At the seventh bell, his escort materialized at the outer boundary—a sword-bearer whose grace spoke of mastery rather than ambition. Her blade rode high across her shoulders, catching the morning light. Without a word or backward glance, she set off through the compound.
Lin Tian matched her stride.
After thirty paces, the mundane gave way to the mystical. Where the outer quarters bore utilitarian formations carved at intervals like road markers, here silver threads of power wove through white stone walls in intricate patterns. The spiritual pressure thickened around him like diving into deeper waters, each breath heavier than the last.
In a side courtyard, three inner disciples moved through their sword forms, each gesture carved from morning mist. Their precision made his own training feel like a child's first steps. One woman turned, her pivot so pure it seemed to bend space itself, spiritual energy flowing around her like a second skin.
