The morning of the quarterfinal match arrived with clear skies and the sharp, electric energy of a sect that smelled blood.
The stands were fuller than the previous rounds. Word had spread about Wen Hao. Word always spread. The version circulating among the disciples was split evenly between "Zhao Lingxi is dangerous" and "Zhao Lingxi was set up," depending on who you asked and which faction they owed favors to. Either way, people wanted to watch.
Lan Yue sat in the front row of the lower stands with Tang Xiaoli on her left and Bai Xuelan on her right. Mo Tian had claimed the seat directly behind her, his fan already open, his expression uncharacteristically focused.
The red thread on Lan Yue's wrist hummed steadily. Warm. Present. Alive in a way it had not been for days. She pressed her fingers against it and felt an answering pulse, faint but sure, like a hand squeezing back.
