A damp mountain fog drifted across the white flagstones of the Central Plaza.
The mandatory orientation had ended, but the trials of the White-Lotus Royal Academy were far from over. Following the brass bells of the discipline hall, three hundred initiates filed down the winding marble stairs toward the Path of the White Lotus.
Whispers rippled through the moving crowd like wind through dry reeds.
“Did you see the back row in the lecture hall?” a noble youth from the eastern prefectures murmured, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “That blindfolded fellow dodged Elder Morrel’s supersonic chalk without circulating an ounce of Qi.”
“I heard he is an assassin from the southern border,” another whispered. “He wears the blindfold because his gaze alone can shatter an Iron Bone dantian.”
A few paces behind them, Linnea walked with quick, agitated steps, her arms wrapped around her notebook.
“Brother Kaelen,” Linnea whispered, leaning close to his elbow. “Everyone is talking about your dodge. How did you know the chalk was aimed at your forehead? Elder Morrel infused it with Golden Core wind intent. It was silent as a falling feather.”
“I didn’t know about any chalk, Linnea,” Kaelen said mildly. He wore his triple-layered black silk blindfold tightly knotted around his temples. “The desk had a wobble. If a teacup spills on linen trousers, the stain never comes out. It was a matter of basic laundry conservation.”
