Ren's courtyard lay in a quiet corner of Seven Profound Martial House.
It wasn't large. A stone path wound past a clear spirit spring that reflected the sky like a small, patient eye; a weathered pine that had seen more seasons than most disciples; and a half-circle of blue slabs where someone had once practiced saber forms until the flagstones were gouged and scarred.
Overhead, the grand arrays of the Martial House hummed faintly, compressing heaven and earth origin energy into a steady, invisible rain. The air here was thicker than outside the walls, richer—every breath a small, unnoticed blessing.
The courtyard door slid open with a soft wooden sigh.
Ren kicked it the last inch with his heel, arms casually looped around two slim waists.
Na Yi on his right.
Na Shui on his left.
Na Shui's face was still red enough to boil water.
"M-Master, at least let go before someone—"
Ren glanced up and down the corridor.
Empty.
The disciples who had been sneaking glances earlier had all sprinted for the meditation platforms the moment the lecture ended, terrified of wasting even a single breath of inspiration. The scattered echoes of their footsteps had already faded into the layered sounds of the Martial House: distant shouts, clashing weapons, the low roar of gathering true essence.
He smiled.
"Looks like no one," he said. "If they're hiding under the floorboards, that's their karma."
Na Shui made a small, strangled sound as he steered them inside, the warmth of his hand against her waist making her steps just a shade unsteady.
The courtyard smelled of pine resin and clean stone. The spirit spring murmured softly in one corner, steam lifting in a faint mist that caught the light. A pot of tea Ren had left before the lecture still sat on a low stone table beneath the eaves, steam long gone but fragrance lingering—a cool, faint bitterness under the rich qi of the place.
Across the flagstones, the lines of his own small formation traced a barely visible pattern.
Subtle Dao lines subtly adjusted the flow of origin energy, turning the courtyard into a gentle whirlpool. Qi moved in lazy spirals toward the center, smoothing eddies, washing over anyone who stepped inside.
Na Yi's eyes swept the space once, the habit of a Southern Wilderness survivor and now a cultivator. Her gaze followed the invisible currents almost instinctively, mapping lines, weighing strengths and weaknesses.
"…You rebuilt the origin energy here," she said softly.
"Mm." Ren loosened his arms enough to let them turn to face him beneath the eaves, but he didn't step away. "A man should at least make his home comfortable. Come here."
He said it with that relaxed, careless tone of his—as if he were asking them to sit and drink tea, not making their hearts pound.
Na Shui opened her mouth to protest again, panic and anticipation tangling on her tongue.
He didn't wait.
He leaned down and kissed her.
No hesitation. No second request.
Just warm lips pressing into hers with calm certainty, like he was setting a seal on something he'd already decided.
Na Shui's breath vanished.
Her hands—hands that had hurled refined flames capable of tearing apart Bone Forging sword arts—curled into his robe like she'd forgotten what else they were supposed to do. Her backbone softened; the wild, sharp-edged witch of the Southern Wilderness, the newly forged cultivator who had faced shaman fires and blood altars… for a moment, all of that melted into a stunned, simple joy that belonged only to a young woman being kissed by the man she liked.
It didn't last long.
He didn't devour; he tasted.
He drew back slowly, lips brushing the corner of her mouth in a teasing afterstroke, like he couldn't quite resist taking one more sip.
"Still worried about being seen?" he asked, voice low and amused.
Na Shui's pupils trembled.
Her cheeks were bright crimson. She swallowed, throat dry.
"…If we're seen now," she muttered, eyes dropping, "it's already hopeless."
Ren chuckled, the sound soft and pleased, then turned.
Na Yi had not moved.
She stood half a small step back, gaze steady, lips pressed together. The Southern Wilderness had carved scars into her heart that no single lecture or single battle could erase. In front of crowds, she could draw her sword without a quiver.
In private, under that warm gaze that saw too much…
A faint flush colored the tips of her ears.
Ren stepped close, hand lifting to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. His thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath, a touch light enough to withdraw at the smallest rejection—but she did not move away.
"You did well," he said quietly. "On the field. In the hall. Here."
Na Yi's lashes lowered.
