Yanmei finally spoke, her voice quiet, flat, sharpened by years of restraint. "Your mother is refining a high-grade pill. She won't be available for days." Her eyes flicked briefly toward the stone floor before lifting again. "If you plan to wait, the floor is free."
Lingling frowned, irritation flashing across her face, but before she could respond, Xuanyan stepped forward.
"No need," he said calmly. "We aren't here to visit."
Yanmei raised an eyebrow, her gaze sharpening.
"Our purpose," Xuanyan continued evenly, "is to enter the Alchemy Qualification Test. I intend to apply to become Elder Mei Lingyao's personal disciple."
The hall went still.
Yanmei stared at him a heartbeat too long, disbelief flickering across her face—then she laughed. Not loudly, but sharply, bending slightly at the waist, one hand braced against her side, the sound light and bell-like and utterly merciless.
"Lingling," she said between breaths, "where did you find this idiot? He thinks he can become her personal disciple?" She straightened, eyes glittering with ridicule. "You even sound serious. Is this a joke? What's next—he ascends after boiling one pot of herbs?"
She wiped at the corner of her eye, still smiling. "Let me guess. He said he 'knows alchemy,' and you believed him."
Lingling stiffened.
Yanmei stepped closer, pity lacing her words like poison. "If this is your standard for men, Young Miss," she said coolly, "it's no wonder your mother—"
She didn't finish.
Xuanyan tilted his head slightly—not angry, not offended, just faintly amused. The shift was subtle, but Lingling felt it immediately, her fingers tightening around his sleeve. Yanmei felt it too.
"Miss Yanmei," Xuanyan said softly, his tone polite enough to sound harmless, "you seem very certain about who deserves to stand here."
Her brows drew together. "And you seem very confused about where you belong."
Xuanyan stepped closer—not aggressively, not forcefully—simply occupying space that no longer felt like hers. "I don't doubt your effort," he said calmly. "Or your loyalty."
Yanmei froze.
"That's the problem," he continued evenly. "You mistake effort for entitlement."
Her smile faltered—just for a moment.
Xuanyan's gaze drifted briefly past her, toward the hall she had poured years of her life into. "You've been standing here a long time," he said. "Long enough to forget that talent doesn't wait for permission."
Silence settled between them, thick and uncomfortable. Yanmei's fingers curled slowly at her side.
Xuanyan met her eyes again, expression unreadable. "And people who are truly confident," he added quietly, "don't need to mock others to feel tall."
He stepped back—just one pace. Enough.
Yanmei didn't laugh this time. She didn't snap back. Her expression smoothed into something cold and controlled, but the damage had already sunk in—quiet, precise, and impossible to ignore.
Xuanyan noticed the tension in Lingling's posture before she realized it herself. Almost instinctively, he lifted a hand and rested it lightly on her head, fingers threading through her hair in a gesture so natural it carried no hesitation at all. His voice followed just as calmly, low and steady, as if nothing that had happened moments ago was worth dwelling on.
"Don't worry about her," he said. "Focus on what we came here for."
The reassurance worked immediately. The tightness drained from Lingling's shoulders, warmth blooming across her expression as she leaned subtly into his touch before catching herself. Her lips curved into a gentle smile—soft, unguarded, and unmistakably sincere.
"So what if Brother Xuanyan can't refine a pill yet?" she said, her tone light but firm, carrying neither embarrassment nor doubt. "That doesn't change anything.""I still love him."
The words weren't loud. They weren't dramatic. That was precisely why they landed so heavily.
Yanmei stopped mid-step.
Her fingers twitched. Her expression flickered—shock, disbelief, the kind of second-hand embarrassment that could bruise the soul.
"Love?" she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing. "Did she just—? Oh, by the ancestors…"
Her fingers twitched at her side before she could suppress the reaction, Her expression flickered—shock, disbelief, second-hand embarrassment and dangerously close to discomfort—before the familiar cold mask snapped back into place. She clicked her tongue quietly, turning her gaze away as if that alone could erase what she had just heard.
"…Idiotic," she muttered under her breath.
Her eyes slid back to Xuanyan despite herself, sharp and assessing, lingering longer than she intended. She examined him the way an elder might inspect a suspicious artifact—quietly, critically, deeply annoyed that she couldn't immediately identify the flaw.
What does he have?
He wasn't flaunting confidence. He wasn't provoking her. He simply stood there, calm and detached, as if Lingling's casual affection was nothing worth reacting to. As if being chosen so easily was normal.
"Handsome"
The word handsome slipped into Yanmei's mind without warning. She crushed it immediately, like swatting an insect before it could bite, irritation flaring at herself for even thinking it. Men were irrelevant. Strength was what mattered—cultivation, talent, control. Without those, beauty was meaningless. A pretty face didn't change the fact that beautiful corpses were still corpses.
And yet, despite her certainty, her gaze slid sideways again.
Lingling stood there looking absurdly at peace, as if she had achieved some kind of enlightenment through sheer ignorance. Yanmei's jaw tightened. It made no sense. Lingling had rejected core disciples, sword geniuses, even young masters from noble clans—men with backing, power, futures already carved into stone. And now she was attached to someone who looked like he had grabbed the first robe he found and decided it was good enough. Yanmei couldn't decide whether Lingling had inhaled too much pill smoke or had simply lost her mind.
Folding her arms, Yanmei exhaled sharply. This was unacceptable. Lady Lingyao was going to hear about it, and soon. She didn't care if this boy turned out to be some hidden prodigy or a secret prince slumming it for experience—someone had to intervene before Lingling's judgment deteriorated any further. Allowing this to continue felt like negligence.
What made it worse was Xuanyan himself.
He looked utterly unbothered by her scrutiny, by her irritation, by the situation as a whole. He wasn't nervous, wasn't trying to impress anyone, wasn't even pretending to care how he was perceived. He simply stood there, calm and distant, as if her annoyance were nothing more than background noise. That quiet composure grated on her far more than arrogance ever could.
Yanmei cleared her throat loudly, deliberately drawing attention back to herself. "Alright," she said, voice flat and edged with boredom. "If you're done standing around, you mentioned an Alchemy Qualification Test, didn't you?"
Xuanyan turned toward her and nodded once, his expression unchanged. "Yes."
"Good." She didn't wait for anything else. "Then move."
She turned sharply, snow-white hair flicking behind her as she strode forward. Her robes swayed with controlled, practiced grace—the kind learned by someone who had spent years pretending not to care who might be watching, while being painfully aware of it all the same.
Lingling followed after her, still wearing that faint, infuriatingly serene smile.
Xuanyan came last, unhurried as ever.
Yanmei walked ahead with her back straight and her expression cold, resolutely refusing to think about why her face felt just a little warmer than it should.