"What is she doing here…?"
Wang Chen froze mid-motion, the familiar voice ringing through the tranquil air of the dojo. His thoughts whirled in disbelief; it took him several seconds to regain even the most basic composure. Hastily, he straightened his robes, smoothing creases with sweaty palms and trying to push his unruly hair into place. Seldom did he receive visitors, let alone ones who could disturb the quiet so thoroughly.
Zi Han. The moment her name surfaced, an absurd thought struck: Did she actually fall for my mysterious charm and come to beg to be my disciple? The idea made him grimace.
If he let her in—truly let her in—everything he'd meticulously built would be at risk. His system, his careful facade as an eccentric hermit, the secrets underpinning his every achievement, even the fragile respect that allowed him to remain an enigma.
Moments later, two figures stepped into the entrance: Zi Han—mature, elegant, with a beauty both exquisite and faintly dangerous; and beside her, a younger woman, vibrant as a wildflower and radiating grace. Instantaneously, the air in the dojo changed: tranquil stillness became a taut silence, heavy and filled with expectations.
Wang Chen forced a polite smile, though every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. "Ah… Lady Zi Han, what a rare and unexpected visit."
Zi Han's eyes met his. They were cool and appraising, and with a single glance she seemed to peel back every pretense he wore. A faint snort left her lips; the aura she exuded rippled outward, subtle yet undeniable, and the aged floorboards groaned as if under fresh weight.
From the courtyard, Lin Huang paused mid-motion, sweat still drying on his brow as he finished his workout. His gaze flicked toward the hall, curiosity sharpened by the chill in the air. So these two ladies were not teachers guests? He watched with mild amusement.
Xin Yi, the new arrival with intelligent, searching eyes, studied Wang Chen with a focus that nearly pierced the skin. Outwardly, his aura was faint—practically non-existent. Yet something about him was different, the effortless serenity and undeniable poise, set her on edge. It was the type of bearing she recognized only from true monsters in disguise.
But Xin Yi withheld judgment and simply observed. She had encountered far too many pretenders in her brief, brutal life.
"Please, have some tea," Wang Chen said, calm and courteous, gesturing toward the low table in the center of the sunlit hall.
Zi Han drifted across the floor with measured grace. Her disciple followed, gliding to her knees, every movement careful and steeled with discipline.
The dojo itself was simple—weathered wooden beams, wooden mats woven with gentle care, and a faint, persistent fragrance of worn incense. For Xin Yi, every shadow felt slightly off, as if the air shimmered and bent in ways she could not explain.
Soon enough, Wang Chen set out three earthen cups filled with steaming green tea. Slender streams of vapor curled upward, spiraling through the dangling golden sunlight.
Zi Han picked up her cup with a practiced flick of her wrist, a suspicious look in her eyes. The aroma was unremarkable, the color dull and uninspired. She sipped—
—and the world twisted out from under her.
In the span of a heartbeat, the taste of tea was replaced by overpowering ash and blood. The dojo floor faded into the haze and smoke of a battlefield that stretched to the horizon. Wraiths surged from the darkness, their howls carving through her skull—each one an echo of a spirit stronger than Grand Ascension, pressing in like a tide. The very air quaked around her, fraying at it shook, ready to collapse beneath the weight of so many dead.
Her instincts screamed for action, screaming for violence—but something within told her to wait. She released her divine sense and, just as quickly as it began, the illusion shattered. The dojo snapped back around her, tranquil and sunlit, as if nothing had ever changed.
Zi Han's hand shook imperceptibly as she set the cup down.
Opposite her, Xin Yi was trembling—her knuckles white, skin pale as snow. She hunched over, the world in her eyes filled with ghosts and nightmares. The hallucination clung to her like a second skin, threatening to drag her under.
With delicate precision, Zi Han pressed a gentle palm to her disciple's back. A pulse of soft divine light rippled forth, instantly banishing the shreds of lingering terror. Xin Yi slumped forward, gasping, sweat beading along her brow.
"M-Master… what was that…?"
Zi Han's frown deepened, her expression unusually gentle. "Xin Yi. My disciple cannot remain ignorant forever. Very well—consider this your first lesson."
While Zi Han spoke in quiet, measured tones, Wang Chen nearly coughed into his own cup, eyes wide at the sight of the two women's reactions.
If anyone walks in right now, they'll think I poisoned my guests!
He struggled to keep his features composed, sipping his tea with forced etiquette and the facade of pure wisdom.
Zi Han's voice took on a low, reverent note. "The art of tea-making is a profound Dao in itself. When a true master reaches the stage of Intent Infusion, they can embed emotion—or even memory—into each cup. Those who drink thus may glimpse, even relive, moments from the brewer's past."
She glanced toward Wang Chen. "What you experienced was, without doubt, a fragment of fellow Daoist's memory."
Wang Chen nearly spit out his tea. What memory? I just boiled some leaves I got from the market!
Xin Yi's confusion faded as astonishment rose. Inward focus revealed the truth—her cultivation bottleneck had loosened, the road to breakthrough suddenly flickering in the mist.
"Quickly," Zi Han ordered. "Thank fellow Daoist. Such opportunities to touch the Dao itself are rare as phoenix feathers."
Xin Yi bowed so deeply her forehead grazed the mat. "Disciple thanks Senior Wang for his great guidance."
Wang Chen's ears turned red, with embarrassment and mounting confusion. "No need for formality. It's only a humble meeting gift..forgive me if it was unable to satisfy you," he managed to say, hoping to play the part., outwardly he looked completely calm and composed.
Zi Han, however, was lost in her own speculation.
No harm—her thoughts raced. At the true Intent Infusion level, even masters can suffer backlash. Unless—unless…
Her pupils quivered with awe and solemnity.
Memory Manifestation…!
A stage above Intent Infusion, remembered only by few of the oldest sects. A realm where tea—or any art—did not merely suggest memory, but made others live it, imbued with the original Dao's essence. So rare that those few who reached it were often imprisoned, used as living artifacts by greed-driven sects.
And yet this man sat before her, entirely unbothered, sipping his tea as if sunrise and apocalypse were equally ordinary.
Zi Han's gaze lingered on Wang Chen, storm clouds swirling behind the veil of her eyes, curiosity and suspicion blooming into something far more dangerous.