"Master guided from the shadows," she replied, voice calm and controlled. Only the slight tightness at the edges betrayed the depth beneath. "We only walked the road you laid."
Ren's smile tilted.
"Then as your master," he said, "this much reward is fair."
His hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers warm against skin that still held a trace of Southern Wilderness chill.
He kissed her.
Na Yi did not startle like Na Shui had.
Her breath caught once, then flowed out in a slow, controlled exhale as she leaned into him. Her fingers rose almost of their own accord to rest against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat through his robe. Her lips were soft, her response measured—like the way she took a blade in hand: careful, precise, but with hidden steel that answered him without flinching.
Heat stirred in her dantian.
Not the heat of true essence or Fire Law, but something quieter and deeper, a warmth that flowed along meridians he had helped open, now carrying emotions instead of power.
When he finally let her go, the cracks in her composure showed at the edges—a faint tremor in her fingers, a subtle shine in her eyes that had nothing to do with cultivation.
"…If you keep doing this," she murmured, voice a little huskier than usual, "my breathing method will never calm."
Ren laughed low, the sound like a lazy ripple over deep water.
"Then we'll practice one that uses this instead," he said, tapping lightly where her heart beat beneath her robe. "Cultivating happiness isn't a bad path either."
Na Shui, still trying to gather her scattered soul, let out an indignant noise.
"Y-you can't just say things like that so easily," she complained, stamping one foot, though it landed more like a tap than a stomp. "What if… what if you say that in front of Human Hall? They'll die on the spot!"
Ren gave a crooked smile, eyes bright.
"Then that's their problem," he said. "I only want to focus on the beautiful women in front of me."
He drew them both in again, one arm around each waist, pulling gently until they were pressed to his sides under the shade of the eaves.
Outside, the Martial House roared.
Disciples raced for cultivation rooms, training fields, lecture halls, each one clutching the fragments of inspiration he'd just thrown into the air, afraid to lose even a word.
Inside this small courtyard, with the spirit spring murmuring and the pine whispering overhead, the world narrowed to three steady heartbeats.
Na Shui's breathing slowly evened out. The raw rush of victory, of standing under thousands of eyes and showing her power, faded into the simple warmth of his chest at her shoulder. Na Yi's sword-straight posture softened by a small, human fraction as she leaned that little bit closer, letting herself borrow his warmth and his calm.
Ren's own heart was quiet.
Adventure in a strange world. Intents, Laws, Heavenly Dao.
And this.
Warmth under his fingers. The knowledge that the girls who had once walked barefoot and chained through swamps now stood beside him, spines straight, eyes bright, able to crush so-called "geniuses" who had once looked down on them like livestock.
His Dao heart… settled.
"Today was the first ripple," he murmured.
Na Yi frowned lightly, raising her gaze.
"Ripple?" she asked.
"Mm." He glanced toward the sky, where Seven Profound Martial House's grand arrays glimmered faintly like hidden constellations under the daylight, gathering and compressing the world's qi.
"Drop a stone into a pond. The waves spread. Right now, they're only inside these walls."
His eyes narrowed a fraction, smile turning sharper.
"In a few days, the whole kingdom will feel it."
Na Shui shivered.
"Is… that really okay?" she asked softly. "If too many people know…"
Ren's thumb traced soothing circles along her waist, the rhythm unconsciously matching the quiet circulation patterns he had given her.
"Relax," he said. "The Dao doesn't belong to anyone. If a little clarity in their breathing scares the old monsters that much, that's their problem, not ours."
His tone held no arrogance.
Just that casual certainty of someone stating that fire burned, water flowed downhill, and anyone who tried to argue with reality would only end up burned or drowned.
Na Yi exhaled, the last of her earlier tension slowly dissolving.
"Then we'll walk behind Master," she said quietly. "Even if the waves grow large."
Ren's smile deepened into something both soft and dangerous.
"Good," he said. "It's more fun with company anyway."
He stayed like that for a while—no urgency, no rush—simply letting their breaths fall into the same rhythm. Their true essence quietly harmonized with the gentle whirlpool of qi he had set around the courtyard, each inhale drawing in slightly purer origin energy, each exhale smoothing their foundations.
