There were no lines of eager disciples, no rows of kneeling candidates waiting to be chosen. No introductions. No guided process. Just an open-air stone hall under the shade of pines, the air still and quiet
At the far end, behind a low desk lacquered in faded black, sat the single elder.
After a short welcome, he simply slid a scroll over the table.
Typical hospitality.
Lumi nudged Riven lightly.
He stepped forward and picked it up.
The parchment was thick, slightly yellowed at the edges. Inside, someone had carefully sketched portraits — one per page — with a short paragraph of notes beneath each face: Name. Age. Origin. Strengths. Known temperament. Simple, but surprisingly meticulous.
Most of them had the same general tone: polite, diligent, average-to-good aptitude for housework, cooking, or gardening.
He flipped through quickly.
There was a girl with long dark hair and a bright smile.
A nervous-looking boy with good handwriting and passable sword skills.
Another girl described as "mild-tempered and eager to serve."
A burly youth from the southern sect border who liked animals.
Each face — each smile — seemed to blur into the next.
By the time he reached the last page, he still hadn't made up his mind.
Or rather — he didn't want to.
His mind drifted, unbidden.
Mira.
Her steps soft on the stone floor. The bathwater still warm.
Him sedated in his own bath.
The knife glinting slightly.
But no matter how unwilling he was.
He needed someone.
The residence couldn't manage itself. Not with how much time training would take now. Especially after he'd found that notebook in Mira's room — the one listing the garden's many strange flowers, some of which were valuable enough to attract thieves or worse.
Well.
Part of him still believed he might find his family in the city.
That this life — this sect — wouldn't be permanent.
But the past few weeks had taught him better. Hope was fine.
But preparation was survival.
That was the one thing he'd take with him from his time here.
He had to be ready for an unwelcome outcome.
He had to consider how he could keep living here if he failed to find them.
And so he had to get another servant.
"So?" Lumi's voice broke through the haze — light and teasing as always. "Anyone interesting?"
"...I'll need to look again," he said quietly.
And he did.
This time, more slowly.
He passed the smiling ones. The kind faces. The helpful eyes. The innocent looking girls or boys.
He didn't want another Mira.
Well. Not like she really ever was that nice.
But it didn't matter.
He had a feeling he'd lose his caution if he had to see an innocent looking face for too long.
That was something he didn't want to risk.
So when he reached a page, he'd barely glanced at before, he stopped.
The sketch was rougher than the others — fewer strokes, darker lines.
A large, broad-shouldered youth. Cropped blonde hair. A jaw like it had been carved from stone. Nose crooked from what looked like two or three old breaks. A long, jagged scar ran from the side of his neck down across the collarbone. His eyes were narrow, heavy-lidded — and something in the way they were drawn felt tired.
More than tired. Closed.
Name: Brann
Age: 19
Origin: Hunting village; conscripted service
Skills: Heavy lifting, physical labor, outdoor survival, basic sparring training
Temperament: Quiet. Standoffish.
Notes: Reprimanded twice for excessive sparring force.
Riven stared at him longer than he'd meant to.
Brann didn't look friendly.
Didn't look like someone you could ever mistake for soft.
And that, strangely, made Riven feel...safer.
He wouldn't forget this time.
Every glance would remind him not to lower his guard. Not to relax.
Not again.
Without saying a word, he walked back to the desk and laid the scroll down.
"This one."
The elder raised a brow faintly, then gave a small nod.
Even Lumi leaned over to peek — then shot him a weird look.
"Brann," the elder said, pulling out a fresh ledger page. "He should be at the Combat Dungeon right now."
A pause, then the elder slid a small token across the counter — a flat piece of wood marked with the sect's emblem and a black inked seal.
"Show him this. He'll follow you back."
Riven pocketed it. "Thanks."
They stepped back into the open air together. The pine-covered path was quiet, the wind stirring loose needles across the stone.
After a few moments, Lumi tilted her head, eyeing him sideways.
"…So?" she said. "Why'd you pick him? Most guys pick cute girls."
Riven didn't look over. "I want to stay on edge."
Lumi blinked. "Huh?"
He shrugged. "Can't afford to get comfortable again."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then smirked. "I knew it. You're into scary guys."
He rolled his eyes. "Please leave."
Laughing, she turned to go. "Anyway, I've got things to do. Good luck with your new roommate, broody."
And then she was gone, vanishing back into the pavilions like a breeze through petals.
Riven exhaled and made his way down toward the Combat Dungeon.
It had only been a few days since he last came here.
Funny how he ended up back at this place.
Inside, the main chamber was filled with the muffled sounds of sparring — qi clashing against qi, the dull smack of fists meeting flesh. At the assembly point near the entrance, a handful of disciples waited for match assignments. Among them stood Brann.
Broad. Still. Silent.
He was apparently taking sparring requests to earn extra merit points.
A quick flash of the token was all it took. Brann didn't question it. He simply nodded once, collected his things, and followed Riven back without complaint.
The walk was quiet.
Back at the residence, Riven assigned him Mira's old room.
He gave him the notebook she'd left behind — filled with carefully labeled sketches, flower cycles, and strange alchemical notes. Everything that was useful.
Everything except the hidden pages with the needle technique.
He'd torn that out before handing it over.
Brann didn't ask questions. Just nodded once, unpacked in silence, and began organizing the garden tools without being told.
Efficient.
Detached.
Quiet.
As the description had said.
Exactly what Riven needed.
With everything finally handled, Riven closed the door to his own room, sat down, and exhaled slowly.
It had been a while.
After a short rest, he crossed his legs, steadied his breath, and let his mind grow still.
The world faded.
The qi stirred — faint at first, like mist over still water — then pulled inward, drawn to the steady rhythm of his breathing.
It started slowly, but soon like a spring dripping back into a drained basin, the ambient qi flew toward him.
The qi particles began to stir.
Drawn inward.
A faint pressure formed, and as that happened, his boundary — that invisible seal around his dantian — slowly stretched.
With his cultivation realm at the mid-stage Inner Essence Realm, his dantian was roughly as big as his fist.
But now it moved. Expanded.
The qi surged.