She was new to the Zengue encampment back then, barely sixteen summers behind her, and the weight of her decision had not yet settled in her bones. Sent to apprentice under Master Lu Qiren—a name whispered with awe and dread—Nolan Ranan had arrived with little more than her blade, a weathered satchel of medicinal salves, and a stubbornness she mistook for courage.
The encampment was a sprawl of rigid order, all sharp corners and silent obedience. Soldiers moved like clockwork through the barracks, their expressions carved from stone. The air itself seemed laced with discipline, too taut to breathe in fully. Nolan had tried to keep her head down, to disappear into drills and study, but anonymity was hard to maintain when you were the youngest, and the only girl among fifty initiates.
The first week had been a blur of bruises and calloused hands. Each day, her muscles screamed louder than her doubts, but she grit her teeth and endured. Sleep came fitfully, punctuated by the sound of blades in the distance—someone always training late into the night. At first, she resented it. Then, curiosity began to bloom.
It was a windless evening when that curiosity got the better of her.
She had left her cot after dark, careful not to wake the others. The moon hung like a pearl in a bowl of ink, casting long silver shadows between tents and barracks. Somewhere near the southern edge of the camp, voices echoed—sharp grunts, the clash of steel against steel, and then, silence, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone moving alone with impossible grace.
Nolan followed.
She crept through a break in the trees that flanked the training yard. The lanterns here had burned low, casting only a faint glow that trembled against the fog. In the center of the clearing, six seasoned warriors stood in formation, their blades raised.
And at the heart of them—Neug Mu.
He wore no armor, only a sleeveless tunic that clung to his frame, soaked at the hem. Dark hair spilled past his shoulders, untethered and gleaming in the half-light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned—not with rage or triumph, but with something colder. Something precise.
The moment snapped to life.
A blur of movement. Steel caught fire beneath the moonlight.
Neug Mu danced between his opponents with an elegance Nolan had never seen before. Each motion was honed to a perfect edge, every step a poem written in blood and balance. His qi shimmered faintly, violet against the dark, weaving into his strikes like threads of divine intent. One by one, the warriors fell—not from brutality, but from inevitability. His was a strength that needed no force to command.
Nolan found herself holding her breath.
The last opponent lunged—and in the same instant, Neug Mu turned, catching the blade on the flat of his own, twisting, disarming. It was a finishing move not meant to maim, but to teach.
Silence fell.
Then he sheathed his blade, the motion fluid, casual—almost bored. The others bowed and withdrew without a word, leaving only him behind in the quiet ring of trodden dirt.
That was when he looked up.
Nolan froze, half-shadowed beneath a gnarled pine, but his gaze found her as if summoned. It wasn't just that he saw her—it was that he understood her in a single glance. Her presence. Her hesitation. Her awe.
"Curious," he said.
His voice was low, unhurried, with the faintest trace of amusement. He stepped toward her without urgency, as if he already knew she wouldn't run. She didn't.
"Or are you lost?" he asked.
"I…" she faltered, the word dying in her throat. Her face flushed hot. "I—was watching. I didn't mean to interrupt."
"No interruption," he replied. "Only silence, followed by honesty. A rare sequence."
He stopped a few paces from her. The lantern light caught the line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. Nolan thought he might be beautiful, in the way a storm was beautiful—untouchable, and entirely aware of the power he carried.
He looked her over—not in the way men looked at women, but like a blacksmith examined metal. As though he was already imagining the shape she could take.
"You're one of Lu Qiren's," he said.
Nolan squared her shoulders. "Yes."
"He trains talent and breaks fools. Which will you be?"
The question was a blade in itself. She met his eyes, and something steeled inside her. "Neither. I plan to surprise him."
Neug Mu smiled, faint and fleeting.
"A good answer," he said, gesturing to an empty training mat behind him. "Come. Show me what you've learned."
She blinked. "Now?"
"Now is when the invitation is given."
She hesitated. She wasn't dressed for sparring, still in her light tunic and worn trousers, boots caked with dust from earlier drills. But something in her refused to back away. She stepped forward, fingers brushing the hilt at her side.
They faced each other, silence stretching like drawn string.
"Begin," he said.
Their first clash was clumsy—on her part. Her strikes were quick but lacked refinement; she moved with the fear of overstepping, of offending someone whose skill dwarfed hers. Neug Mu parried without effort, every deflection gentle, almost lazy.
"You hold back," he said, circling her. "Why?"
"I'm trying to be respectful."
He snorted softly. "Respect is in the effort, not the restraint."
The next exchange was sharper. She channeled her qi, drew from breath and instinct. Her footwork improved, her blade faster, tighter. Still, he kept ahead of her with an ease that was maddening.
But as the minutes passed, he stopped correcting her.
He started responding to her.
He let her force guide the tempo, allowed the rhythm to grow more unpredictable. Their sparring became a conversation: her thrusts a question, his counters a reply. When he smiled again—brief and knowing—she realized he was enjoying this. Not just her skill, but her willingness to press forward even when she faltered.
She was gasping when they finally broke apart.
He lowered his blade. "What is your name?"
"Nolan. Nolan Ranan."
"Remember this night, Nolan Ranan," he said. "You fought with fear, but without apology. That's rarer than you know."
She stood straighter, chest heaving. "Will we spar again?"
"If you return." He sheathed his weapon. "And if you stop apologizing for your strength."
She watched him go, vanishing into the fog like a story told too quickly.
It wasn't until she lay in bed that night, sweat drying on her brow and her limbs heavy with exertion, that she realized something had shifted. The cold grip of the barracks, the weight of isolation—it had lessened. Just a little.
And all because a man who fought like a ghost had looked at her and seen more than just a girl out of place.
From that night, she watched for him.
And in time, he watched for her too.