"It’s a planning committee," Jiu Zui groaned, rubbing his temples as if the very concept of organization gave him a headache. "The old men want to talk about logistics, resource allocation, and tournament brackets. I’ve avoided going to these for a hundred years by claiming I was in a drunken coma."

"So claim it again!" Ji’an offered helpfully. "I’ll brew a batch of fermented plum wine that smells so strong they’ll think you died of alcohol poisoning! I have dough to proof, Master! I can’t sit in a boardroom!"

"Nice try, kid, but you’re on the hook for this one, too," Jiu Zui smirked, a cruel, vindictive twinkle in his amethyst eyes. He tossed a heavy, velvet-wrapped bundle onto the prep table. "You aren’t a junior disciple anymore. You are the sole apprentice of the Drunken Peak, a Third Generation Martial Uncle, and my official proxy. The Sect Leader specifically mandated that the ’proxies’, meaning the eldest or highest-ranking disciple of each peak, must attend to take notes. Get dressed. You have only five minutes."

Ji’an stared at the velvet bundle with profound dread.

She unwrapped it, revealing the formal, ceremonial robes of a Third Generation Elder. They were magnificent, crafted from layers of pristine, shimmering white spirit-silk, embroidered with intricate silver clouds and the crest of the Drunken Peak.

They were also incredibly heavy, featured ridiculously wide sleeves that were entirely impractical for cooking, and required a complex, multi-layered binding process to wear correctly.

Ten minutes later, Ji’an emerged from her cabin.

She looked immaculate. The heavy silk draped elegantly over her lean frame, the wide belt cinching her waist, the silver embroidery catching the morning sun.

Her dark hair was pulled back and secured with a jade hairpin. She looked exactly like the aloof, untouchable, high-ranking immortal she was legally classified as.

But internally, she was screaming.

’I feel like a walking curtain,’ Ji’an thought miserably, trying to adjust the suffocating collar. ’Where do I put my spatula? There are no pockets! What kind of barbaric clothing doesn’t have pockets?!’

"Stop fidgeting, you look like a proper snob," Jiu Zui laughed, summoning his massive flying wine gourd. "Hop on, Martial Uncle. Let’s go pretend we care about sect politics."

***

The Grand Ascendant Hall was located at the very apex of the central mountain, a towering, circular pavilion suspended entirely on a platform of white clouds.

When Ji’an and Jiu Zui stepped through the massive, gilded double doors, the atmosphere inside was so thick with ambient, high-level spiritual pressure that a normal mortal would have instantly turned to dust.

The room was arranged in a massive horseshoe. At the head of the table sat the Sect Leader, his long white beard flowing over his golden robes.

Flanking him on either side were the eight Peak Masters, seated in ornate, high-backed thrones carved from rare spirit-wood.

And standing directly behind each Peak Master, straight-backed and silent as statues, were their respective chief disciples.

Ji’an’s eyes swept the room, and her stomach immediately dropped.

It was a nightmare, a blunt rotation of her daily delivery route.

Standing behind the Sect Leader, looking bright and eager, was Gu Zhiwei.

Standing behind the sharp-eyed master of the Sword Peak, aggressively polishing the hilt of his sword, was Lu Jianheng. Standing behind the Shadow Peak master, coughing delicately into a silk handkerchief, was Mo Wuchen.

And standing behind the Medicine Peak master, a terrifying, out-of-place behemoth of pure muscle disguised in formal robes, was Yan Lie.

The Demon Lord had apparently bullied the actual eldest disciple into a closet just so he could attend the meeting and watch the chaos.

But worst of all, standing directly behind Elder Qin Changxu’s throne was Xie Wangchen.

The Ice Demon was dressed in his flawless white Ice-Silk robes, his silver crown gleaming. His face was a mask of cold, perfect detachment.

But the moment Ji’an walked through the doors, his dark, bottomless eyes snapped to her, tracking her every movement with the terrifying, unblinking intensity of a sniper locking onto a target.

"Ah, Martial Uncle Jiu Zui! And Martial Uncle Lin!" the Sect Leader greeted them, a strained, slightly panicked smile on his face as he gestured to the two empty thrones on the left side of the horseshoe. "We are honored by your presence. Please, take your seats so we may begin."

Ji’an froze.

She looked at the thrones. She looked at the junior disciples standing behind the thrones.

Because of her absurd, heavily extorted promotion by the Drunken Sovereign, she was not just a junior disciple. She was a third-generation elder.

Which meant she didn’t get to stand in the back with the kids.

She had to sit at the big adult table.

Ji’an swallowed hard, feeling the burning, collective gaze of every single protagonist in the room boring into the back of her skull.

She walked stiffly toward her designated throne, her heavy silk robes rustling in the dead silence.

She sat down next to Jiu Zui, keeping her posture perfectly rigid, desperately trying to project an aura of profound, unbothered wisdom.

’Do not look at them. Do not make eye contact,’ Ji’an mentally chanted, staring fixedly at a knot in the wooden table. ’If I look at Wangchen, Elder Qin is going to have another stroke. If I look at Yan Lie, he’s going to wink at me and cause a diplomatic incident!’

"Let us commence the Strategic Cultivation Assembly," the Sect Leader announced, striking a small golden singing bowl with a mallet. The resonant chime cleared the air.

"As you are all aware," the Sect Leader began, adopting the grave, serious tone of a CEO announcing quarterly losses, "the All-Sect Martial Competition, the grand tournament encompassing every major orthodox sect in the Northern Territories, is exactly six months away. The Celestial Sword Sect’s performance in the previous decade was... acceptable. But acceptable does not maintain our position as the premier power in the realm."

The Peak Masters nodded solemnly. Behind them, the chief disciples puffed out their chests, radiating competitive intent.