By the time he finally stepped back, Na Shui's crimson flush had cooled into a soft glow and Na Yi's eyes held a warmth that had not been there that morning.
"Alright," he said, clapping his hands lightly, tone turning brisk. "If I don't at least pretend to be a responsible instructor, Sun Sifan will start growing wrinkles."
Na Shui snorted, mischief returning.
"Too late," she muttered.
Ren grinned.
"I'll add a skin-nourishing breathing method to the next lecture," he said. "You two—rest a bit. Consolidate today's gains. After dinner, I'll run through your spear and sword forms. After that…"
His eyes turned a shade more wicked, smile turning slow.
"…we'll 'practice' something else."
Na Shui made a strangled sound and shoved at his chest with both hands. The push had the strength of an Altering Muscles martial artist—but somehow, on his chest, it felt more like a kitten patting against a pillow.
Na Yi's ears turned pink again.
"…Master is incorrigible," she murmured.
"Mm." Ren looked entirely satisfied. "Good thing you two like me that way."
He left them with one last, lingering look—Na Shui flustered but smiling, Na Yi composed but secretly watching his every step—and walked out into the sun.
The storm he had summoned was already spreading.
The ripples began inside Seven Profound Martial House.
They did not stop there.
On the stone platforms of Human Hall, outer court disciples sat cross-legged in messy rows, their usual noisy chatter replaced by an eerie, expectant quiet. The air still seemed to remember Ren's voice guiding them through breathing and circulation.
A boy with callused hands and a crooked nose inhaled, then froze.
"…Again," he whispered to himself.
He followed the breathing pattern Ren had described in the lecture: air in through the nose, awareness trailing it down his throat, along his spine, pooling behind his navel. True essence that had always sloshed around clumsily suddenly found a groove to fall into, like water finally discovering the channel it had been meant for all along.
His meridians warmed.
True essence that should have leaked from old, hairline injuries… did not.
He exhaled.
The next breath drew in more.
On the third complete circulation, the bottleneck that had trapped him trembled. The barrier his own manuals had never taught him how to pierce shivered like ice at the first touch of spring.
Then shattered.
True essence surged like a river finally dammed correctly. His bones hummed. A layer of pitch-dark filth exuded from his pores, steaming as it met the cooler air, carrying away impurities he hadn't even known he carried. The smell was foul—and glorious.
His eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving.
"B-breathing method…" he stammered. "Just… from breathing…"
Down the platform, another disciple convulsed as his own bottleneck loosened. A third broke through with a muffled shout, then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, glancing around like he'd committed a crime.
It spread.
On an Earth Hall training ground, a young woman with a scar down her forearm tightened her grip on her saber and exhaled slowly.
Her true essence, which had always refused to fully obey her, now rotated more smoothly. When she slashed out the next time, the saber light was half a percent sharper, the arc half a degree truer.
Tiny changes.
But to someone who had hammered at the same threshold for years—practicing before dawn, after dusk, cutting the same forms until calluses tore open and healed again—it felt like suddenly seeing a faint line carved through fog.
A direction.
She lowered her saber, sweat dripping from her chin, chest heaving.
"…Guest Instructor…" she whispered, half in awe, half in fear.
In Heavenly Abode's inner courtyards, prideful elites who had scoffed at "mere Pulse Condensation guest instructors" found themselves sitting in their own cultivation rooms, eyes closed, unwilling to admit—especially to themselves—that they were following the same maddeningly simple description of a small sun in the dantian.
True essence flowed according to the breathing method.
Their meridians, long accustomed to brute-force circulation, suddenly felt like roads that had been repaved overnight. Soreness eased. The sharp friction they'd always considered "normal" dulled to a smooth hum.
When their true essence moved a fraction easier, when their bodies felt a quiet comfort they had never experienced despite their high-grade manuals…
Not one of them could quite bring themselves to dismiss it.
Within three days, the results became impossible to ignore.
Human Hall reported an abnormal spike in breakthroughs: dozens of disciples stepping from Body Training to Altering Muscles, or from Altering Muscles to early Tendons. Their foundations were cleaner, their meridians smoother, their control a touch more precise than the House's current manuals could easily explain.
