The next month passed in relative peace—something that, in the case of Han Yu, was more alarming than any ambush.
Gone were the days of laundry room brawls, mistaken wise immortals, and exploding pill experiments. No socks floated from disciple chambers. No elders stared suspiciously at him. No alchemists stalked him with vials of bubbling horror. Han Yu, much to everyone's surprise, behaved.
Mostly.
Fatty Kui had returned to seclusion under his master, groaning about "boulder squats" and "spiritual crunches" as he was dragged away by a grinning elder. The next time Han Yu saw him, Kui promised, he would be a new man—taller (questionable), leaner (highly doubtful), and capable of surviving at least fifty falling rocks per day (maybe).
That left Han Yu to his own devices, and for once, his devices were serious cultivation.
