The sun filtered down in pale, even layers, softening the edge of morning as it crept through the low garden wall and fell across the back of Qu Rulan’s neck. She sat with her legs folded beneath her, bare feet pressed to sun-warmed stone, her hands resting light on her knees. The sleeves of her robe were rolled up past the elbows, exposing skin that had finally regained some colour—not flushed, not fevered. Just alive.

  She had always thought the garden behind the house would be useless. An afterthought. The sort of shallow patch nobles requested to keep appearances, with nothing grown in it but trimmed moss and the occasional plum-blossom vine. But now, in the stillness of it—surrounded by curling shade and soft sun, where no voices called drills and no steps rang sharp against stone—Qu Rulan found she didn’t mind it at all.

  The warmth helped. Solar qi settled gently into her chest, drawn in with each breath, slow and even. She’d gotten better at that—at breathing, at taking the light in without straining to hold it, at letting it pass into her limbs without trying to force it. It shimmered faintly through her meridians now, no longer foreign. Her body accepted it the way it had never accepted anything before.

  And it felt... different. Not the qi itself, but everything else.

  That girl couldn’t read, she thought, fingers flexing slightly in the sun. That girl was scared of a scroll.

  It wasn’t bitterness. Not really. More like faint disbelief, as if she were turning over a memory that belonged to someone else.

  That girl had never felt qi. That girl didn’t know what a dantian was. That girl flinched when someone asked her name.

  Qu Rulan opened her eyes slowly, gaze drifting over the stone tiles, the soft bend of a vine curling around the edge of the wall. Her breath was steady. Her heart was not pounding. She wasn’t hungry. She wasn’t exhausted. There was no rot beneath her nails, no coal dust in her hair, no bruise hiding under her collar.

  And she could feel it now—that quiet hum beneath her skin. The soft, waiting glow of the qi she had gathered over days of sunlit hours. It flickered gently through her chest, collecting like light across the surface of still water.

  That girl would have thought this was a dream.

  She let the thought come and go without flinching. There had been so many things she hadn’t dared to imagine before. Things like clean robes and warm beds. Things like breath that didn’t taste of blood and smoke. Things like a future.

  Qu Rulan reached inward, drawing the qi along her pathways—not sharply, not in urgency, but like water coaxed along a curve. Her meridians responded without protest, no longer tight with blockage or fatigue. Everything moved cleaner now. The ache of breakthrough had passed. The worst of it had bled out days ago, and she had kept herself quiet since then, letting the new weight of her strength settle.

  That girl was hungry, she thought, almost amused. And I am not.

  The garden was quiet, save for the soft chirr of a bird somewhere overhead and the creak of a breeze through the narrow wooden frame of the house. Inside, there was no sound—no sign of Wang Feiyan yet. Perhaps she was meditating. Perhaps she had gone to one of the core formations to train. Qu Rulan didn’t particularly care. They had long since perfected the art of ignoring each other.

  She tilted her face slightly to the sun, letting the warmth catch along her cheekbones, and gathered one last breath of qi before letting it disperse gently through her limbs.

  She breathed again, slower now, the qi within her moving with a kind of quiet confidence she hadn’t possessed even a week ago. It wasn’t perfect—her circulation faltered at turns, the new strength still learning its path through old bones—but it moved. And it was hers.

  Her thoughts circled, slow and steady, the way her breath did, curving back not to herself, but to those around her.

  Shen Li moved like someone who did not need to be looked at to be noticed. It had nothing to do with volume or ornament—Shen Li did not shout. She did not boast. But when she stepped into a training hall or a meditation room, people made space. They adjusted themselves without realising it. Even now, days after the breakthrough, Qu Rulan could still remember the way Shen Li had crouched besides her in the cultivation hall—not close enough to crowd, not far enough to be careless—and the steadiness in her eyes.

  There is something I haven’t seen, she thought, brow furrowing slightly, though her breathing didn’t break. Something in the way she carries herself. In how Liao Chen looks at her.

  That wasn’t romantic. It was too devout, too unquestioning. Liao Chen, for all his noise and brightness, followed Shen Li like a banner in a battlefield wind—eyes forward, breath held, eager to fall into step the moment she moved. It wasn’t obedience. It was trust.

  And trust like that had to be earned.

  She’s not like the others, Qu Rulan thought, the warmth of solar qi flickering along her inner arm as she held it. She watches. She waits. She doesn’t flaunt her strength—but I’ve seen it.

  Shen Li had not pushed Qu Rulan to train harder. She had simply offered—a space, a technique, a presence. And Qu Rulan had taken it.

