The morning was cold, the garden still, and the bench empty upon arrival.
Liu Lanzhi sat alone in the darkness, her hands folded and her back straight. The old woman had not yet emerged from the shadows. The mentor was often late on the days when the training would be hard, as if she intended for Liu Lanzhi to sit in the silence and remember the necessity of her presence .
Months had passed in this routine. Breathing. Waiting. Learning the art of being still. The cold pressure stirred when Liu Lanzhi reached for it and settled when she did not. It remained a constant presence beneath her awareness—a patient weight waiting to see what she would become .
A transformation had already occurred. Liu Lanzhi had killed a woman and walked through flames. She was no longer the consort who had sat on this bench months ago, paralyzed by the fear of reaching out or holding on .
Liu Lanzhi was ready.
