The morning bells had only just finished their long song when the stone path came alive.

Mist clung to the mountains, thin ribbons of white curling between the peaks. The ridges loomed like silent guardians, their tops touched with the pale glow of dawn. Every step pressed against stone polished smooth by generations of disciples. Fallen leaves scattered across the path—red, amber, and fading gold—each one carrying the cool scent of autumn.

Ahead, disciples made their way toward the dining hall.

Outer sect juniors bustled past with hurried steps, robes tied loosely, sleeves still damp with morning chores. Two carried buckets of water, liquid sloshing dangerously with each jog. Their laughter echoed as one nearly tripped, earning a playful shove from the other. Further along, inner sect disciples walked with measured composure. Their backs were straight, their pace calm. A few kept their eyes half-closed, muttering incantations under their breath, circulating Qi even as they moved.

The path filled with voices. Snippets of conversation drifted through the cool air.

“…three contribution points for just fetching herbs?” “I heard Elder Mu is testing the furnace again. Don’t go near the alchemy hall.” “Shixiong won’t shut up about his duel last week…”

Small dramas of the sect carried on as naturally as the turning of the seasons.

The air grew warmer near the hall, and with it came the smell. At first faint, then impossible to ignore: the steam of buns rising with the wind, the tang of pickled vegetables, the deep, earthy aroma of broth simmered overnight with spirit herbs. Stomachs growled, steps quickened. Dignity slipped away the moment the scent of breakfast reached eager noses.

The dining hall revealed itself through the mist.

Beams stretched wide and high, painted in deep red lacquer that glowed faintly against the gray sky. Rows of lanterns swayed from the eaves, each one painted with the sect’s emblem in soft brushstrokes. The doors stood open, and within spilled the clamor of bowls and voices, a chorus distinct from the bells that had woken the mountain.

At the threshold, the scent was richer, overwhelming in the best way. Fresh rice. Steamed dumplings. A hint of pepper oil. Ordinary fare, yet in the cool bite of autumn, it felt like a blessing.

Inside, the vast space was alive with motion.

Disciples of every rank filled the benches, robes of varying colors marking outer, inner, and core alike. Outer disciples crowded near the side, trading gossip and splitting dishes with eager hands. Inner disciples sat with more restraint, their talk calmer, their bowls tidier. Core disciples occupied the higher tables near the front, where servants brought dishes directly to them. A few elders lingered at the upper dais, their presence keeping noise from boiling over into chaos.

The sound was comforting—wooden chopsticks clattering, bowls striking against tables, laughter rising in bursts.

At the back, a shidi called out for his late friend. At the front, two shixiong debated heatedly about sword forms over rice, one waving chopsticks like a blade. Between them, younger disciples fought quietly over the last bun in a bamboo steamer until a stern senior snatched it and split it in half.

It was not a day of grand ceremonies, no tournament or punishment awaited.

Just another autumn morning. A random day, filled with the rhythm of footsteps on stone, the rustle of robes, the smell of food, and the quiet, relentless heartbeat of sect life.