  Her hands tightened slightly over her knees, and she forced them to ease.

  Then her thoughts shifted—another face. Another moment.

  The boy from the first day.

  She didn’t know his name, and she hadn’t thought of him in weeks—not since he’d laughed when he saw her stumbling over the basic cultivation stance, all elbows and bent spine, the words of the opening mantra like wet ink slipping through her fingers. He had looked at her like one might look at a stray animal wandering through a garden—scrap-fed, mud-caked, not worth shooing.

  But then, after the breakthrough, he had looked again.

  She’d passed him in the outer courtyard on the way to her next class, still sore but upright, the fresh weight of qi burning clean behind her sternum. He had turned, half-hearing her footsteps, and she had seen his eyes widen. Just slightly. Just for a breath.

  He could feel it.

  He had felt her qi.

  Not guessed, not inferred. He had felt the weight of it as she passed, the resonance of a body that had cleared its first gate and emerged on the other side. He had not yet broken through—she’d felt it too, the loose, erratic pulse of someone still waiting for that moment, still grasping at a pressure that refused to yield.

  And in that one glance, she had known that he knew it.

  He had stared. Then turned sharply away, back to the friends clustered around him, and she had said nothing. Just walked. Just breathed.

  Let them wonder.

  She didn’t feel smug about it. Not quite. But she remembered how it had felt to be seen only as a joke, a footnote, a shadow in someone else’s story. And she remembered the way his mouth had tensed before he looked away.

  Qu Rulan exhaled, the breath slow and warm and filled with light. The qi pulsed gently through her limbs and settled in her dantian. The garden was still quiet, and she hadn’t moved.

  But no sect ever stood still.

  The market road curved gently between the lower training halls and the east-facing cliffs, sunlight breaking through the cloud-scattered sky in broad strokes that painted the paving stones gold. The air was warm, the kind of soft-breeze warmth that hinted at early spring, and the scent of sandalwood, roasted grain, and old ink mingled faintly as cultivators and vendors wove around one another in casual rhythm.

  Qu Rulan raised her hand in a loose wave as they passed a cluster of younger disciples she vaguely recognised from endurance drills. One of the girls—wide-eyed and round-faced—blinked in surprise before returning the gesture with an eager smile, fingers curling back a moment too fast. Not a friend, not exactly. But not an enemy either. That was new.

  Besides her, Shen Li moved with the same deliberate ease she always carried, sleeves tucked neatly back, posture unreadable. Her steps were slow enough not to hurry Qu Rulan, but never lazy. Liao Chen trailed just behind them, humming quietly under his breath as he peered at stalls like a child trying to decide which treat to beg for first.

  Qu Rulan glanced sideways at Shen Li. “You really meant it when you said I needed new gear.”

  “You look like you’re wearing gauze stitched by a drunk,” Shen Li replied without looking at her, voice dry. “I’m shocked your robe didn’t fall apart during breakthrough. It certainly smelled like it had.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Liao Chen snorted, grinning around the string of grilled millet he had somehow acquired without anyone noticing. “She’s not wrong, though. You’ve been walking around like a ghost wrapped in rice paper.”

  Qu Rulan made a face but didn’t argue. She’d scrubbed her old robe twice after the breakthrough, and it still hadn’t come clean. The sleeves were fraying, the inner lining had long since worn thin, and it was never made to hold qi anyway. Shen Li had watched her step into the training yard that morning, taken one look, and pointed at the gate.

  We’re going out, she had said. No excuses.

  Now, they wove through the inner stalls, where the quality was better but not yet lavish, and the vendors didn't immediately start calling out core prices the moment a new face passed by. The space buzzed quietly—outer disciples bartering for tool repairs, a few mid-tier instructors inspecting medicinal herbs, and the sharp scent of talisman ash drifting from a nearby forge-stand.

  Shen Li turned without warning down a side alley strung with red silk thread and paper lanterns. “This way.”

  Qu Rulan followed, brushing a curl of hair behind one ear, still half-distracted by the movement around her. She wasn’t used to the market on a rest day. The last few weeks had been survival, training, collapse, repeat. Time to breathe hadn’t existed, let alone time to shop. The idea of buying something not just because it was the cheapest thing available, but because it was useful—because she deserved something useful—still sat a little strange in her chest.

  “I’m not looking for anything extravagant,” she murmured, more to herself than to either of them. “Just something that doesn’t fall apart when I breathe qi too hard.”

  Shen Li’s voice was light, but her gaze didn’t waver. “No one said anything about extravagance. But you’ve stepped into the Budding Realm now. Your qi’s stronger. Your robe needs to be able to hold that—or at least not catch fire when someone shouts at you.”

