Hanlo set his stool in the market square beside the empty grain scales. His robe had a polished brass clasp at the throat, and the brass bell in his hand caught the morning sun each time he raised it. He rang once. The market sellers looked up; two young cultivators stopped by the herb stall.
“People of White Orchard,” he called, “you have heard of the man who survived the furnace. Shen Yan is proof that forbidden arts are safe when practiced with faith.”
The listeners turned toward him. Yan was crossing the square from the training yard, his sleeves still rolled at the wrist. He stopped when he heard his name. Hanlo’s robe had an extra-long cuff embroidered with gold thread, the kind meant to shine from a distance. Yan smiled at the flourish.
“Behold the saint whose body can carry every disciple through danger,” Hanlo continued. “I have studied his posture. I can teach a red art that brings the same strength to those who trust their inner fire.”
A few people laughed at “saint,” but others leaned closer. Many in the Orchard had been told their cultivation would not advance without expensive materials. A promise of a quicker way found the tired and the ambitious alike.
