Wei had found the sword stall the way he found everything — by gravitational pull, the magnetism of metal for a boy who was fascinated by blades since his hands were large enough to hold one. This stall had thirty of them.

  I stood at the herb stall across the aisle, close enough. The distance of supervision that pretended to be coincidence — five meters, line of sight, the kind of proximity that said I'm shopping and also that I could cross this distance in under a second if necessary.

  He was examining a jian, holding it wrong — deliberately, testing the balance from an unconventional grip. The vendor watched with the patience of someone who had seen many boys hold swords and a declining probability of sale.

  "Good blade."

  Not Wei. Behind him. A voice — young, warm, the temperature of friendliness that was too consistent to be spontaneous. Like a fire that had been set deliberately, its deliberateness invisible if you weren't looking for the match.

  He was a young man, early twenties, clean in the way that was a project rather than an accident. His clothes were simple but fitted and his smile was present, constant — infrastructure, not expression.

  "Too heavy for your frame, though," he continued. Conversational. Light.

  Wei looked at him with the fast assessment of someone who had learned early that evaluation preceded interaction. The evaluation resulted in nonthreatening, knowledgeable, interesting.

  "I know," Wei said. "That's why I'm testing the off-balance point."

  The young man's smile shifted a millimeter, from standard to engaged — the micro-expression of someone whose interest had been piqued and the piquing was as genuine as his smile was not.

  "You test off-balance points?"

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  "How else do you know where the sword fails?"

  A pause. The young man studied Wei — not his face but his posture, his feet, his hips. The inventory of someone who was reading a body the way a physician reads symptoms. A conclusion formed behind an expression that remained pleasant.

  "I'm Fang Liang."

  "Wei."

  "Just Wei?"

  "Just Wei."

  Fang Liang picked up a blade from the display — short, light, a dao. He demonstrated a grip that was casual, but the casualness was performance. His technique was excellent, Foundation-level cultivation expressed through muscle memory, through the economy of motion that came from years of repetition under competent instruction.

  "Iron Lotus," he said. "We're up the valley. You've heard of us?"

  "Lao Chen mentions you sometimes."

  "The old swordsmith? Good blades. Better conversation." A grin — not the smile but a grin and the distinction between the two was that the grin was warmer. Also calculated, but the calculation was better hidden.

  "Are you a recruiter?" Wei asked with a directness I had tried to train out of him. He said what he meant.

  Fang Liang laughed — the laugh of someone who had been caught doing what they were doing and found the catching to be an opportunity rather than a problem.

  "I'm a senior disciple. I notice talent. It's a hobby of mine. And if said talents are interested in us, then I can help them find their way to the sect."

  "That's recruitment."

  "It's appreciation."

  They talked. I listened from the herb stall, examining dried chrysanthemum with zero percent of my attention. One hundred percent of my perception trained on the conversation four meters away.

  Fang Liang was good. Not as in skilled. He was good the way mirrors were good. He reflected Wei back at himself, amplified. Asked the right questions. Made Wei feel heard. The hearing was the technique.

  "You train alone?" Fang Liang asked.

  "Mostly."

  "Who taught you?"

  A pause. The choice of what to share with a stranger — the category that required caution.

  "An acquaintance."

  The word landed, deliberately imprecise — someone, not no one, but not the word that fit.

  Fang Liang accepted it. No follow-up. The restraint of someone who recognized a boundary — and had patience.

  "Your acquaintance taught you well."

  "She's adequate."

  I examined the chrysanthemum more closely. Adequate. Simultaneously high praise — because from Wei it was — and diminishment. The word you used for things you'd outgrown. Fang Liang heard the subtext.

  They talked for thirty more minutes. Fang Liang being interested. Wei being fourteen and talking to someone who was not me.

  I bought the chrysanthemum. I didn't need chrysanthemum. I didn't drink chrysanthemum tea. I bought chrysanthemum because purchasing was the cover.