Deep night cloaks the West District as Lyza stepped from darkness to the wall of a tasteful compound. She manifested like the afterimage of a vanished candle, no crunch of gravel, only the hush of fabric.
Night-clothes absorbed stray moonlight, her aura sank to dust level as she scanned every branch, every tiled ridge. Jared’s coded glyphs said the reclusive scholar Mr. Moore slept inside these walls. Her task was to remove him without harm; the man bore no grudge, but he blocked Jared‘s path.
The night air lay unmoving around the Rain-Listening Pavilion perimeter. Lyza crouched atop the tiled roof of a side corridor and let her breath settle. She had no intention of barging in and setting off someone else’s alarm.
She dropped to the shadow of a cypress and moved, silent as ink, around the low courtyard walls. Every few steps she pressed two fingers against the stone, drawing in the ripple of spiritual currents the way others test wind.
Inside, only one flicker of life answered her sweep—faint, unstable, second tier at best. No defensive array hummed beneath the floor; the silence here was ordinary, the kind broken by crickets, not by runic teeth. From her sleeve, she slid a slim bamboo tube no longer than a finger joint. She set the reed to her lips, let one steady breath slip through, and watched a ribbon of colorless smoke wriggle toward the wooden door. It seeped into the cracks, eager as a ghost invited home.
The mix carried no scent, yet she could almost taste the bitter herb on memory—last time it flattened three border sentries before they finished a yawn. Anyone beneath master rank would drift off in a breath or two, slipping into a night so dark even dreams forgot them.
She waited until the glow of a single lamp dulled and went black. Then she sprang, light on curved roof tile, palms catching the ridge before her feet ever touched the wall top. A silent roll, a measured drop, and she crossed the courtyard on cat shadows. The main house door stood ajar; she slipped through without brushing the frame.
On the low wooden bed lay an elderly scholar, hair and beard the color of frost, cheeks sunken from years bent over scrolls. His chest rose once, fell slow, then settled into the thick hush her powder loved. Mr. Moore would remember nothing of tonight. Lyza knelt beside him, thumb checking his pulse for rhythm. Satisfied, she pressed a thumb-sized charm against the mattress. The fabric dissolved into shimmering glyphs, opening a storage satchel that swallowed man and bedding alike without a sound.
She brushed stray footprints from the floorboards, nudged the oil lamp upright, and breathed once across the latch so the faint dust resettled smooth. When she slipped back into the courtyard, the room behind her looked untouched by night. The sack hung light across her back as she vaulted from roof to roof, keeping to the blind angles of patrol torches.
Before the eastern watch bell rang twice, she had glided past the outer wall breach, threaded through cedar groves, and reached a limestone cliff pocked with a single narrow throat. Lyza set the satchel inside the cave, wove a barrier seal that muffled breath and spirit alike, and stepped back into the wind. Only after the final rune settled did she allow her shoulders to drop.
The mission was clean—no death, no residue. Now she needed distance. Turning north, she raced across the treetops, mind already ticking toward the hidden rendezvous where Jared’s next order would find her.
***
Morning arrived bright and cloudless, sunlight rinsing Jade Immortal City in pale gold. Rania kept her stride light as she crossed the stone bridge toward the Tranquil Heart Pavilion. The new sea-green gown skimmed her ankles, its cool hue setting off the warmth in her skin. A faint breeze lifted the hem, carrying the scent of dew-heavy jasmine into her sleeves. She had spent an extra moment on her hair, coiling it high and fastening it with a trembling pearl pin that caught every shaft of light. The tiny motion of the ornament echoed the cautious excitement fluttering in her chest.
Minutes stretched. Quentin did not appear. Instead, a low-rank steward shuffled in, both hands shaking around a porcelain cup he set before her. She lowered the cup untouched. “Where is Mr. Fay? Has he not risen yet?”
“M-My… M-Ms. Rania…” the steward’s voice cracked. Sweat beaded at his hairline. “The Grand Chamberlain left the estate last night. He said urgent business would keep him away for several days… Before departing, he instructed us to invite a scholar versed in archaic scripture… The gentleman is waiting in the Guest Reception Annex. The Chamberlain said you may go to him directly…”
“Left? For several days?” Her brows lifted. A faint crease formed between her brows. Quentin had agreed only yesterday to fetch Mr. Moore today; why disappear himself overnight? And summon someone else in his place? The move felt sloppy, not like Quentin’s usual watertight habits, more like haste showing through a crack.