  Liao Chen waggled his eyebrows. “Preferably something that doesn’t smell like smoke and damp rice sacks.”

  Qu Rulan elbowed him lightly. “You’ve got a lot of opinions for someone wearing shoes held together with string.”

  “My shoes,” Liao Chen declared with mock gravity, “are blessed by a long tradition of spiritual frugality.”

  “I’ll believe that when they stop squeaking.”

  They reached the end of the alley, where a small stall stood half tucked beneath an awning of faded jade-green cloth. Bolts of cloth were neatly folded in rows, and hanging behind them were finished robes in muted greys, pale violets, soft browns—nothing ostentatious, but everything well-stitched and subtly reinforced.

  Shen Li stepped forward and greeted the merchant with a polite nod, clearly familiar. “We’ll need something basic but reinforced. She’s recently broken into Budding. Mid-weight threading, nothing too rigid. Light fire resistance if you have it.”

  The merchant—an older woman with cropped hair and a sharp measuring glance—eyed Qu Rulan once from head to toe. “You burn through your last one?”

  Qu Rulan hesitated. “...Something like that.”

  The woman’s mouth twitched. “You’ve got that look. First breakthrough. Nothing ever smells right after.”

  Shen Li didn’t smile, but her voice softened by half a grain. “She’ll need room to grow into it.”

  The woman grunted, already turning to sort through folded bundles on the back shelf. “I’ve got just the thing.”

  The robe the merchant brought out was a deep green with faint undertones of blue and deep olive, the colour shifting subtly depending on how the light touched it. It reminded Qu Rulan, oddly, of river stones—unremarkable from afar, but layered with age, weight, and quiet strength. The inner lining was stitched in soft copper thread, the qi-conductive fibres nearly invisible to the eye but warm under her fingertips. It wasn’t ostentatious, but it was real. Strong. It shimmered faintly under the market sun, resisting her touch just enough to tell her it had been treated with heat-warding and probably a basic fracture charm as well. Not high-tier, but more than she’d ever owned.

  She turned it over in her hands once, then looked to Shen Li.

  “You’re sure?”

  Shen Li tilted her head, the expression unreadable, as always. “Would I bring you to someone who sells faulty thread?”

  Qu Rulan pressed her lips together, not sure if she wanted to smile or roll her eyes. She stepped behind the draped screen to change, careful with the folds, her fingers working slower than necessary. She wasn’t used to things like this—new things, clean things that weren’t patched five times and fraying under the arms. The fabric settled around her shoulders like it belonged there, like it had been made with her shape in mind. It felt too soft. Too clean. She smoothed it down anyway.

  When she stepped out again, Shen Li was already in quiet discussion with the merchant—except the folded robe set had grown. There were two more sets beside the training robe, wrapped in silk ties: one a dusky green with wide sleeves and embroidered hems, and another a deep plum with soft gold threadwork at the collar. Not robes for training. Not something meant to sweat through. These were formalwear—social, even feminine in cut, though not overtly so. Beneath the bundles were low shoes, neatly wrapped, and a lighter over-robe the colour of faded mulberry.

  Qu Rulan stopped short.

  “That’s not mine.”

  Shen Li glanced at her, completely unbothered. “You need more than just a fighting robe.”

  “I didn’t ask for—”

  “You didn’t need to,” Shen Li said simply. “But I’m not about to let someone walk around as my training partner looking like they rolled out of a coal pit.”

  The merchant handed her a receipt roll tied with a cord, then moved on to another customer without missing a beat. The purchases were already bound, already paid for. Qu Rulan stared at the pile, then back at Shen Li, suspicion prickling down her spine—not fear, exactly, but something warier.

  “I can’t accept all that.”

  “You already did.”

  “I—Shen Li—this is too much.”

  Shen Li turned to face her fully then, one brow arched, the edge of her expression cool. “No. It’s appropriate. You’ve broken into Budding Realm, and you’ll be seen. If I let you walk into class or stand besides me in that shredded curtain you called a sect robe, everyone will assume you’ve got no standing. And then they’ll assume I keep company with nobodies who don’t even know how to wear shoes that match their hair.”

  Qu Rulan blinked. “What does my hair have to do with—”

  “You look like a half-starved heron in winter,” Shen Li said blandly. “But the bones are good. The rest can be polished. And like it or not, appearances are political—especially for women. If you look low, they’ll treat you low. If you look careless, they’ll assume you’re either soft or stupid. Cultivator or not, that’s the world we’re in.”

