The blade’s path seemed unremarkable, yet a hidden cadence rippled out like drifting clouds after summer rain, precisely the first motion of the Flowing Cloud salvaged from the Sword Sect’s fallen shrine. The elder’s eyes flared bright, banishing their haze. His breath caught.

“Excellent, truly the Flowing Cloud form!” “You have only sampled its surface,”  said, awe twining with delight, “But the spirit is faultless, better than Lyra has yet managed.”

Lyra puffed cheeks in quiet protest yet offered no rebuttal; the verdict rang true. Setting his hoe aside, the elder stepped close, studying Jared’s posture the way a jeweler studies light through crystal. “Where did you learn that stroke? Speak plainly.”

Jared knew subterfuge would crumble beneath those eyes.

“Within a ruin on level three of the heavens,” confessed. “I didn’t realize it once belonged to the Sword Sect.”

Sorrow lined the elder’s face.

“So the old gate has become a ruin,” murmured. “Once we stood among the greatest in the third heaven, now reduced to dust and rumor…” He exhaled heavily. “Come inside. We will speak there…”