By the time Varian finished, the sun’s glow had softened to an amber hue. Rising slowly, his body readjusted to movement. “I needed that,” he murmured to himself.

  Varian made his way back to the servants' quarters, wondering if his comrades had finished their chores for the day. I hope William washes himself too. I don’t want to smell whatever he had to clean out of the cesspool, Varian thought, scrunching his nose at the idea.

  Sweet as William was, his concept of hygiene left much to be desired. Still, as Varian passed through the heavy gates once more, his focus shifted to the prospect of their evening meal, and he headed toward the mess hall.

  As Varian’s thoughts were occupied with tonight’s spar, he didn’t even notice when Ren started calling out to him.

  “Varian! Hey, Varian? Are you okay, man?” Ren asked, his voice tinged with concern.

  Varian turned to his friend, offering an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Ren. I was lost in thought,” he said.

  Ren opened his mouth to speak, but Varian raised a hand, cutting him off. “I’ll explain later, when we’re all together. The others should hear this too,” he added, his tone resolute.

  Ren gave Varian a curious look but eventually shrugged it off, falling into step beside him. The silence between them settled naturally, like a comforting blanket draped over their shoulders. Together, they walked in quiet companionship toward the mess hall.

  Eventually, they arrived at the mess hall, spotting Arthur slumped in their usual corner, teetering on the edge of sleep. The sight drew a quiet chuckle from both young men before they made their way to serve themselves bowls of vegetable soup—the same one from the morning. Thankfully, the extra hours of simmering had worked their magic, enriching the flavors and giving the soup a heartier taste.

  “Don’t fall asleep just yet, Arty. I’ve got some important news to share with you all,” Varian said as he settled himself on the floor, crossing his legs and letting the warmth of the bowl seep into his chilled body.

  Arthur jolted upright at the remark, his drowsiness replaced with concern. “What happened? Is it good news? Or... did something bad happen? Another bout of your... aches?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

  Varian blinked at Arthur’s question, the memory of the morning already feeling like a distant blur. “Actually, it did happen. Worst one yet,” he admitted, his voice steady despite the weight of the revelation. “But that’s not what I wanted to talk about. Let’s wait for Will and just eat for now. I’d rather not lose my appetite before I’ve even started.”

  Ren and Arthur both grimaced at that, exchanging brief glances before focusing on their bowls with renewed determination. For the second time that day, they ate with rapt attention, though this time for entirely different reasons.

  Arthur finished first, letting out a loud burp that echoed through the mess hall. It drew a few sharp glares from nearby servants and servant disciples alike, though none carried much genuine ire.

  Varian finished soon after, with Ren following not long behind. Once their bowls were empty, the three young men lingered in their corner, filling the time with lighthearted chatter about their day. Varian, however, was careful to keep his activities vague, which didn’t escape the notice of Arthur and Ren. The two exchanged knowing glances, silently acknowledging that whatever Varian wanted to share later likely tied to his mysterious day.

  Arthur, it turned out, had been assigned to laundry duty, grumbling about the seemingly endless piles of robes and the indignity of scrubbing sandals. Ren, by contrast, described his day with less complaint, detailing how he had spent hours harvesting all manner of plants and vegetables, destined for either the kitchen or the apothecary.

  While the chores assigned to servants and disciples were often tedious, they were essential to the functioning of the sect. Cultivators were far and few between and seldom wasted their time on such menial tasks, their focus reserved for more profound pursuits. Instead, it fell to mortals—whether aspiring cultivators or those lacking an affinity—to shoulder these duties. Without their efforts, the sect would have little reason to maintain a host of mortals under its direct protection, no matter how aspirational they might be.

  In a sense, the tasks performed by mortals within the sect were their currency. In exchange for their labor, they were granted two warm meals a day, fresh clothes each week, and a safety far beyond what mortals in villages could hope for. However, this came at a cost—each day required them to perform a task, some more burdensome than others. Servant disciples, however, were afforded the privilege of spending the remainder of their day as they wished, a right not shared by the servants.

  As the rowdiness of the mess hall began to die down, Ren noticed William walking in, his steps heavy and his eyes lacking focus. The young men chuckled at the sight.

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  “Oh, come on, Will, it’s not that bad,” Varian teased.

  William focused on them, grabbing a bowl for himself before meandering over. “Varian, don’t even joke about that. I’ve seen more today than I ever thought I would,” he replied gravely.

  Ren raised an eyebrow before lightly smacking the back of William’s head. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic, you big lug. You’re not the first to have to do it, and it certainly isn’t the first time you’ve had to either,” he said, sounding exasperated.

  William broke into a light chuckle at that, soon joined by the others. After a moment, Varian looked at him and said, “I know you weren’t here for this, Will, but I’ve got something to share with you all,” his voice low, as if not wanting to be overheard. “Lucas challenged me to a spar... very calmly, too,” he finished. William raised an eyebrow at that but kept drinking his soup, clearly ravenous.