  It was absurd. Utterly absurd. And the clothes—they weren’t cheap. Not extravagant, but well-made, stitched with better thread and structure than anything she had worn in her life. She folded her arms tight across her chest, the new robe shifting gently at her shoulders, holding the press of her qi without protest. It fit. That only made it worse.

  “I don’t need to be a pretty lady in fine robes to fight or cultivate.”

  Shen Li gave a small shrug, turning back towards the lane. “No one said you did. But people watch. And if they underestimate you, they’ll strike first. If they overestimate you, they’ll hesitate. In either case, appearances help. You’re surprisingly pretty now that you’re not starved, so that’s a boon.”

  Qu Rulan didn’t follow immediately, the words flying over her head. She was still staring at the neat stack of cloth and ribbon and shoes. Gifts had strings. Free things always did. And even if they didn’t—she wasn’t used to them. Wasn’t used to being someone worth dressing, worth polishing. Wasn’t used to being seen at all.

  But Shen Li wasn’t looking at her, just walking ahead and Qu Rulan exhaled, then followed after her with the bundles in her arms.

  By the time Qu Rulan returned to her quarters, her arms ached from the weight of carefully wrapped parcels and her skull throbbed faintly behind her eyes. The sun was dipping low across the mountain, stretching golden lines across the courtyard tiles, but her feet were sore, and her patience had long since frayed into nothing.

  She kicked the door shut with one foot, crossed the room in five dragging steps, and dumped the entire pile of items onto her bed with a sigh that came from somewhere far deeper than her lungs.

  Shen Li, as it turned out, had a fatal flaw.

  She adored shopping.

  Qu Rulan collapsed onto the floor with a low groan, one hand still clutching a thin paper scroll that listed item costs in delicate vertical script. She’d thought they were just buying a robe. Maybe shoes. Maybe one set of reinforced wrappings for cold training mornings. But Shen Li had taken one look at the first merchant’s stall and shifted into something else entirely—a quiet, relentless negotiator with the discernment of a noblewoman and the eyes of a war general.

  She had haggled. She had examined. She had demanded minor spell proofs, double-stitched hems, warded pouches, and qi-reinforced thread tension. She had tested the balance on hairpins and turned over robe seams as if they were ancient runes. And every time Qu Rulan so much as reached towards something, Shen Li had narrowed her eyes and asked, “Do you actually need that?”

  Apparently, the answer had always been yes.

  Qu Rulan groaned again and tilted her head back against the side of the bed, eyes fluttering closed. Her back was sore. Her legs ached. Her qi had begun to cycle itself without her even trying, warm and lazy and full in her dantian, which felt almost offensive now—her qi felt better than she did.

  She’d managed to buy what she could: a pair of low-tier talismans, one for mild fire resistance and one for energy fortification, plus a brush kit and small jar of oil for maintaining both her sword and her bowstring. There was a new belt, too, with inner compartments to store seals and copper with a proper lock clasp, and a needle kit with two tiny spirit-thread spools that Shen Li had examined so thoroughly the vendor had nearly wept.

  And now she had… the clothes. Gods, the clothes.

  Qu Rulan didn’t even have it in her to be angry anymore. She just stared at the bundles on her bed with a tired, resigned sort of suspicion.

  They were hers now. Shen Li had paid for them, neatly and without fanfare, with a single gesture and a flick of jade between fingers. Qu Rulan hadn’t seen how much exactly, but she knew from the feel of the fabric that it would have taken her weeks—months—to afford even one of those robes on her own.

  And she hated it.

  Not the robes. Not even Shen Li, not really. She hated owing.

  Owing made people dangerous. It made them change. She had learned that in the low backrooms of tea shops and alley stalls, where a free bun or a kind glance always meant someone would come knocking later with their hand out. Sometimes asking. Sometimes not.

  She didn’t know what Shen Li wanted, not really, and all the talk of politics, appearances—

  That only made her more dangerous.

  Qu Rulan exhaled, long and slow, and let herself lean into the side of the bed, letting the clean weight of her new robe settle around her.

  She’d survived the breakthrough. She’d outfitted herself. She was better prepared now.

  And she would make it through this week—just barely. Her coin pouch was nearly empty. All that remained were two red spirit stones, one yellow, and a few straggling coppers tucked into the belt’s smallest pocket. She’d need to take on more jobs. Fewer training hours, more errands, more foraging runs, more maintenance work in the lower halls.

  Still, the talismans felt like a small victory.

  And the robe she wore now—it fit.

  She opened one eye and scowled faintly at the neat purple bundle on her pillow.

  I am never shopping again.