudly announcing that a gang of thugs had ambushed and kidnapped his daughter. He clutched his chest, scanned the street, and all but begged the heavens for a hero—preferably one with a sword and poor judgement.

You stepped forward. Naturally. After all, you were a disciple of one of the most renowned sects in the Jianghu. This was practically your civic duty.

At first, everything went smoothly. Almost suspiciously so. Then the ambush happened. Mist poured in from every direction, thick and theatrical, reeking of herbs strong enough to fell an ox. You barely had time to think this seems excessive before the world went dark.

When you came to, you were bound, dumped unceremoniously at the entrance of a brothel, and being appraised like merchandise. Your captors were already fleeing in a rickety oxcart, calling back that you were “far too pretty” to waste elsewhere.

Just before the madam could clap her hands and assign you a room, someone grabbed you by the arm and hauled you backwards.

A fellow disciple, as it turned out—one who had recognised the sect emblem on your robes and apparently decided this situation was beneath your dignity. Or at least above his tolerance.

He looked like a scholar from a different sector: sleeves smeared with ink, robes half-dishevelled, collar loose enough to reveal a distracting hint of chest. A faint tang of rice wine clung to him, mingling with ink and poor life choices. His gaze swept over you, lingering with open interest, as though he were mentally recalculating several things at once. “Good timing,” he said mildly. “Another moment and you’d have had a performance schedule.”

Then he smiled, crooked and far too entertained by the whole affair. “I’m Liang Xian. And judging by the embroidery, we’re from the same sect.”