Deep within the Myriad Sword Mountains of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect, twilight clouds draped the peaks like silk. Inside a guest courtyard perched on one such peak, Jared reclined in a warm pool, eyes half-shut in tranquil repose.
Pale blue spirit mist drifted off the liquid, threading into his pores and peeling away the fatigue of countless miles. The bath that Linden prepared for him had been simmered from a thousand-year spirit milk and a score of rare herbs, each swirl knitting hidden wounds and shoring up Jared’s foundations.
“Sir Chance, is the pressure comfortable?” one of the two Mystic Sky Sword Sect female disciples asked, fingers kneading his shoulders with surgical grace. Their touch carried the faint hum of sword energy, loosening meridians while never crossing the line into discomfort.
“Yes,” Jared murmured, the word drifting lazily across the water.
How did a simple visit turn into royal treatment with attendants?
Jared had come as a guest and been crowned an honored Lord; refusal would have bruised Linden’s courtesy, so he endured the pampering with bemused restraint.
For a man accustomed to walking the world alone, the silk cushions and whispered service felt less like luxury and more like an ill-fitting robe—elegant, but never truly his.
Master Cloudridge, what a sly old fox… He bows, he flatters, yet every courtesy is a probe. The warmer his smile, the larger his appetite…
He craves news of the Soul Devourer and, more than that, the truth about the shadowy power standing behind me. He’ll gut the heavens to learn it…
Jared reclined in the steaming waters of the pool, weighing his next move against the Sect Master’s inevitable tests, when a sharp, indignant cry cracked the quiet courtyard.
“Who’s inside? Such arrogance! You dare monopolize the Sword Cleansing Pool and order inner disciples about?!”
The voice grew louder with brisk, angry footfalls skimming across the slate path beyond the gate.
The wooden doors were yanked open with a creak, and a flash of scarlet swept in—quick, hot, and uninvited.
She looked scarcely past twenty, tall and poised in a fire-red gown. Porcelain features framed wide, almond eyes now blazing with fury, pale skin set aglow by the color roaring around her.
A long sword in a vermilion sheath hung at her waist, its tassel trembling like a tongue of flame each time she moved. The woman herself seemed a living torch—radiant, volatile, impossible to ignore.
The moment she crossed the threshold, her gaze locked on Jared, half-submerged in the luminous pool, then flicked to the two attendants kneeling at the rim. Her expression turned icy.
“Clara!” the two young women gasped, scrambling upright in a flurry of bows. Their knuckles went white against their robes; they knew all too well the temper coiled behind that crimson silk.
Clara Mayfield spared them not a glance. She strode to the pool’s lip, looking down on Jared as though on an insect, disdain pooling in her bright eyes.
“Human Immortal Realm, Seventh Tier? Hmph! Hardly a legend! Who gave you the nerve to occupy my Mystic Sky Sword Sect’s Sword Cleansing Pool and command the disciples like servants?!”
Jared lifted his eyelids, pupils calm as still water, and regarded the flaming apparition with unhurried interest.
Her attire, her bearing, and the deference shown by the attendants announced high standing, yet rank alone had never impressed Jared.
Since when have I answered to a petulant girl?
“And you are?” His tone drifted out lazy, almost drowsy, as if the young woman’s wrath were no more than summer wind rustling bamboo.
“Clara Mayfield!” she snapped, brows slanted like drawn blades. “Linden Cloudridge, the Sect Master, is my father. Even Core Disciples must earn great merit to touch this pool. What right do you, an outsider, have?”
Ah, the Sect Master’s daughter… Jared’s bemusement settled into understanding; the arrogance tracked perfectly.
“Your father placed the pool at my disposal,” Jared said, smiling mildly. “If you’re dissatisfied, feel free to take it up with him.”
“You!” Clara choked, anger reddening her cheeks. “Don’t brandish my father at me. You must have tricked him with honeyed words. A mere Level Seven Human Immortal visitor shown such honor? Absurd! Now get out, this instant, or I’ll remove you myself!”