Earth Hall's inner court saw a string of bottlenecks loosen like knots dipped in warm water. Several talented disciples described "a strange clarity" when swinging their swords, as if they could faintly sense an outline beyond techniques—an invisible trajectory that showed them where each strike wanted to go.
In Heavenly Abode…
The changes were fewer in number, but sharper, like etched lines instead of spilled ink.
Ling Sen's Ashura battlefield grew quieter and more terrifying. His killing intent no longer leaked at the edges; it folded inward more tightly, pressure condensing instead of diffusing. When he practiced alone, his sword shadows cut through invisible enemies with a new, suffocating precision.
Ta Ku's axe strikes grew heavier and yet smoother—each swing tracing the exact path his breath wanted to take, body and weapon moving as one.
Even Zhu Yan, pride scorched raw from the lecture, found the "sun" of his Burning Sun Spear growing calmer at the core. Its radiance became more compact, less wasteful. The injured flesh over his chest twinged less when he circulated true essence along the modified pattern that made him grit his teeth to admit it had come from Ren.
"Again," he muttered one night, drenched in sweat. The spear's afterimages cut through the dark like arcs of sunset.
Sun Sifan's reports piled up.
He sat in his office, brows furrowed as he leafed through jade slips and handwritten notes from instructors of all three halls. The room smelled of old ink, bamboo paper, and faint sandalwood.
"Human and Earth Hall disciples reporting Ethereal-like sensations… three days in a row," he muttered, fingers drumming once on the table. "Heavenly Abode's cultivation deviation accidents down by thirty percent…"
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
Beside him, Hong Xi let out a long breath and set down the latest slip.
"The lecture pattern he laid," the vice master said quietly. "It's still echoing."
Sun Sifan remembered the feeling in his own meridians that day—the way his long-stagnant true essence had quietly smoothed itself, like an old riverbed washed clean by a sudden, gentle flood. The tiny aches he had carried for years had gone silent, if only for a moment.
"'Guest instructor at Pulse Condensation,'" he murmured, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "If this is Pulse Condensation, then I've lived these decades as a dog."
Hong Xi gave a thin, helpless laugh.
"…We invited a monster," he said.
"Mn." Sun Sifan set the last report down and leaned back slightly, gaze drawn toward the open window.
Beyond, the distant training fields lay under a bright sky. Every so often, Ren's voice drifted faintly over the roofs—lazy, unhurried, but the words themselves sharp as knife-edges.
"A monster who likes teaching," Sun Sifan sighed. "Thank the heavens he does."
Outside the Martial House's walls, the waves reached Sky Fortune City.
In noisy teahouses near the main street, martial artists in worn robes huddled in corners, cups of cheap tea cooling unnoticed in their hands as they gossiped in low, excited voices.
"You hear? Seven Profound Martial House—outer disciples breaking through one after another!"
"I heard they invited some wandering expert. Guest instructor or something."
"At Pulse Condensation?" A scoff. "Nonsense. That level can't stir a whole Martial House."
"The rumors say he crushed Heavenly Abode's elites with disciples at Altering Muscles," another voice cut in, relish thick in his tone. "And that he showed Law essence in front of everyone. True Law, not those half-baked 'concept' tricks."
"Law essence? At that realm?"
"You don't believe, go ask the younger generation. Half of them are crying about being 'blind' now."
Laughter followed that, half mocking, half uneasy.
At a corner table, a seasoned martial artist who had once failed the Seven Profound Martial House entrance test sat in silence, callused fingers tapping slowly against his chipped cup.
"…If it's true," he said finally, "then the road we thought we knew just got longer."
His junior swallowed, throat suddenly dry.
In the City Lord's mansion, servants carried fresh intelligence reports to stewards, who in turn brought them to the lord's study.
"Seven Profound Martial House has stirred again," an old steward said, bowing with a rustle of sleeves. "This time, it seems they've invited a rather… unusual guest."
The city lord, an Essence Gathering expert whose realm had plateaued years ago, accepted the jade slip and scanned it with narrowed eyes.
"A Pulse Condensation guest instructor whose breathing lecture alone triggers a wave of breakthroughs," he read. "Heavenly Abode elites forced to bow their heads… hm."
