Chapter 18

Morning haze drifted across Mist Valley like silk scraps, glowing rose-gold under a shy sun. Mingyue followed the main path toward the central lecture plaza, heart ticking faster than her footsteps. Today’s joint symposium promised forty hard-earned Contribution Points—if she impressed a roomful of formation fanatics, Cloud Peak elders, and one frost-root princess who wanted her flattened.

At the plaza, tiered seating encircled a polished slab of spirit-jade large enough to land a small airship. Floating brushes hovered above it, poised to write. Students murmured, robes rustling in restless waves. The moment Mingyue stepped onto the platform, hush rippled outward.

Elder Shou cleared his throat. “Our guest presenter, Disciple Shen Mingyue, would like to demonstrate the principles of corrective glyphwork.” The old scribe almost sounded proud—though his expression stayed pinched as ever.

Mingyue bowed, palms steady despite the dozen qi-signatures pricking at her senses. Jiang Feng watched from the shadows beneath a maple tree, silver mask back in place, presence as calm as mountain stone. Yang Lihua lounged near the front row, fingertips idly summoning little frost whorls that melted before they could fall—just enough to remind everyone she could turn the stage into glacier if provoked.

Mingyue faced the crowd. “We’ve all seen surveys where the terrain forces an array glyph to twist or overlap. One stroke out of alignment can drain yuan energy or explode—usually both.” A quick gesture sent a brush darting across the jade, sketching the exact mis-etched rune she had corrected yesterday. Sparks hissed along its edges.

“Anyone care to stabilize it?” she asked.

A few outer disciples shrank. A Cloud Peak adept attempted a minor tweak; the rune spat sulfurous smoke. Mingyue waved the brush away, unfazed.

“Common solution is brute-force reinforcement. Works—until the next tremor shears the keystone.” She lifted her own brush, ice-blue ink glimmering against sable bristles. “Or we can rotate the excess stroke and redistribute flow through a counter-spiral.”

She added two decisive lines. The rune pulsed once, then settled, light flowing in an even ring. Applause broke out—mostly polite, some genuinely surprised.

Yang Lihua’s voice carried, cool as mountain shade. “Neat parlor trick. Can you adapt on the fly? Say the terrain shifts again, pinning the keystone so you can’t rotate anything?”

Mingyue’s smile flashed. “Would you care to test a theory with me, Senior Sister?”

A hush of anticipation descended. Yang rose, folding her fan. “Terms?”

“If I can’t fix your sabotage in three strokes, I’ll cede you ten Contribution Points and agree to your duel, no questions. If I succeed, you owe the same—and you drop the duel request for good.”

The elders let the wager hang for exactly one breath before nodding. Academic challenge trumped petty turf wars every time.

Yang stepped onto the jade, sketched an intricate frost-lock around the rune. The glyph’s lines sealed under bone-white ice, impossible to rotate now. “Three strokes? Do try.”

Mingyue crouched, studying. Beneath her calm, Xiao Zhu chirped ideas, little sparks tickling her meridians. She selected the thinnest brush, dipped it in a blend of cloudcap silver and phoenix ash.

First stroke—she extended the frozen loop outward, opening a mirrored current. Second—she laced a hair-fine ice thread along the outer arc, giving the yuan flow new footing. The third stroke landed dead center, a tiny spiral that siphoned pressure into the mirrored path and out through the ice thread. The whole glyph glowed sky-blue; the frost-lock shattered like spun glass and dissolved into harmless mist.

The platform vibrated with applause loud enough to startle drowsy birds from nearby pines. Yang’s fan snapped closed. She managed a grudging nod and placed a jade chip—ten points—into Mingyue’s palm. “I retract the duel request,” she said, voice steady but eyes sparking with reluctant respect. “Consider the score settled.”

Mingyue bowed. “Pleasure doing intellectual business.”

Elder Shou announced the honorarium: forty points, plus an extra five “for live demonstration under pressure.” Even Yang had to clap at that.

The symposium broke for tea. Students swarmed Mingyue with scrolls and questions. She spent ten dizzy minutes redirecting them before Jiang Feng appeared, silent as sunrise, and steered her toward a quieter corner.

“You defused the challenge cleanly,” he said. “And earned nearly a month’s stipend in an hour.”

“Forty-five points,” she corrected, pocketing Yang’s chip. “I feel positively decadent.”

His eyes—visible through the mask’s narrow slits—held a warm glint. “Use them to cultivate, not to treat your team to candied hawthorn.”

She raised three fingers. “Two sticks, tops.”

A messenger talisman zipped toward her, bearing Mist Valley’s crest. She caught it, brow furrowing at the seal: the outer sect quartermaster’s office.

Unfolded, it read: Disciple Shen Mingyue is invited to inspect unassigned courtyard plots for prospective reassignment, due to demonstrated contribution and craftsmanship. Selection permitted under guidance of a senior disciple.

She whistled. “They’re offering me a new courtyard.”

Jiang Feng considered. “A better workshop, stronger warding arrays… but also more eyes. Choose carefully.”

Mingyue’s mind raced: extra space for medicinal gardens, a proper beast perch for Xiao Zhu, room to experiment without turning the laundry closet into a blast zone. She smiled up at him. “Careful is relative. Want to come view real estate?”

For once he didn’t deflect. “Tomorrow, at dawn.”

Their gazes held—a promise of quiet companionship amid scheming sect halls—until Chen Guang jogged over, waving two steaming buns.

“You were brilliant!” he said, thrusting one bun into Mingyue’s hands. “I bet the canteen soup pot Yang would lose, so lunch is on me for a week!”

She laughed, bit into flaky dough, and let the day’s triumph warm her better than any tea. With points in her pouch, a courtyard on the horizon, and Jiang Feng by her side (however mysteriously), the valley suddenly felt wide with possibility.

Of course, possibilities often hid traps, and traps were simply puzzles in disguise—a truth Mingyue intended to prove, one clever stroke at a time.