“Had my probing yesterday unsettled him? Or was the emergency real? Quentin might be dubious, but the man he hired could still be worth meeting…” Doubts lingered, yet curiosity about the invited scholar grew louder. “Lead the way…” Rania rose, decision snapping into place.
At the Guest Reception Annex, through the open gateway Rania spotted a white-robed guest preparing tea at a stone table set beside a stand of emerald bamboo. Steam curled over his hands in delicate threads, more mist than heat. Morning light filtered through the bamboo leaves, spilling dapples across his moon-white robe and the calm set of his profile. The fragrance of brewed leaves drifted with the green scent of stalk and dew, weaving a hush that felt almost private.
Guided by the steward, Rania stepped inside and met exactly that scene. Her steps softened without thought, as if noise might fracture the stillness. The young man’s posture was straight, his presence gentle, his refined profile lit by shifting shades of green—nothing like the gray-haired, dusty scholars she had pictured.
As though sensing her arrival, he lifted his head and turned toward the gate. Their gazes met. A small, bright thump touched her heart. She could see the other party’s eyes were clear yet deep, autumn-lake still, holding a space where her own reflection seemed suddenly honest. The look he offered was open, mild, and simply questioning—no flash of flattery, no hungry admiration.
“Are you Ms. Rania?” Jared set the slender teapot down and rose. Light brushed the sleeve of his moon-white robe. He brought his hands together in a courteous salute. “I am Jared…” he said, voice steady. “By order of Grand Chamberlain Fay, I have waited here. He says Ms. Rania is gifted in ancient scripture and hopes I might explore a difficulty with you…”
His tone carried a calm warmth, each word measured just enough to be clear without pressing. The sound settled over her like fresh spring water, easy to breathe. Rania blinked back to the moment and returned the salute, a small smile tugging at her lips before she noticed it.
“Mr. Chance is too polite… Mr. Fay mentioned the idea only yesterday and you are here already. Forgive me, but are you acquainted with Mr. Moore from West City?”
“Mr. Moore and I go back many years,” Jared answered without pause. “His learning is profound, and I often seek his counsel.” Jared’s smile lightened an inch. “Mr. Moore set out a month ago to visit friends, and his return is uncertain… Grand Chamberlain Fay heard I was journeying nearby and dabbling in ancient star-force ley lines, so he invited me… If my sudden arrival offends, Ms. Rania, I beg your pardon…”
His answer fit together so neatly that Rania could find no seam to tug at, and his manner remained neither self-abasing nor proud. Some of the mist of doubt inside her thinned. She pictured Quentin searching for Mr. Moore, discovering the vacancy, and turning to this younger scholar at the last minute. It felt plausible… The poise in Jared’s bearing and the quiet precision of his words left little room for the usual charlatan’s tricks.
“Mr. Chance, you are too modest. It is my good fortune to learn from you.” She drew the chair across from him and settled, placing the jade slip that held the ancient text on the stone tabletop. “Yesterday Mr. Fay and I puzzled over this passage. The line ‘The Sky Pivot draws the stars, the Earth Gate opens and shuts’ refuses to yield. What is your view, sir?”
While she spoke, she kept her gaze on his face, searching for the smallest flicker of uncertainty or pretense. Jared lifted the slip between finger and thumb. A faint energy shimmered in his eyes as his spirit sense brushed the script. His brows pinched, then softened with a spark of comprehension and admiration. “Your eye is keen indeed, Ms. Rania. You have gone straight to the heart of the matter.”
He set the slip down and traced a glowing line across the tabletop. Threads of azure light spread into a simple star map, then sank to show the shifting veins beneath the earth. “This phrase is not ordinary geomancy,” he continued.
“Here, ‘Sky Pivot’ is likely a specific conduit, a draw point in the full-cycle star force rather than the single star you find in common charts… Likewise, ‘Earth Gate’ is not simply a tear in a ley line. It names the matching threshold in land or body that answers the Sky Pivot.”
He wove references from half-forgotten classics with practical diagrams, each idea building on the last until the once-opaque sentence stood clear and logical. Not only did he solve her riddle, he sketched three distinct methods to harness the principle for cultivation or formation work, each supported by text and example.
