Master Jiang did not smile when Zhao Han appeared at the edge of the training ground and said, very carefully, that his sister had sent him.
He looked at the boy for a long moment with his one eye, the kind of look that took inventory without being obvious about it. Then he said, "Sit down," and pointed at the stone bench along the south wall, and went back to correcting a third year disciple's footwork without another word.
Zhao Han sat.
He sat for twenty minutes while Master Jiang moved through the training ground, adjusting stances, redirecting strikes, occasionally making sounds that were not quite words but communicated disappointment with great efficiency. None of the disciples seemed bothered by this. They appeared to have developed immunity through repeated exposure.
Zhao Han watched. He watched the way he always watched things, quietly, learning the shape of a place before deciding how to move inside it.
