The outer disciples of Stoneveil Sect were gathered like hungry dogs at a feast. Most had heard rumors of the seven who passed the entrance trials, and judging by the stares I got, they didn't like fresh blood with too much bite.
The instructor stepped forward. "You're not inner disciples. Don't act like it. You'll live in the lower barracks, train from dawn to dusk, and eat what's left when the seniors are full. If you want respect, claw your way up."
Someone snorted behind me. I turned slightly. The guy was tall, lean, and had the face of someone who'd spent more time posing with swords than swinging them. "Bet they let you in for entertainment," he muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.
I smiled. "You'll be laughing out of the other side of your mouth soon."
That got a few chuckles. His face twisted, but he didn't reply. Smart.
Our rooms were carved into the cliffside. Cold stone beds, no windows, and walls thin enough to hear snoring two chambers over. I dropped my bag, rolled my shoulders, and got to work meditating. The Blazing Vein Scripture still burned in my mind like hot coals.
By the third day, training started. Early morning sword forms, midday spirit breathing, evening combat drills. Most of the others limped by sundown. I finished every set, then added five more. Pain was nothing new.
On the fifth morning, the lean guy finally snapped. He stepped in front of me during sparring and tossed his blade to the side. "Let's make this fun. No weapons. Just fists. You and me."
The crowd circled, hungry for blood. I shrugged, stepped forward, and gave him what he wanted.
The first punch he threw was fast. I blocked it with my elbow, ducked, and drove my knee into his gut. He gasped. I followed with an open palm to his jaw. His head snapped back, blood spraying across the dirt.
He fell before the second breath.
No one clapped. No one laughed. They just stared.
I cracked my neck. "Next time, bring your sword. And a stretcher."
Later that night, Lu Shen found me sitting on the roof of the barracks, flame dancing between my fingers. He didn't speak at first—just watched.
"You told me this place was a furnace," I said. "So far, it's full of damp firewood."
He grunted. "They burn differently. Just takes the right spark."
I looked at him. "You planning on lighting it?"
He smirked. "No. You are."