He toyed with the slip, lips pressing together.
"…Send additional eyes to the Martial House," he said at last. "We'll watch quietly. If this man is real… the balance in Sky Fortune Kingdom may shift."
Far away, inside Seven Profound Valleys—the source sect that had founded the Seven Profound Martial House—elders who always kept one eye on their satellite forces began to hear the whispers.
"A Pulse Condensation guest instructor?" an elder said, frowning slightly as he read the latest report. "So many breakthroughs in a few days? Hmph. Either the reports are exaggerated… or someone interesting has appeared."
Another elder, fingers stained with alchemical burns, chuckled.
"Wouldn't be the first time the lower branch picked up a stray dragon without realizing," he said. "Keep watching. If he keeps shaking the pond, the ripples will reach even here."
The pond's surface had seemed calm for years.
Now, ripples spread, distorting every reflection.
And at the center of it all, the man who had dropped the stone walked his own path, unconcerned with whether others could keep up.
Ren's days became strangely full.
In the mornings, he walked to the main training field with his hands folded into his sleeves, aura restrained until he felt like nothing more than a particularly relaxed inner disciple.
Wherever he stepped, the qi lines in the earth subtly shifted.
It was nothing obvious—not enough to startle elders or trigger formation alarms. Just tiny adjustments: a pressure here, a pull there, like shy beasts nudging closer to a familiar hand. The world's energy liked him, and he knew how to use that.
Disciples would already be waiting by the time he arrived.
Sometimes, he spoke to thousands at once. He stood at the edge of the main platform, voice carrying without true essence as he guided row upon row of martial artists through breathing and circulation patterns.
"Don't chase the qi," he said once, voice steady. "Let it move. You watch."
They inhaled as one.
"Imagine a thread of light following your breath," he continued. "Down the throat, along the spine, pooling behind the navel. Don't force your true essence to follow—let it watch. It will imitate when it's ready."
Across the sea of disciples, shoulders loosened. The hard, forced breathing many had trained into themselves instead softened into something more natural. Even elders who had come to "observe" found their own meridians adjusting, almost against their will.
Other days, he chose a group of ten or twenty.
He walked among them while they sparred, eyes half-lidded, seemingly lazy. Then he would stop, tap a knee, press a shoulder, twist a wrist a fraction of an inch.
"Your saber is honest," he told an Earth Hall girl one morning, gently pressing her wrist down a fraction. "But your heart is leaning away. When you cut, cut. Don't leave room for regret in the stroke itself. Regret later if you must."
She blinked, stunned.
Then she slashed again.
The saber light that came out this time was cleaner—not because she had learned a new technique, but because her intent no longer hesitated. The strike felt simple, straight, like a statement.
Ren nodded once, satisfied.
The instructors watching from the side exchanged uncomfortable looks. Some flushed, realizing they had never noticed the subtle flaws he pointed out so casually.
In the afternoons, he reserved a smaller platform near his courtyard.
There, Na Yi and Na Shui practiced.
Na Shui's fire roared, then under pressure turned to thin, terrifying threads. Within the field of her Fire Martial Intent, those threads compressed and purified heat until any flame she summoned burned at a higher order, small in appearance but vicious in effect. Na Yi's blade carved quiet arcs that seemed ordinary until one realized that the air itself was being sliced a fraction out of alignment and then forced back, leaving faint shivers in the world.
Ren watched.
Sometimes he leaned against a pillar with arms folded, eyes sharp despite his relaxed posture. Sometimes he stood right behind them to adjust a shoulder, a hip, a wrist—his touch light but precise, always showing, never forcing.
"Na Shui," he said lazily one day as her palm strike sent a ribbon of fire tearing through a practice puppet, charring it to black in a heartbeat. "You're still overcompensating. You trust the Law more than you trust your body. Let your muscles speak too."
Na Shui puffed out her cheeks, frustration and fondness mixed.
"Master always says that," she muttered, flexing her fingers to shake out the tingling heat. "Before, my body was all I had. Now that I finally have Law…"
"Mm." Ren stepped behind her, placing his hands lightly over her wrists as she raised them again. "That's exactly why you can't abandon it. Again. This time, listen to the feeling in your tendons, not just the heat."
