Azure Sky's outer sect was a city carved into the mountain.
Terraces of tiled roofs clung to cliffs. Stone bridges arched over deep ravines. Waterfalls spilled from higher peaks, feeding streams that ran in carefully channeled lines through courtyards.
Disciples in blue robes flowed along paths, some carrying swords, others baskets or scrolls.
Qi saturated everything.
Ifabola's System went into quiet overdrive, labeling.
Buildings:
– Flame Peak Training Yard (high Fire qi).
– Herb Gardens (Wood qi dense).
– Alchemy Hall (mixed).
– Archive Pavilion (??? – faint Law / Name traces).
Her heart pricked at that last one.
Elder Shen led them through a series of courtyards to a broad square where a carved stone disk sat embedded in the ground.
"This is the Intake Circle," he said. "Those accepted as outer disciples will be marked in the sect records. Those taken as servants will be assigned to halls. Those deemed unsuitable…" He shrugged. "Will go home."
He gestured.
A plume of white light rose from the disk, forming the faint outline of a scroll unrolling in the air.
Script characters—this world's, not Ifabola's—glowed along it, names and ranks.
[OBJECT: SECT ROLL – MANIFESTATION]
Function: Bind names to positions.
Hidden Layer: Contracts.
It was, essentially, a giant oath board.
She tingled.
Lian Feng called names.
"Ouyang Fei – Flame Peak, outer disciple candidate."
Fei stepped onto the disk.
Light wrapped around him, forming a brief, translucent sword above his head before sinking into his skin.
The scroll etched his name in bright red.
"Li Wen – Herb Hall servant."
A green leaf flickered above Wen.
"Jun – Herb Garden assistant (probation)."
Jun's symbol was a small brown sprout.
He looked both proud and terrified.
Finally:
"Lin Xiao‑lan – Archive Pavilion, miscellaneous servant (probation)."
She stepped into the circle.
The qi here felt different.
Less raw, more…defined.
Like paper already written on.
A faint silver quill formed over her head, then a tiny knot symbol only she seemed to notice.
Her name etched onto the scroll in pale blue, then…again, in faintly different script—overlaid by the System, marking her in its own ledger.
For a heartbeat, she stood at the intersection of three naming systems:
Ayetoro's orisha‑touched naming rituals.
The Heavenly Realm's sect roll.
The Script of Ten Thousand Names.
Her palm ached.
The world did not explode.
Good.
Elder Shen clapped his hands once.
"Assignments made," he said. "Flame Peak disciples will follow Senior Disciple Han. Herb Hall candidates, with Elder Mo's attendant. Archive servant—"
His gaze flicked to Xiao‑lan.
"—with me."
Murmurs.
"Law Hall taking a servant?" someone whispered. "Strange."
He led her and Jun along a quieter side path away from the noisy trainee groups.
At a junction, he stopped.
"Jun," he said. "Turn left. Follow the path with the herb carvings until a disciple wearing a green sash stops you. Do not wander."
Jun bowed hastily. "Yes, Elder!"
He shot Xiao‑lan a worried glance.
She wiggled her fingers in what she hoped was a reassuring wave.
Then Shen turned right.
"Come," he told her.
They climbed a smaller set of stairs to a building that looked older than most: three stories of dark wood, its eaves carved with dense patterns. No flashy banners marked it. The sign above the door read simply: Archive Pavilion.
Qingmen Hall, the sect's library.
Dust and power seeped from its seams.
Ifabola inhaled.
The qi here tasted like old ink, dried sweat, and quiet arguments.
Perfect.
Inside, rows upon rows of shelves stretched into dimness, laden with bamboo scrolls, bound books, and stacks of loose talismans. A few disciples moved between them, arms full. Lanterns flickered with steady, understated light.
An old man sat at a central desk, brush in hand, copying a page with meticulous care. His hair was thin and white, his robe the same azure as the others but faded and patched at the elbows.
[SCAN: ELDER WEI – ARCHIVE PAVILION]
Realm: Foundation Establishment (Mid)
Qi Affinity: Wood / Minor Law
Occupation: Archivist / Contract Keeper
Disposition: Perpetually Annoyed, Secretly Soft.
He didn't look up.
"You bring a broom, Shen?" he grunted. "Or another sword brat to pretend they can read?"
"A knot," Shen said simply.
Wei's brush paused.
He lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing behind thick brows.
He peered at Xiao‑lan as if she were an interesting insect someone had deposited on his table.
"What's your name, girl?" he asked.
"Lin Xiao‑lan," she said. "I…also answer to Ifabola."
Both men blinked.
"Strange middle name," Wei muttered. "You look like a Lin. Fragile, stubborn. Good."
He rose, joints crackling.
"Show me your hand," he said.
Alarm flared.
The System whispered: Caution.
But something in Wei's qi tasted…familiar. Like dusty copies of the Oath‑Tide Sutra's principles.
She extended her right hand.
He did not touch the glowing mark, only hovered his fingers above it.
His pupils shrank.
"Law on Law," he murmured. "A child wearing three scripts at once. When you go looking for trouble, Shen, you do not pick small rocks."
"She found me," Shen said mildly.
Wei grunted.
"Names?" he asked.
Shen hesitated infinitesimally.
Wei snorted.
"Fine. Keep your big secrets. Little one," he fixed Xiao‑lan with a stare, "can you read?"
"Some," she said. "Not your characters yet. I read…different ones."
He snorted again.
"Everyone reads different ones," he said. "That's half our problem. You will learn ours. You will carry, dust, copy, and not steal any manuals, even if your greedy eyes itch. In return, I will not feed you to the Bible‑Sword lunatics."
"Bible‑Sword?" she echoed.
Wei waved a hand. "Sword cultivators who think scripture is something to yell before stabbing. Hmph. You will also, occasionally, help me with…binding work."
Her heart kicked.
"Binding…what?" she asked carefully.
"Contracts," he said. "Oaths. Promises the sect makes, and breaks."
He moved closer, voice dropping.
"Once," he said, "this world had more Name‑Binders. Then the hunger—yes, that one; don't twitch, child, I see it sniffing at you—ate most. The art fell out of favor. I keep what scraps I can."
He searched her face.
"When Shen told me the Awakening Stone stuttered and tried to write your name in two scripts at once, I thought, 'Finally. A victim.'"
"Victim?" she squeaked.
"Apprentice," he translated. "But perhaps same thing. Will you learn? It is a lonely path. Few songs. Many headaches."
The Oath‑Tide lines in her mind glowed.
Her System chimed quietly.
Potential Mentor Detected.
High Synergy with Name‑Weaving.
Advisable to accept.
"Yes," she said, hardly above a whisper. "I will."
Wei's mouth curled, half‑smile, half‑grimace.
"Good," he said. "First lesson: How to hold a brush without looking like you're strangling a chicken. Sit."
He shoved a stool toward her.
As she scrambled onto it, Shan watched, arms folded.
"Wei," he said softly, "remember Law Hall's interest."
Wei waved a hand.
"Law Hall can stuff their scrolls," he said. "If the Dao wanted this child erased, the stone would have shattered, not cracked. Observation flag means, 'Let the old men argue while the little ones do work.'"
Shen's eyes crinkled.
"Perhaps," he said. "Do not teach her to write contracts that erase sect elders, at least until I retire."
Wei snorted.
"No promises," he said.
Ifabola sat, took the brush, and tried not to grin too widely.
Archive dust tickled her nose.
The hunger's fragment sulked in its knot.
The river‑spiral hummed.
Under her foreign stars, a forgotten path stirred.