"I brought the Braised Lion’s Head Meatballs you made yesterday," Wangchen said, opening the box. "I kept them warm with my Qi."

He sat down next to her on the dirty stone wall. He didn’t care about his silk robes. He didn’t care about the dust.

He picked up a pair of chopsticks, wiped them with a silk handkerchief, and handed them to her.

"Eat," he ordered gently. "The food in the cafeteria is trash."

Ji’an took the chopsticks. "You skipped the Sky Pavilion lunch for leftovers?"

"I prefer the company here," Wangchen said, taking a bite of a leftover pickle. He looked at Tang Bo, who was staring at him with his mouth open.

Wangchen’s eyes went cold again. "What are you looking at?"

Tang Bo squeaked. "N-Nothing! Just... nice robes!"

Wangchen turned back to Ji’an, his face softening again. "Did you make friends?"

"Yeah," Ji’an pointed with her chopstick. "Tang Bo. Liu Liu are good kids. They appreciate jerky."

Wangchen nodded. "Good."

He picked up a meatball with his own chopsticks and held it to Ji’an’s lips.

"Open."

Ji’an blinked. "I have hands, Wangchen."

"Your hands are dirty from the wall," Wangchen lied. "Open."

The entire Class 9 watched in stunned silence as the terrifying Ice Genius of the Sect fed the "trash" disciple a meatball like he was feeding a precious pet.

And high above on the peak, Elder Qin watched through his viewing mirror.

He dropped his teacup.

"He went to Class 9?" Elder Qin whispered, horrified. "He skipped the Elite networking... to sit on a wall and feed him meatballs?"

The crane squawked.

"The bond didn’t weaken," Elder Qin slumped in his chair. "It just became... public."

Back in the courtyard, Ji’an chewed the meatball, oblivious to the political shockwave she had just caused.

"Mmm. Still good," she mumbled.

Wangchen smiled, a rare, genuine smile that made half the female population of Class 9 faint on the spot.

"I will bring dessert tomorrow," he promised.

And just like that, the barrier between the classes was shattered, not by talent, but by the sheer, stubborn force of a Villain who refused to eat lunch alone.

***

The Class 9 courtyard was quiet, save for the wind rustling through the overgrown weeds and the distant, fading crunch of Xie Wangchen’s expensive boots on the gravel path.

Lin Ji’an sat on the stone wall, finishing the last of the Braised Lion’s Head Meatball.

She licked the savory sauce from her chopsticks with the satisfaction of a cat that had just stolen the cream, blissfully unaware, or perhaps willfully ignorant, of the fifty pairs of eyes drilling into her back.

She swallowed, patted her flat stomach thanks to the courtesy of the gender artifact, and sighed.

"Delicious. Little Puddle really knows how to control the heat. He’s definitely ready for the Intermediate Sauce Course."

She hopped off the wall, dusting off her gray robes.

"Alright, show’s over! Nothing to see here! Go back to your gambling and napping!"

The moment she turned around, however, the invisible barrier of fear that Wangchen had erected shattered.

"GET HIM!"

It was a stampede.

Tang Bo dropped his dice. Liu Liu abandoned her rouge. The guy who was sleeping with his eyes open suddenly woke up.

The entire population of Class 9 surged forward like a tidal wave of curiosity.

They surrounded her in a tight, suffocating circle of gray robes and desperate questions.

"Lin Ji’an!" Tang Bo grabbed her shoulders, shaking her like a maraca. "Talk! Now! Who are you? What are you?"

"I’m a cook!" Ji’an protested, trying to shield her remaining snacks. "Personal space, people! I have a spatula, and I’m not afraid to use it!"

"A cook?!" Liu Liu shrieked, pressing her face close to Ji’an’s. "That was Xie Wangchen! The Ice Monster! The guy who froze a senior disciple yesterday for looking at him wrong! And he just... he just fed you? With chopsticks? His chopsticks?"

"It’s called hygiene!" Ji’an lied. "He didn’t want my dirty hands touching the food!"

"Bullshit!" A guy from the back row yelled. "He looked at you like you were the only water in a desert! Did you save his life? Are you his illegitimate brother? Do you have blackmail material on him?"

"I bet he has something to blackmail that guy," Tang Bo whispered conspiratorially. "Did you see him kill a man? Is that it? You know where the bodies are buried?"

Ji’an groaned, massaging her temples.

This was the problem with High School dramas, even in a cultivation setting. The gossip mill was faster than a flying sword.

"Listen," Ji’an raised her hands for silence. "It’s very simple. We are from the same village. I cook for him. He pays me in protection and leftovers. It is a transactional economic relationship based on caloric intake. Now, if you’ll excuse me..."

She ducked under Tang Bo’s arm, executed a smooth Shadow Step maneuver to bypass Liu Liu, and vaulted over a desk.

"...I have a date with a desk and a dream."

She landed in her fortress at the back of the room, pulled three chairs together to form a makeshift bed, and threw her outer robe over her head.

"I am activating the ’Turtle Breath Sleep Technique’. Anyone who wakes me up will be tasked with peeling onions for a month."

The threat of manual labor was effective. The circle dispersed, grumbling and whispering theories ranging from "Secret Love Affair" to "Lin Ji’an is actually a disguised Demon Lord."

Under the robe, Ji’an smiled, closed her eyes, and drifted off into a dreamless, meatball-fueled slumber.

.

.

.

Meanwhile, on the highest peak of the Inner Sect, the atmosphere was vastly different.

The Sky Pavilion was a marvel of architectural extravagance. Floating islands of rock were connected by bridges of solid light.

The main dining hall was an open-air terrace surrounded by clouds, where spirit cranes flew by to deliver wine. The tables were made of warm jade, the chairs of dragon-wood.

It was here that the elite of the sect gathered to "network," which was just a fancy word for comparing family wealth and cultivation bases while eating tiny portions of expensive food.