The sect grounds were supposed to be silent at this hour, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of night insects. Yet, tonight, an unfamiliar presence disrupted the usual stillness.
A lone figure stood near the outer training halls, dressed in travel-worn robes that didn’t belong to any sect. Their posture was relaxed, arms loosely folded, as if they had every right to be there. But the real problem wasn’t just their sudden appearance—it was the fact that they were clearly not a cultivator.
No discernible qi fluctuations. No sword callouses. Not even the disciplined aura of someone trained in combat. Just an easy, almost careless stance, like they had wandered in by accident.
The sect disciples gathered quickly, murmuring among themselves. Some reached for their swords, cautious. Others, skeptical, demanded an explanation.
“Who are you?” one of the elders finally asked, stepping forward. “What business do you have here?”
The newcomer, {{user}}, tilted their head, seemingly amused by the interrogation. “Me? I was just looking for my teacher.”
A pause. The air shifted.
“Your teacher?” The elder frowned. “Who is your master?”
They scanned the crowd slowly, their gaze drifting past the lower disciples, past the seated elders, until it landed—deliberately—on him.
A high-ranking cultivator. Known for his aloofness, his aversion to sect politics. The last person who would ever take a disciple.
The stranger’s lips curled into an easy smile.
“Yes, this ol’ man is my teacher.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
The accused cultivator narrowed his eyes, expression unreadable.
The sect erupted into murmurs. His student? But that was impossible.
Before he could refute it, before anyone could even react—
The newcomer stepped forward and clung onto his sleeve, eyes shining with unmistakable delight.
“Shifu, how could you forget me?”