Scene 1: Lin Ye's Late Entrance
As the crowd settled from the young master's entrance, the Shuilan disciple holding the scroll stepped forward, robes crisp, voice smooth and practiced:
"Participants shall now step forward for the draw—names will be matched, and duels begin by the third bell."
He began unrolling the parchment with ceremonial precision, the flutter of silk loud in the hush of the courtyard.
But then—A sharp rustle of pine branches sliced through the silence.
Heads turned.
From the towering tree just beyond the trial square, a figure slid down the trunk like a wayward child descending a temple pole.
His landing was graceful but entirely informal: a crouch, then a casual bounce to his feet, as if arriving at a midnight banquet.
Lin Ye.
His robe was tousled, one sleeve half off the shoulder.
His hair, loosely tied with a red string, swayed in disarray.
Leaves clung to his belt and there was dirt on one elbow—but his grin sparkled like a moonlit trickster.
He raised his hand lazily, as though greeting old friends at a festival.
"Don't start without me!" he called cheerfully.
"I'm here!Lin Ye!"
Gasps and murmurs spread like wildfire.
"That's Lin Ye?"
"He's late again?"
"Does he think this is a joke?"
Lin Shen let out a sharp breath and buried his face in his palm.
Mu Fan winced but couldn't help the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
At the edge of the pavilion, Xuan Luo remained still.
Impeccably dressed, posture straight, hands behind his back.
His expression did not shift.
Yet those near him sensed it: the faint tightening of his gaze, the way his breath seemed to pause mid-draw.
He studied Lin Ye—not as enemy, nor friend—but as an enigma, like a scholar deciphering a scroll written in clouds.
The disciple with the scroll recovered his poise and stepped forward, his voice clipped.
"Rules state participants must register before the trial begins. No exceptions."
Lin Ye's grin widened.
He flicked a loose strand of hair from his face with a careless gesture.
"Rules? The only rule I follow is: don't get caught."
There was silence.
The Shuilan disciple did not laugh.
Another disciple stepped forward, eyes sharp and tone harder.
"The rules are rules. All participants must register before the trial begins."
He lifted the scroll again with visible irritation.
"Your name isn't—"
Lin Ye interrupted, his voice smooth and confident:
"Check the list. I'm on it."
The disciple squinted at the parchment but found no sign of 'Lin Ye' in plain sight.
A murmured confusion passed through the crowd.
Then, from near the edge of the square, a village elder stepped forward, nodding knowingly.
"He's here. His uncle registered him this morning—'Last-minute cloud chaser' is the name he gave."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Another disciple leaned over the scroll, blinking, then nodded.
"That's his name. Seems he's registered after all."
From the crowd, someone laughed and called out:
"He does it every year! Says if Lin Ye's not late, it's a sign of the apocalypse!"
The scroll-holding disciple looked like he'd swallowed a mouthful of vinegar.
"Technically… he's registered."
Lin Ye beamed, spreading his arms like a performer after the punchline.
"See? Even fate wants me here."
Behind him, Lin Shen muttered:
"Fate wants to strangle you."
Mu Fan choked on a laugh, and even some of the younger disciples nearby failed to stifle their grins.
Xuan Luo, still silent, stood like a still lake under starlight.
But his eyes—calm, unreadable—remained fixed on Lin Ye.
Watching. Judging. Measuring.
Then, with the faintest tilt of his head—barely a nod—he turned away, expression unreadable once more.
Lin Ye caught the movement.
He tilted his head curiously, like a fox noticing a still predator across a clearing.
Then his grin softened, shaded by something less teasing.
Lin Ye turned, tossing a playful grimace toward Mu Fan and Lin Shen.
"Told you I'd make it?"
His cousin shot him a side glance, dry as autumn leaves.
"Only because my father registered you. Otherwise, you'd be nowhere near the trial."
Lin Ye blinked, his grin twisting into a mock sheepish smile—the kind he wore when caught pulling one of his usual tricks.
He scratched the back of his head, cheeks flushing faintly.
"Okay, okay... you got me. But technically, I was fashionably late."
He shot a sly look at Xuan Luo.
Xuan Luo's gaze didn't waver—cool, poised, as if Lin Ye were just a passing breeze rather than a storm.
Lin Ye caught the subtle weight behind those calm eyes and leaned closer, whispering to Mu Fan with genuine curiosity:
"Hey, that's the Third Master, right?"
Mu Fan smirked knowingly.
"Yep. Didn't you hear? He showed up just like they said—graceful as a snowflake settling on still water. But the young master didn't come with a white fox or a flute. And he's definitely not bald—his hair's tied back perfectly. He's not like you, crashing down like thunder."
Lin Ye laughed, eyes sparkling with mischief.
Lin Ye could only whisper one word:
"Graceful…" His voice trailed off, caught between awe and disbelief.
He wanted to say more but couldn't quite find the words—he was too shocked to describe it properly.
He glanced again at Xuan Luo, who sat silently now, hands folded, expression unreadable—still and calm as a mountain lake at dawn.
Lin Ye sighed, admitting it with a reluctant chuckle:
"Alright, I admit it. He's not exactly what I imagined… but that quiet posture?"
"He's got the silence of a deep forest—only missing the wise owl to complete the picture."
He gave a cheeky wink, and kept laughing with Mu Fan until Lin Shen shot them a look, and they stopped.
Scene 2: Rules of the Duel — The Spirit of Combat
The trial grounds thrummed with ritual energy.
In the village square, the dueling arena had transformed overnight.
A large circle was inscribed with glowing talismans, drawn in powdered silver and ashroot ink.
The outer ring shimmered faintly, reacting to even the lightest spiritual pressure.
Protective formations pulsed beneath the earth—ancient scripts designed to suppress fatal energy while amplifying cultivation flow.
It was a sacred space for measuring skill, not spilling blood.
A hush fell as one of the Shuilan Clan's senior disciples stepped forward—tall, composed, dressed in pale blue robes.
His presence carried quiet authority with a sharper confidence, like a man who had lived more on the battlefield than the lectern.
He unfurled a long scroll and spoke with practiced clarity.
"Each participant will face a disciple from the Shuilan Pavilion. This is not merely a test of technique. You will be judged on spiritual balance, control, and discipline. Draw your blade. Draw blood—if you must—but no killing intent. 'Those who strike to kill will be disqualified immediately.' This is a trial of spirit, not slaughter."
A respectful murmur passed through the crowd.
Near the edge of the arena, Lin Ye leaned against a carved wooden pillar, arms folded, posture loose as usual.
His cousin and friend stood beside him, stiff as brooms.
"Control, clarity, respect..."
Lin Ye murmured, brow arched.
"Sounds like they want us to dance, not fight."
His cousin, jaw tight, glared at him.
"Then you better learn to dance fast, or you'll be kicked out before the first footstep."
Lin Ye smirked.
"Let's hope I get a partner who doesn't step on my toes."
His cousin exhaled sharply through his nose, face darkening.
"Spirits help us," he muttered, jaw clenched.
"If you embarrass our village again, I'll duel you myself—after they scrape you off the arena floor."
He crossed his arms tightly, eyes fixed forward.
Lin Ye didn't respond right away.
Instead, he scrunched up his nose and gave a dramatic grimace, tilting his head as if wounded by the sheer harshness of his cousin's words.
He clutched his chest theatrically, then dropped his hand with a sigh—silent, exaggerated protest in every movement—just like someone tragically misunderstood by the world.
Mu Fan smiled quietly but said nothing, letting Lin Ye's antics speak for themselves.