Above the swaying bamboo grove, the evening light deepens gradually, turning from a soft amber glow into a richer, more contemplative dusk, as though the sky itself lingers to witness what unfolds below. 

Shadows stretch long across the courtyard stones, and the faint rustle of leaves blends with the distant hum of insects awakening to the night. In the neighboring estate, where the air carries a subtle trace of herbs and earth, the hermit finally speaks again. His voice low and measured, as if he is thinking aloud rather than truly addressing the man seated across from him.

“The little girl is not what I expected from the Shen household,” he murmurs, his gaze unfocused, lingering somewhere beyond the wall as though he can still sense her presence there.

General Jiang follows that unspoken line of thought, his eyes drifting toward the high courtyard wall, his expression thoughtful and restrained. 

He does not respond immediately, as though weighing not only the words but the implications behind them. At last, he inclines his head slightly. “No,” he agrees quietly, his tone calm but certain. “She is not.”

A brief silence settles between them, filled only by the whisper of bamboo leaves shifting overhead.

“Shouldn’t you formally invite the new neighbor over?” the hermit asks after a moment, his voice steady now, though there is a quiet intent beneath it.

The old general does not answer at once. Instead, his attention returns to the Go board before him, where black and white stones form a delicate balance of strategy and restraint. With deliberate care, he selects a single black stone, holding it for just a fraction longer than necessary, before placing it onto the board.

Click.

The sound is sharp in the stillness, precise and final.

Only then does he lift his gaze, meeting the hermit’s eyes. His expression is difficult to read, like a man deciding whether a thought deserves acknowledgment or dismissal. “Invite her over?” he repeats, the question neither accepted nor refused, merely turned over for consideration.

The hermit nods once, entirely serious, his posture relaxed but his attention unwavering. “She has talent,” he says, his tone carrying quiet certainty. 

General Jiang’s brows shift almost imperceptibly, though his voice remains even. “What does that have to do with this general?.”

The hermit exhales softly, leaning back just slightly, though his gaze remains intent. There is a faint tension beneath his calm demeanor,curiosity held carefully in check. “It is in my mountains,” he replies, as if that alone should be an adequate explanation. 

There is an unspoken reluctance beneath his words, a subtle unwillingness to owe the general anything in exchange for satisfying his curiosity.

General Jiang studies his old friend for a moment longer, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to suggest quiet amusement. “You are not in your mountains,” he points out, his tone mild but unmistakably firm.

The hermit accepts this without argument, though his gaze drifts once more toward the wall, thoughtful, distant.

“She is unusual for a member of the Shen family.” he adds after a moment, his voice softer now, as if the observation carries more weight the second time it is spoken.

“I am aware,” the general replies, his tone steady, already having reached that conclusion himself. Another stone is placed on the board, the game continuing, though the rhythm has slowed, as if both men are no longer entirely focused on it.

The hermit  folds his wrinkled but strong hands loosely as he considers his next words. “I want to meet her properly,” he admits, his voice calm but deliberate, “but I do not want her to know my identity. Su Ning spoke of the little girl with affection, but I would rather make my own assessment.”

Silence follows once more, deeper this time, as though the air itself holds its breath.

The Go game pauses mid-flow, neither player reaching for the next move. A gentle breeze stirs through the bamboo, carrying with it that faint herbal scent again from the other side of the wall, subtle, but unmistakable.

General Jiang’s thoughtful gaze shifts briefly in that direction, before returning to the board.

His long, bony fingers come to rest lightly on a single stone, though he does not move it immediately. Instead, he lingers there, as though considering something beyond the game.

For the first time, his expression changes,just slightly, like the faintest ripple disturbing the surface of still water.

Then, at last, he sets the stone down.

Click.

“Do you want to take her as a disciple?” he asks, his voice calm, but carrying a quiet weight that settles into the space between them

On the other side of the wall, Shen Ling remains completely unaware that the elusive Master she longs so desperately to meet—the very figure she has quietly built hopes and expectations around—is, in fact, none other than the old man in gray robes residing just beyond the boundary, closer than she has ever imagined.

She sits once more upon the worn stone steps, her posture relaxed yet attentive, watching as the cook settles into a more comfortable rest after taking the medicine she prepared with such care. The rise and fall of the woman’s breathing is steadier now, and Shen Ling observes it with quiet satisfaction, as though committing the rhythm to memory.

Beside her, the white cat is curled into a soft, compact shape, its tail tucked neatly around its body as faint, steady purrs drift into the evening air before gradually fading as sleep claims it. The courtyard feels wrapped in a gentle stillness, a kind of harmony that settles naturally around Shen Ling as she turns another page of her medical book.

Her fingers pause midway through the motion, her gaze sharpening as she leans slightly closer to the text. With a small frown of concentration, she lifts her brush and makes a careful correction in the margin. “Too much root here,” she murmurs under her breath, her voice quiet but certain, “it would upset the balance.”

