The troupe dispersed like autumn leaves caught in a sudden gust, each member hurrying to their tasks with quiet urgency that spoke of years spent under Wang Hui's exacting standards.
Jian Heian lingered for a moment longer than the others until he saw his chance. He edged backward, step by step, toward the shadowy fringe of the camp, as the night was thick enough already to swallow a small, sneaky boy whole.
But before he could fully become one with the darkness, an iron grip clamped down on the back of his collar, yanking him backward with the same inevitability as a fish hooked from a river.
"Ack! Let me go, you assho-" Heian's protest died in his throat as he dangled, kicking, face-to-face with Wang Hui's unimpressed scowl.
"And where," Wang Hui asked, his voice a low rumble that carried the weight of both command and long-suffering patience, "do you think you're going?"
Heian twisted, his face scrunching up in protest, but Wang Hui's grip only tightened, the fabric of his collar biting into his neck. "Just for you to know, I wasn't running!" he managed, though the words came out strangled, his voice cracking slightly at the edges. "I was just-uh-checking the perimeter! For bandits!"
Wang Hui snorted, the sound thick with disbelief. "Right." His dark eyes gleamed with something between exasperation and reluctant amusement. "The same way you 'checked' earlier today, only for Luo Zhen to find you snoring in a haystack like a drunken field mouse?"
Heian's retort withered on his tongue as Wang Hui carried him forward, forcing him to stay like a newborn kitten, as they marched towards the largest tent in the camp.
The other children shot Heian fleeting glances, some sympathetic, others amused, but he returned them all with a dramatic roll of his eyes, as if this was just another inconvenience in his life.
Inside the tent, Wang Hui dropped him onto a worn cushion like a sack of grain. Heian scrambled upright, rubbing his sore neck, but froze when Wang Hui crouched in front of him, their faces level. For a heartbeat, the man's stern mask cracked. A flicker of something tired, something almost pleading, passed through his eyes.
"Heian," he said, quieter now, the usual bark of his voice tempered into something that almost resembled gentleness. "Just this once. Try."
The words landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through Jian Heian's chest. He blinked, momentarily stunned. Wang Hui never pleaded. He yelled, he threatened, he scowled, but he didn't ask.
A beat passed, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire. Then Heian huffed, crossing his arms defensively over his chest. "I always do my best," he muttered, though the protest lacked its usual bite.
Wang Hui's mouth thinned. "No, you don't." he corrected, his voice dropping lower. "And you know it too very well." He exhaled sharply through his nose.
And, as he dropped down on one knee to look the child in the eyes, the lantern's light got caught in the grooves of his weathered face, casting half of it in shadow. "You think I don't see where your mind goes?" he murmured, his gaze piercing. "That damn dreaming gaze of yours?"
Heian stiffened, his fingers curling reflexively into fists at his sides.
Wang Hui's voice was barely above a whisper now, the words meant for Heian alone. "You want to reach The Heavens? Fine. But you won't reach them by half-hearted swings of your sword." His eyes bore into Heian's, unrelenting. "Even cultivators, yes, those cultivators you always fantasize about earn their place. And they don't do it cheaply either."
The words stung, not because they were cruel, but because they were true. Heian's throat tightened, his nails digging into his small palms.
Then Wang Hui stood, his shadow swallowing Heian whole. "Tonight," he said, his voice regaining its usual steel, "you hold a sword like it's part of your arm. You move like you mean it." He paused, letting the weight of his next words settle. "Or you'll spend the next month scrubbing pots until your hands bleed. Understood?"
Heian muttered something unintelligible under his breath, his gaze dropping to the dirt.
Wang Hui's eyebrow twitched. "Understood?"
"...Yes."
"Good." Wang Hui turned away, but not before Jian Heian caught the barest flicker of something in his eyes, something that might have been hope, or pride, or perhaps just the mere reflection of the light.
For a long moment, Heian stood there, the weight of the man's words pressing down on him like a physical thing. Yet, as the lantern's final gilded light could fade into nothingness, Luo Zhen came in tossing a sword his way with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Stop sulking," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "That face does not match you, buddy."
Heian caught the sword barely, and shot Luo Zhen a glare that could have melted iron. But as he looked at the sword's blade, his grip on the hilt got tighter than before, his fingers settling into the grooves of the worn leather with something resembling determination.
[...]
Later, as the troupe rehearsed under the watchful eyes of the senior members for the last time, Heian found himself paired with one of the younger girls, Xiao Lan.
She moved with a grace he envied, her strikes clean and precise, her footwork effortless. His own movements were... less so.
"You're leaning too far forward," she whispered as they circled each other, her voice barely audible over the clatter of practice blades.
Heian gritted his teeth, his next swing coming out more forceful than intended. "I know," he snapped.
Xiao Lan hesitated, her green eyes flickering over his face before she added, softer, "Boss Wang Hui bought you from a trader, didn't he?"
The question caught Heian off guard. His next swing went wide, the momentum nearly sending him stumbling. "W-What?"
"I heard the elders talking," she admitted, her gaze darting to where Wang Hui stood observing the troupe. "They said you were... a slave. Before."
Heian's throat tightened. The memories were hazy, half-formed things that he could not quite put together. The bite of cold iron around his wrists, the incomprehensible shouts of the western folks, the way the world had narrowed to the confines of a cage. All that until Wang Hui had stepped in, tossing a bag of silver at the slaver with a dismissive flick of his wrist and dragging Jian Heian away without a second glance.
"Yeah," he said at last, his voice rough. "So?"
Xiao Lan's expression was unreadable. "So... you're lucky."
Heian scoffed, the sound harsh in his throat. "Lucky?"
"Boss Wang Hui could've left you there to rot." She adjusted her stance, her gaze steady. "He didn't."
The words settled over Heian like a boulder. His eyes found Wang Hui again, standing with his arms crossed, his ever-present scowl firmly in place as he watched the troupe.
For the first time, Heian wondered if that scowl wasn't just anger, but something else. Something like expectation.
Something like faith in them.