Their hands moved together.
Fire flowed.
Na Shui's breath caught as she felt her own bones resonate with the heat, the force no longer resting entirely on Law but anchored in flesh and will. The flame that burst forth was thinner, quieter—but it carved through the practice puppet as if through paper, leaving the air around the strike hot and strangely clean.
Her heart skipped for reasons that had nothing to do with cultivation.
Na Yi, watching from the side, narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.
That evening, when it was her turn, she drew her sword and let her breath fall in time with his heartbeat, testing a new rhythm. Her blade's arc shortened slightly, trading flash for control.
Ren's lips quirked.
"You're getting greedy," he said, not unkindly. "Good. Greed makes you ask the Dao for more. Just don't let it turn into impatience."
Outside training hours, the courtyard grew… dangerous, in a different way.
Na Shui would slip in with damp hair after washing off sweat, intending to quickly dry it and return to cultivation, only to be caught by an arm around her waist and gently dragged down onto the porch. Ren's breath would tickle the shell of her ear as he murmured some lazy compliment—a small comment about how her Fire Martial Intent was prettier when she smiled—that turned her knees to water.
Na Yi would bring tea or reports from Human Hall, intending to discuss cultivation paths and disciples. She would find herself backed lightly against a pillar instead, his palm braced beside her, his gaze both serious and playful as he asked how she was doing, not just her training.
"Master…" she would protest softly, fingers tightening on the tray, heart betraying her composure with its speed.
"Mm?" he'd reply, voice mild. "Am I wrong? Your shoulders really are tenser on days you fight Ling Sen."
Their lips would meet.
Later, when moonlight washed the courtyard in silver and their breathing had long since calmed, they would sit together beneath the eaves. Sometimes Na Shui drowsed against his shoulder, hair falling across his chest, while Na Yi quietly combed her younger sister's hair with slow, careful strokes.
Ren's free hand traced faint Dao lines in the air as he talked about Intents and Laws in a half-murmured tone—never lecturing, just sharing. The world's secrets, the path of martial arts, the taste of the Dao… all of it threaded together with their laughter and teasing, forming a single, continuous thread of life.
It was the simple act of lovers, weaving cultivation and affection together.
...
A couple of weeks passed.
Ren spent a good portion of that time teaching.
He spent a larger portion entwined with the rhythms of Na Yi and Na Shui's days—sharing meals, sparring, stealing kisses under moonlight, letting their laughter and bickering echo off the courtyard walls like a softer kind of cultivation.
He did not neglect the others.
Murong Zi was the first to be drawn firmly into his orbit.
She had a knack for it.
"Guest Instructor Ren!" she called out one afternoon, voice bright as she jogged up along a stone path, spear bouncing against her back. Bai Jingyun and Qin Xingxuan followed at a more measured pace, their steps quieter but no less intent.
"We were just discussing your lecture," Murong Zi went on, grinning. "Jingyun says you made her feel like her sword is a wooden stick."
Bai Jingyun closed her eyes briefly, helpless.
"…Murong Zi," she said, tone exasperated but not truly angry. "Can you not phrase it like that?"
Ren turned, one brow lifting in amusement.
"Oh?" he said. "Do I need to apologize to your sword?"
Murong Zi's eyes sparkled.
"See?" she said, jabbing her thumb toward him without shame. "I told you he'd say something like that."
Bai Jingyun sighed, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth despite herself.
Qin Xingxuan walked slightly behind them, posture straight, expression calm. Yet her gaze, when it flicked to him, held a quiet, focused heat.
Ren let his eyes move over the three of them, taking in the subtle changes.
Murong Zi's true essence flowed more steadily than before, her originally scattered qi now tracing smoother loops thanks to his breathing method. Bai Jingyun's sword intent had sharpened a hair, the "too straight" edge he'd criticized now tempered by a faint, almost imperceptible curve at its edges. Qin Xingxuan's aura had settled deeper, as if her heart had accepted something it had previously only observed from the outside.
He smiled.