She adjusts the ratio with deliberate precision, the tip of her brush moving slowly, thoughtfully, until the formula aligns more closely with her understanding. Only then does she lean back, a subtle sense of satisfaction softening her features as she stretches her arms above her head, easing the stiffness from her shoulders.

Above her, the evening sky deepens gradually, gold melting into amber, then into the faintest hints of dusk, as if the day itself is exhaling. The world around her remains hushed, untouched by urgency.

She lets out a soft sigh, her gaze drifting upward as her thoughts slip free. “Oh… if I could only become a disciple of my aunt’s Master.”

The words are not spoken as a plea, nor carried with desperation, but rather released into the air like a quiet intention—half wish, half determination—something she entrusts to the silence rather than to anyone who might answer.

As if in response, the white cat stirs.

It rises abruptly in her lap, stretching its limbs with languid ease, its back arching slightly before it steps forward—and then, without the slightest warning, it leaps.

“Hey—!” LingLing straightens immediately, startled from her thoughts.

The white cat lands lightly atop the low boundary wall separating the two estates, its tail flicking once in a manner that feels almost deliberate, as though announcing its decision to abandon all reasonable behavior. Without hesitation, it hops over to the other side and disappears from view.

Shen Ling freezes for the briefest moment, her expression caught between disbelief and exasperation. “You’re doing this on purpose!”

She exhales sharply, closing her book with a composure that does not quite match the irritation in her tone. Setting it carefully aside, she rises to her feet, brushing her hands together.

Already moving toward the familiar route she complains,“Why do I always have to climb walls for you?” 

On the other side, Little White  lands gracefully within the neighboring courtyard, its movements confident and unhurried. He trots along the stone path as though it has always belonged there.

The hermit is the first to see the small intruder,“The girl’s cat has returned.” 

General Jiang does not look up immediately, his attention lingering on the board. “That is not surprising.” 

The cat heads directly toward the board, settles itself beside it, and with a casual flick of its paw nudges a stone slightly out of place.

The hermit watches this with quiet appreciation, a faint glimmer of amusement touching his eyes. 

General Jiang finally glances over, his expression composed but firm. “Why does it always target me?”

The hermit chuckles and pets the cat, “Good boy.”

A brief silence follows, broken only by a soft sound from above.

Shen Ling appears midway over the wall, one hand gripping the top edge as she pauses there, her expression already carrying the weight of resigned familiarity. With practiced ease, she swings one leg over, then the other, before dropping lightly into the courtyard below, this time landing cleanly without a stumble.

Little White  immediately walks toward her with an innocent expression

LingLing stares down at the disobedient cat, her expression helpless. “You are getting worse,” 

Behind her, the two men observe the entire scene without interruption. The hermit’s lips twitch ever so slightly, while General Jiang’s gaze remains steady, though the sharp edge of surprise has softened into something more akin to quiet acceptance.

Shen Ling brushes a trace of dust from her sleeve before finally looking up, her awareness of their presence settling in a beat too late. “Oh,” she says, blinking once. “Sorry again.”

As though deciding the matter is no longer worth embarrassment, she  scoops the cat into her arms, her movements efficient and unbothered, the retrieval complete.

The hermit speaks first, his voice calm, as if simply continuing a conversation that has already begun elsewhere. “The medicine earlier,” he says, “was slightly unbalanced in the warming component.”

Shen Ling blinks, caught off guard. “You can smell that from over there?”

“Can.”

General Jiang’s gaze shifts between them before settling more directly on her. “You made the medicine?”

“Yes,” she answers.

“Good instinct. the execution lacking,” the hermit continues. “ That can be corrected.”

Shen Ling hesitates, her grip on the cat tightening just slightly. The words are neither scolding nor praise, they are simply… evaluation. 

She glances down at the cat resting in her arms, then lifts her eyes back to them. “Are you always like this?”

The hermit considers her question only briefly before replying curtly, “Yes.”

General Jiang exhales faintly, his tone drier. “Unfortunately.”

Shen Ling a faint, unexpected chuckle dangerously then she quickly suppresses it, her composure returning almost immediately.

She adjusts her hold on the now half-drowsing cat. “It was my first time making the medicine,” she admits quietly. “I was only trying to help someone cough less.”

The moment lingers, then she shifts her weight, turning slightly toward the wall. “I should go.”

Behind her, the hermit’s voice follows, unhurried. “Come by tomorrow.”

General Jiang pauses, then turns his head just enough to look at him, his expression tightening ever so slightly. “Is this your home or mine?”

The hermit ignores him entirely and Shen Ling continues towards the wall

General Jiang’s brows draw together as he looks back at Shen Ling casually walking towards the wall. “Girl,”  his tone firm but not unkind, “I told you to use the gate.”