  “Not like you’re scared of him, right, Varian?” Arthur added lazily, a playful smirk on his face. Ren interjected thoughtfully, “I don’t know, Arthur. Lucas might be a pompous prick, but why would he challenge Varian now, after avoiding him for so long? I don’t think you should take him up on the offer,” Ren advised.

  Varian shook his head. “I already have,” he said, shrugging. “Even though I know he’s got something planned. It’s not like I’ll grow properly if I’m not willing to stick my neck out occasionally.”

  Ren frowned at this but didn’t comment further. William, having finished his meal, set his bowl down firmly.

  “Varian, I have to agree with Ren. You’re stubborn, and I understand why, but you should’ve thought this through more carefully. We could’ve figured it out together,” he said calmly.

  “That being said,” William continued, his serious expression melting into a grin, “now that you’ve accepted, we might as well prepare you properly.”

  Varian returned the grin, amused by his battle-hungry friend. “You get me all too well, Will. I was hoping to get some pointers before my spar with him—maybe some light sparring of our own,” he added tentatively.

  The young men got up in unison and headed over to Lady Wang to hand in their bowls. She teased them for not finishing everything—except Varian, as usual. Of course, there was no malice in her teasing; it was all meant in good humor.

  They walked together toward the training hall, which also doubled as the place where servant disciples spar every evening. As they entered, the sounds of Martial Skills being practiced and wood striking straw echoed around them. It seemed they weren’t the first to arrive today. Two others were already there, both young women, alternating strikes against a dummy.

  Claire kept her hair short, the scar under her left eye giving her an intimidating air. Her punches thudded satisfyingly against the dummy, each strike sounding as vicious as it felt. The boys hadn’t initially given her the respect she deserved, but over the years, through countless bruises and harsh lessons, she had more than earned it.

  The other woman in question wielded a sword, her long hair tied into a ponytail to keep it out of her face. Yue was as cold as her namesake would suggest, though she wasn’t a bad person by any means—she simply wasn’t fond of socializing.

  Varian waved to both of them, greeting them warmly. Claire gave a quick glance and a grunt of acknowledgment, while Yue merely nodded in response. She was practicing a Martial Skill, one of the many available to disciples pursuing the sword. The sword was by far the most popular weapon among cultivators. It symbolized elegance, complexity, and honor. Most Martial Skills were tailored for sword users.

  Varian cleared his mind of those thoughts and focused on what Yue was doing. Her sword strikes were fast and precise—a thrust aimed at the neck, a slice along imaginary tendons. He had sparred often enough against the other nine servant disciples to recognize their styles. Yue favored rapid strikes, attempting to overwhelm her opponent with a series of minor hits.

  William snapped Varian out of his reverie. “Don’t get distracted by the pretty ladies, Varian. We’ve got something to do,” he said.

  Varian rolled his eyes but acquiesced, knowing his friend was right, at least in that regard. He picked up his trusty staff, feeling its weight settle comfortably in his hands. William dropped into position, bending his knees and spreading his arms wide, grinning at his friend.

  Ren counted down. “3... 2... 1... Start!”

  William lunged into action faster than Varian, charging at him like a wild boar heading straight for its prey. Varian backpedaled, keeping his distance while sending tentative thrusts toward William.

  William dodged one after another, closing the gap between them as Varian continued to thrust with his staff. He quickly assessed each strike, dodging each with increasing precision.

  But the last thrust turned out to be a feint, a realization that hit William too late as his knees buckled slightly. Varian had turned the thrust into a low sweep at the last moment, hoping to catch William off guard. Grinning to himself, Varian saw an opportunity to win the spar right then.

  Using the momentum from the sweep, Varian transitioned into a chop, hoping the added strength would be enough to land a decisive blow. William braced himself, raising his arm to block. The staff slammed into William’s arm with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the hall.

  Varian blanched, but William wasted no time closing the gap as Varian struggled to pull his staff back.

  Bang!

  The air was knocked from Varian’s lungs as William tackled him to the ground, the weight of his friend leaving him gasping for breath.

  Varian knew he’d lost, but his concern for his friend outweighed his frustration. William extended a hand to help him up, wincing slightly as he pulled Varian to his feet.

  “Will! Why would you take the hit on your arm like that? Even with a salve, it’ll take at least 10 cycles to heal,” Varian exclaimed, worry etched on his face.

  “Varian, do you think Lucas is going to play nice? I don’t know what he’s planning, but Ren is right—you were rash. This,” William said, pointing to his right arm, “is nothing. Do you think Lucas will fight fair? You talked about sticking out your neck, right? You’ll have to prove you want it more than he does.”

  Varian wasn’t happy. Surely there could have been another way to teach him this lesson without injuring himself. But he knew this wasn’t the time for self-pity. He could hear footsteps echoing from outside.

  Varian’s ragtag group of friends turned to look at the entrance, and even Claire and Yue stopped striking the dummy, knowing this was something more than the usual sparring session.

  The first person to enter was Rufus, his hulking frame nearly blocking whoever stood behind him. Varian’s eyes narrowed. Whatever Lucas had planned, he’d find out soon enough.