"Then I'll take responsibility," he said. "Murong Zi, you can complain to me whenever the Dao hurts your pride. Bai Jingyun, if your sword feels like a stick, we'll polish it until it doesn't. Qin Xingxuan…"
He paused, eyes lingering on the composed young woman.
"Yes?" she asked quietly.
"Have you been asking your circulation questions," he said, "or still just politely listening?"
Her fingers tightened just slightly at her sides.
"…A little," she admitted. "When I breathe according to the pattern you described, I try to sense why it turns at certain acupoints. It's… not easy."
"Good," Ren said, tone approving. "If it were easy, I'd be out of a job."
Murong Zi's laughter burst out of her like fireworks.
"See, see?" she said, bumping Qin Xingxuan's shoulder playfully. "Even the way he talks sounds like a story. No wonder Na Yi and Na Shui look like they're floating whenever they come back from his courtyard."
Qin Xingxuan's ears turned faintly pink despite her composed face.
Bai Jingyun coughed delicately.
"…Murong Zi," she said. "Your volume."
Ren chuckled.
"Let them talk," he said. "If anyone wants to gossip, they'll do it whether I give them material or not."
Murong Zi's eyes gleamed.
"In that case, Instructor Ren," she said brightly, "will you let us trouble you for guidance this evening? The three of us were planning to spar, and—"
"—you want a referee?" Ren finished, amused.
She grinned.
"A very helpful one," she clarified. "Maybe one who will point out all the places where we're stupid."
Bai Jingyun sighed again, but she did not refuse. Qin Xingxuan lowered her gaze for a breath, then nodded once.
"…If Guest Instructor has time," she said.
Ren looked at the three of them.
Murong Zi's reckless courage.
Bai Jingyun's quiet pride.
Qin Xingxuan's steady, stubborn persistence.
He thought of the way Zhang Guanyu had once looked at them—in this world's original path—as pieces to be moved or owned. Talents to be displayed at his side.
His smile cooled at the edges.
"I'll make time," he said.
That evening, under lantern light on a quiet platform, stone railings casting long shadows, the three young women faced each other in a triangle.
Murong Zi's spear pointed forward, its tip gleaming faintly under the light. Bai Jingyun's sword rested at a slant, aura restrained, sharpness hidden. Qin Xingxuan's spear stance was simple—no extra flourish, no wasted motion.
Ren stood at the edge at first, arms folded, back against a pillar. The night wind stirred his robe, carrying faint hints of pine and distant cooking fires.
"Begin," he said.
They moved.
Murong Zi leapt first, as expected.
Her spear thrust shot out like a streak of lightning, the spearhead humming. She was fast—faster than most Earth Hall disciples at her level. But compared to true elites, her movements still held small gaps, small wastes.
Bai Jingyun's sword rose to meet her.
Her blade drew a clean line through the air, intercepting the spear with an angle that took the force and sent it sliding aside. Sparks flew as metal kissed metal. The impact rang out, echoing down the empty corridor.
Qin Xingxuan slid in like water.
Where Murong Zi was aggressive and Bai Jingyun was steady, Qin Xingxuan flowed. Her spear coiled around Murong Zi's shaft in a soft deflection, using Murong Zi's own momentum to pull her off-balance a half-step, then twisted toward Bai Jingyun with a probing thrust.
For a few breaths, it was chaos.
Spear shadows and sword arcs intertwined, afterimages crossing. Footsteps thundered against stone. True essence flared around them in three different tastes: Murong Zi's hot and straightforward, Bai Jingyun's thin and cutting, Qin Xingxuan's smooth and restrained.
Ren watched.
He didn't move at first. His eyes tracked their feet instead of their weapons—the angles of their hips, the slight delays between intent and motion.
Then he stepped in.
Murong Zi lunged, spear aimed at Qin Xingxuan's shoulder. Her heart charged ahead of her body; her intent reached for victory before her feet had fully committed.
Ren's hand landed briefly on her shoulder as she passed him.
"Your heart is ahead of your feet," he said. "If your body doesn't follow, you'll trip over yourself."
Murong Zi's eyes widened as the truth of that sentence echoed in her meridians. Her next step landed deeper, more solid. The spear thrust that followed a breath later was slower by a fraction—but far more dangerous.
