Chapter 19

Mingyue rose before dawn, heart thrumming with equal parts excitement and pragmatic greed. A personal courtyard meant space for a tiny herb patch, shelves that didn’t double as bunk ladders, and—best of all—some privacy to practice split-root flow without turning the dorm washroom into a steam bath.

She met Jiang Feng—still masked and moving under the alias Grandmaster Yun—outside the Quartermaster’s office. He carried a travel lantern of cold flame; the pale fire painted his eyes silver when he glanced at her. “Ready to judge real estate by spiritual resonance?”

“I brought chalk, spirit-ink, and lower expectations,” she said. “Lead on.”

The quartermaster, Elder Bi, shuffled out with a scroll of property seals and a yawning junior clerk. “Three vacant lots,” he wheezed. “First come, first claim—assuming you can activate the ownership tablet and repair any warding flaws. Standard probation: one month.”

Lot One crouched behind the public latrines. Even before stepping through the sagging gate, Mingyue tasted rank humidity and moldy qi. She and Jiang Feng exchanged a single look; she pivoted on her heel and kept walking.

Lot Two sat farther up the hillside, tucked between the alchemy sheds and the outer-disciple lecture hall. Better, but its defensive array stones were cracked through, leaking yuan energy like a punctured wineskin. A frazzled senior disciple named He Ruisheng showed up panting, scroll in hand, convinced this was his destined upgrade. While Elder Bi rummaged for duplicate keys, Mingyue laid a palm on the nearest stone and winced at the unstable buzz.

“You’ll spend more on talisman plaster than this shack is worth,” she warned.

He Ruisheng snorted. “You just want it for yourself.”

“Please, I have standards. Enjoy your money pit.” She bowed politely and moved on. Behind her, the stone gave a crackling pop. Ruisheng yelped, jerking his hand away with singed fingertips.

Lot Three perched on a quiet spur trail half-hidden by bamboo—technically still outer-disciple territory but only a five-minute walk from Jiang Feng’s secluded pavilion on the next ridge. Morning mist pooled in the courtyard like milk; moss-rimmed steppingstones led to a modest three-room house with an attached work shed and a crooked plum tree desperately clinging to life.

Mingyue stepped inside the gate and felt it at once: the wards were weak, but their skeleton was elegant—ancient ink lines half-erased by rain yet humming with potential. She knelt, pressed two fingers to the threshold, and sent a ripple of ice-root qi into the dormant glyphs. They stirred like drowsy beasts, recognizing fresh blood.

A shrill voice rang out. “That lot is reserved for senior-rank merit applicants!”

Yang Lihua strode up the path, lavender robes immaculate, frost curling around her slippers. “Outer disciples shouldn’t squat where they don’t belong.”

Elder Bi squinted at his scroll. “Seal shows no claimant. Rank requirement waived for renovation value.”

Yang’s smile glittered like frostbite. “Then allow me a courtesy inspection.” She glided forward, knelt opposite Mingyue, and pushed her own frost-qi into the gate stone. Cold pressure slammed against Mingyue’s gentle ripple; dormant glyphs flickered between them, uncertain.

Mingyue met the inner disciple’s gaze. “It reacts better to mixed-root harmonics. Pure ice will choke it.”

“Prove it,” Yang said, cool challenge blooming.

Mingyue inhaled. Xiao Zhu stretched awake inside her dantian, offering a humming thread of phoenix warmth. She braided a hair-thin trickle of flame with her ice and tapped a worn corner of the array. Glyph lines brightened in two colors—silver-blue and ember-gold—then flowed inward, stitching across cracks with new vigor. The gate stone pulsed healthy jade and went still.

Yang withdrew her hand, expression shuttered. “So it seems.” She inclined her head, equal parts concession and promise of future interest, then drifted away like departing snowfall.

Elder Bi coughed into his sleeve, clearly relieved no duel broke out on his shift. He handed Mingyue a palm-size ownership tablet. “Press your qi signature to seal it. One month probation.”

Her thumb met the cool jade. The tablet glowed, imprinting her name beside the simple character for Quiet Spring. Fitting.

Jiang Feng wandered the perimeter while she explored. The work shed held ancient wooden racks perfect for drying herbs. The central room’s floor had a subtle resonance—ideal for meditation mats. She opened a crooked side door and discovered a waist-high stone basin fed by a trickle of mountain water. Good for washing pills, maybe even feeding a makeshift pond.

On the rear veranda she found Jiang Feng examining the view. From here, his pavilion’s dark roof tiles peeked through bamboo only twenty paces away, connected by an overgrown stepping-stone trail.

“Convenient,” he said.

“Practically cheating,” she agreed, grin tugging at her mouth. “I can sprint over if your meridians misbehave, and you can scold me in person if I blow up my furnace.”

A soft breeze carried plum-blossom scent between them. Jiang Feng’s mask tilted as though he were smiling beneath it. “Then we should ensure the wards hold.” He produced a slim talisman brush from his sleeve. “Allow me?”

Side by side they knelt along the walkway, redrawing faded boundary lines—his strokes steady and refined, hers quick and precise. Ice-root ink cooled, phoenix ash bonded, and the courtyard’s dormant energy warmed like a hearth revived. By the time the sun crested the ridge, the outer wall chimed with small harmonious notes: a living barrier, newly tuned.

Mingyue sat back on her heels, sweat dampening her collar but exhilaration fizzing under her skin. “Home, sweet experimental hazard zone.”

Xiao Zhu popped into the physical realm—a puffball of scarlet feathers—prancing along the veranda rail before vanishing again with a smug chirp. Jiang Feng chuckled, a quiet genuine sound that vibrated through her ribs.

“Thank you,” she said, more earnest than she intended.

He rose, offering a hand. She took it; his grip was cool strength wrapped in silk. “I benefit as well, Mingyue. Proximity makes collaboration… easier.”

Their palms lingered a heartbeat longer than decorum required. Then footsteps pounded up the trail—Chen Guang, waving a crate of cleaning supplies and two flustered junior disciples he’d conscripted as moving crew.

“Boss!” he called. “Ready to purge dust demons?”

Mingyue released Jiang Feng’s hand, laughter bubbling. “Come on in. Watch the plum-tree roots; they bite.”

The day became a whirl of scrubbing, patching roof tiles, and exorcising one extremely rude spider spirit from the attic (Xiao Zhu ate it with relish; problem solved). By sunset, paper lanterns glowed in every window, the workshop shelves were stocked with neatly labeled jars, and the old plum tree had been pruned back to hopeful branches.

Mingyue stood at the gate, sore, dusty, and utterly satisfied. Somewhere behind the bamboo, a single lantern lit Jiang Feng’s pavilion—an answering star she could reach in ten strides.

Convenience, yes. But also safety, partnership, and the faint, thrilling promise of something warmer than phoenix fire.

She closed the gate, pressed her palm to the fresh ward, and whispered to the night, “Let’s see what we build here.”

The mist rolled in, soft and protective, sealing the courtyard like a quiet vow.