"It is beautiful," Gu Zhiwei sighed, standing next to Ji’an. "Brother Lin, I hope we are assigned to the same peak. I feel we have a lot to talk about."

"Maybe," Ji’an said noncommittally.

Wangchen stepped between them again. "The hour is late. We are leaving."

He grabbed Ji’an’s arm, firmly this time.

"Goodbye, Young Master Gu. Young Master Wen."

He didn’t wait for a response. He practically dragged Ji’an away from the riverbank, moving with a speed that bordered on fleeing.

They walked back to the inn in silence. The festive atmosphere had dimmed. The streets were emptying as the curfew approached.

Wangchen was walking fast, his grip on Ji’an’s sleeve unyielding.

"Hey, slow down," Ji’an laughed breathlessly, trying to keep up. "Little Puddle, the vinegar smell is so strong it’s choking me."

Wangchen stopped abruptly under a streetlamp. He turned to face her.

His face was a mask of frustration and vulnerability.

"Why?" he asked.

"Why what?"

"Why do you entertain them?" Wangchen’s voice cracked slightly. "That Gu Zhiwei... he is weak. He is naive. He looks at you like you are a shiny toy. And Wen Shiru... he is dangerous. Why did you let them ruin our night?"

Ji’an looked at him. She saw the insecurity beneath the anger. She saw a boy who had finally found something good and was terrified of sharing it.

She sighed, her expression softening. She stepped closer and fixed his collar, which had become askew in his haste.

"Wangchen. Listen to me."

She looked him in the eye.

"Gu Zhiwei is the shiny toy. Wen Shiru is the dangerous one. But me?"

She pointed to herself.

"I’m just the chef. And you know who the chef cooks for?"

Wangchen stared at her, his breathing hitching.

"Who?"

"The person who holds the bowl," Ji’an smiled gently. "You’re the one holding the bowl, Little Puddle. You’re the one carrying my luggage. You’re the one sleeping in my room."

She reached out and flicked the white tassel on his sword.

"They are just passing travelers. You are... well, you’re you."

The tension drained out of Wangchen’s shoulders. The reassurance washed over him like a balm. ’I am the one holding the bowl.’ It was a weird metaphor, but coming from Ji’an, it was practically a confession of loyalty.

He took a deep breath, the cold night air filling his lungs.

"I will hold the bowl," he whispered intensely. "I will never drop it."

"Good," Ji’an patted his cheek. "Now, let’s go back. I’m tired, my feet hurt, and we have a big day tomorrow. I need to recharge my social battery."

As they walked the final block to the Cloud-Rest Inn, Wangchen walked a little closer to her than before. Their shoulders brushed with every step.

He looked back toward the river one last time, where Gu Zhiwei and Wen Shiru were presumably still standing. A smirk touched his lips.

’You can have the lanterns,’ he thought. ’I have the flame.’

They entered the inn just as the curfew bell began to toll, closing the door on the world, leaving the Chef and her Villain alone once more.

***

The morning sun over the Cloud-Piercing Peak didn’t just shine; it judged.

Having conquered the gravity-laden "Stairway to Heaven," the surviving candidates were gathered in the vast, white-stone plaza of the Outer Sect.

The air here was thin and crisp, charged with so much ambient Qi that a mortal might get drunk just by breathing too deeply.

Lin Ji’an stood near the back of the crowd, chewing on a piece of dried spirit-jerky. Despite having walked the equivalent of a vertical marathon yesterday and roamed the night market until the wee hours, she felt surprisingly energetic.

"It’s the nutrients," she whispered to Xie Wangchen, tapping her own cheek. "My ’Midnight Spicy Squid’ wasn’t just delicious; it contained Fire-Attribute stimulants. We are practically vibrating with energy."

Wangchen stood beside her, his posture creating a natural barrier against the jostling crowd.

He looked fresh, his moon-white robes from the night before replaced by the practical, dark blue travel gear they had arrived in. He scanned the plaza, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of Winter’s Sigh.

"There are too many people," Wangchen murmured, eyeing a burly cultivator who looked ready to shove a smaller girl for a better view. "And the examiners look... bored."

He was right. At the far end of the plaza, atop a raised dais made of white jade, sat a row of Sect Elders and senior disciples.

They looked down at the sea of muddy, exhausted candidates with the detached disinterest of gods watching ants build a hill.

In the center of the dais floated the arbiter of their fate: The Spirit Measuring Orb.

It was a massive sphere of translucent crystal, suspended in mid-air by a complex array. It pulsed with a soft, azure light, humming with a frequency that vibrated in the teeth of everyone present.

"That’s the sorting hat," Ji’an mumbled, crossing her arms. "Touch the ball, and see if you’re trash or treasure."

The exam process was twofold.

First, a deacon would count the Beast Cores collected in the forest, which held the "Practical Score". Then, the candidate would touch the Spiritual Orb to test their spirit core.

As Ji’an expected, the "Main Character Squad" had naturally gravitated to the front of the line. It was like watching a fashion show for the cultivation elite.

First up was Lu Jianheng, the Tsundere Sword Sect Young Lord.

He walked up to the counting table and dumped a bag of cores. They clattered like gemstones.

"Fifty Rank 1 cores. Ten Rank 2 cores," the deacon announced, looking impressed.

Lu Jianheng scoffed, as if insulted by the low number, and placed his hand on the Orb.

SHING!

The Orb didn’t just glow; it projected a sharp, metallic beam of gold light that sliced through the clouds.

"Metal Spirit Root! Top Grade!" The Elder in charge of the Sword Peak nodded approvingly. "Pass."