Bai Jingyun's sword met her.
Ren brushed a fingertip lightly against Bai Jingyun's wrist, altering her grip a hair's breadth.
"Too honest," he reminded her quietly. "Let the sword curve once in a while. A straight road is not always the fastest."
Her blade, which had always gone straight for the enemy's weapon, now turned at the last moment, bypassing steel and sliding toward Murong Zi's guard.
Murong Zi flinched, then grinned as she barely twisted out of the way.
Qin Xingxuan darted in to exploit the opening, spear tip whispering past Murong Zi's ribs.
Ren's palm landed gently between Qin Xingxuan's shoulder blades as she advanced.
"You're still too polite with the Dao," he murmured near her ear. "When the opening appears, don't ask if you're allowed to take it. Take it. Apologize later if you must."
Qin Xingxuan's pupils shrank. Her next attack came a little faster, a little sharper—still not reckless, but less restrained by invisible chains.
They moved until sweat soaked their robes and true essence glowed faintly around their bodies, lighting the platform in a gentle halo. The stone beneath their feet grew scarred and cracked, yet Ren's small formation beneath it quietly bled away the worst of the impact, turning wasted force into subtle adjustments in their breathing.
When the three finally collapsed at the edge of the platform, panting, Murong Zi lay flat on her back, staring up at the scattered stars.
"Ahhh… I'm going to die," she groaned. "If this continues, I'll die of overwork before I break through."
Bai Jingyun sat with knees drawn up, breathing evenly, strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. Her eyes, when she glanced sidelong at Ren, held a warmth she was no longer able to hide completely.
Qin Xingxuan sat in proper meditation posture even while catching her breath, but her fingertips brushed the spot on her back where his hand had rested, as if committing the sensation to memory.
Ren leaned against a pillar, watching them with that relaxed, unreadable gaze.
He did not reach out to them as boldly as he did with Na Yi and Na Shui.
Not yet.
But his presence, his words, the weight of his eyes when they lingered… the road between them was already being paved.
They could feel it, even if none of them spoke it aloud.
So could someone else.
Zhang Guanyu stood on the edge of a high balcony overlooking Heavenly Abode's training grounds, hands clasped behind his back, embroidered robe immaculate.
Below, disciples moved like ants—swinging swords, circulating true essence, chasing the path.
He did not look at them.
His gaze rested on the distant platform where, earlier that evening, Murong Zi, Bai Jingyun, and Qin Xingxuan had been sweating under Ren's lazy guidance, their laughter and gasps drifting faintly in the night air.
He had watched from the shadows of a corridor pillar, hidden by distance and by his own cultivation.
Not because he cared about their progress.
Because he cared about possession.
In his mind, Murong Zi was already a piece of Seven Profound Valleys' human chessboard, her status and talent tools to be claimed. Qin Xingxuan… the quiet one whose talent even the elders watched with interest… she too should have been another ornament at his side.
They were all supposed to orbit him.
Now, they gathered around an outsider.
A "guest instructor" from nowhere who walked into Seven Profound Martial House, bent its qi lines, shattered its prideful elites, and made even Heavenly Abode disciples bow their heads.
Zhang Guanyu's jaw tightened.
He remembered the scene in the lecture hall. The casual wisp of flame that had carried Law essence, compressing the world's harsh Fire Dao into a gentle, terrifying wisp. The way Heavenly Abode elders had gone silent, unable to fully see through a man they should have been able to measure.
He remembered Murong Zi's expression as she watched Ren.
Bright. Open.
Bai Jingyun's gaze, usually distant and careful, had softened faintly at the edges.
Qin Xingxuan, who rarely let her feelings reach her eyes, had watched with a seriousness that had nothing to do with shallow admiration.
His fingers curled behind his back until his knuckles popped.
"Ren Ming…" he said the name under his breath, tasting it like poison.
He let the night wind wash over his face, calming the first spike of anger.
He was a core disciple of Seven Profound Valleys. Prideful, yes, but not a fool.
A man who could stir the entire Seven Profound Martial House with a single lecture could not be treated like a wandering nobody.
He would have to be… handled.