There were no training arenas.
There were no majestic halls.
There was only a single, slightly dilapidated wooden manor situated near a rushing mountain stream.
Ji’an hiked up the path, her heart beating with a sudden, warm surge of genuine affection.
She pushed past the overgrown bamboo and stepped into the main courtyard.
She fully expected her beloved outdoor kitchen to be a disaster.
She had been gone for five months.
She expected the iron woks to be rusted, the chopping blocks to be rotting, and the fire pits to be flooded with rainwater.
But as she stepped into the clearing, she stopped dead in her tracks.
The outdoor kitchen was flawless.
The massive cast-iron woks had been ticulously scrubbed, oiled, and polished until they glead black in the sunlight.
The heavy wooden chopping blocks had been sanded and treated with beeswax.
The fire pits were cleaned of all ash, perfectly stacked with high-grade, dry spirit-wood, ready to be ignited.
Even the delicate racks of drying herbs and spices she had left behind had been carefully preserved beneath localized, moisture-repelling arrays.
Ji’an stared at the pristine kitchen.
Her breath hitched.
A profound, overwhelming wave of emotion hit her squarely in the chest.
’He took care of it,’ Ji’an thought, her eyes stinging with sudden, entirely unprompted tears.
Master Jiu Zui, the alcoholic, lazy, supposedly irresponsible Sovereign of the Drunken Peak, a man who couldn’t be bothered to attend sect etings or wear his shoes properly, had spent the last five months ticulously, lovingly maintaining her kitchen.
He had protected her domain while she was gone.
"That damned old man," Ji’an sniffled, aggressively wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "He acts like he doesn’t care, but he’s actually a big softie. I bet he’s been sitting here missing , drinking cheap wine, and weeping over my empty wok."
«I highly doubt a Sovereign Elder weeps over cookware,» the Nekomata deadpanned.
"You don’t know him! We have a bond!" Ji’an declared, her emotional state violently swinging from sentintality to mischievous, chaotic brat-energy.
"I’m going to surprise him," Ji’an grinned, a wicked, feral glint in her eyes. "He’s probably passed out in his hammock right now, drooling on himself. I’m going to sneak up on him, bang two pots together, and scare him into the next realm. It’s the perfect filial greeting!"
Ji’an dropped her heavy traveling pack on the ground.
She drew her spiritual senses inward, completely suppressing her Qi until her life signature was virtually nonexistent.
It was a stealth technique she had perfected specifically to steal premium wine from her master’s stash.
She crept through the courtyard, bypassing the main manor, and headed toward the back of the peak.
Behind the manor, nestled within a grove of weeping willows and ancient stones, was a natural, geothermally heated hot spring.
It was Master Jiu Zui’s favorite spot to soak away his hangovers.
Ji’an tiptoed through the bamboo.
She could sll the sulfur of the hot spring mixed with the sharp, familiar tang of premium fernted plum wine.
’Gotcha, old man,’ Ji’an thought, a massive, evil grin stretching across her face.
She reached the thick, woven bamboo screen that provided privacy to the hot spring.
She didn’t hesitate or check her surroundings.
Ji’an pulled her leg back, channeled a tiny burst of kinetic energy, and kicked the bamboo screen completely off its hinges.
"SURPRISE, YOU LAZY OLD DRUNK! THE KITCHEN IS OPEN FOR BUSI—!"
Ji’an froze.
The words died in her throat.
The bamboo screen clattered to the stone tiles.
The thick, rolling white steam of the hot spring billowed out into the cool mountain air, montarily obscuring the scene.
But as the steam parted, the horrific, sanity-destroying reality of what she had just interrupted beca glaringly, unavoidably apparent.
Master Jiu Zui was not passed out in his hammock.
He was not wearing his usual, heavily layered, wine-stained purple robes.
He was standing in the shallow end of the hot spring.
And he was entirely, completely, unabashedly naked.
Ti seed to slow down to crawl.
Lin Ji’an’s brain, usually a rapid-fire supercomputer of tactical thought, completely blue-screened.
She stared.
She couldn’t help it.
The overwhelming shock had paralyzed her retinas.
Master Jiu Zui was supposed to be a decrepit, lazy old alcoholic.
He spent his days sleeping in trees and complaining about back pain.
But the man standing in the hot spring... was built like a mythological war god carved from solid marble.
He possessed broad, incredibly massive shoulders that tapered down into a waist so lean and corded with thick, dense muscle that it defied logic.
His chest and abdon were a flawless, heavily defined eight-pack, crisscrossed with dozens of faded, silver scars that spoke of ancient, apocalyptic battles.
The hot water dripped down his collarbones, tracing the incredibly defined, sharp lines of his V-cut.
And his face... without the ssy, unkempt purple robes and the usual drunken slouch, the Sovereign of the Drunken Peak was devastatingly and aggressively handso.
He had sharp, aristocratic cheekbones, a strong jaw covered in a roguish layer of dark stubble, and his long, dark hair, completely wet, was slicked back, exposing his piercing, hawkish eyes.
He radiated an aura of raw, untad, absolute masculine supremacy.
He was the quintessential, terrifyingly attractive ’silver fox’ DILF that launched a thousand tragic romance novels.
Master Jiu Zui paused, holding a gourd of wine in one hand, a washcloth in the other.
He slowly turned his head, locking eyes with his currently paralyzed apprentice.
For three excruciating seconds, neither of them moved.
And then, Ji’an’s survival instincts violently, dramatically kicked in.
She slapped both of her hands over her eyes, letting out a shrill, horrified shriek that echoed off the mountain peaks.
She threw herself backward, entirely bypassing a normal retreat, and dropped to her knees on the stone tiles, dramatically bending over as if she were in physical agony.
"AGH! MY EYES! MY PURE, INNOCENT EYES!" Ji’an wailed, aggressively dry-heaving toward the bamboo, performing the most exaggerated, theatrical display of trauma ever witnessed in the orthodox world.
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