This time, it was Ximen Qing who flinched, confronted by a tongue as unguarded as his own. Gasps rippled through the patriarch and the other guests. The Zhang tribe wielded no political might comparable to the city's elite, yet their feral audacity defied even the Upper Ring's most formidable clan.
Such audacity, either the height of bravery or the depths of folly. Yet the wise man's words drew an unbroken chorus of gasps from courtyard to third-floor windows.
"Gasping? What I speak is truth!" The plump advisor jabbed a finger into Ximen Qing's shoulder, unconcerned by the potential fallout. "All these years of whoring and somehow still not a single legitimate heir. Let us face reality, the Ximen family's main line teeters on the brink. Even with an idiot of a prostitute for a wife, she cannot bear a child. I think it is not Jin Lian's fault, but yours."
Shan merely fanned himself, content with watching the Zhang Tribe taking over the war of words. It is far preferable to let some hunter-gathers shoulder the Ximen family's wrath rather than bear it all himself.
But Ximen Qing is more than clever. Surprise did not hinder him long. As heir to the most prominent household, it is not hard to recruit capable talents into his personal retinue.
Without warning, a figure in flowing purple descended upon the rooftop of the Gan Jin estate. Shan observed as the newcomer sprinted effortlessly across the earthen tiles, dropping with precision and delivered a kick aimed squarely at the wise man, sending the latter into a jar of wine, shattering the clay.
The Zhang tribesmen erupted in outrage, jeering the assailant with endless boos.
"Young Master, are you unharmed?" the newly arrived retainer asked Ximen Qing. The purple plum emblem marked him as a protector of consequence, and the long robe suggested he is also no ordinary soldier. Behind him, a dozen more charged through the entrance, each prepared to shield their precious heir.
Before the Gan Jin patriarch could intervene, a wooden chair slammed into a Ximen soldier. The delinquent recoiled as the Zhang Tribal Chief approached, fists drawn against armored men.
"Cease at once, barbarian!" cried a purple-crested soldier.
Amid gasps of awe and horror, the mighty chief scooped up the soldier and hurled him on a table, narrowly missing a cluster of Middle Ring businessmen. Then, with a surge of Earthbending, he leapt, smashing downward onto both man and table to splinters.
The chief rose unscathed, eyes fixed upon his armored opponent.
"Acknowledge me!" he demanded.
Ximen Qing could not help but feel a grudging respect for the raw display of force. Yet if the Tribal Chief set his sights on the heir, the trusty retainer would provide greater protection than regular soldiers of the Ximen clan.
The wise man then approached and raised high the illustrious Earth Rumble Champion's Belt, the emblem of the Tribal Chief's authority and the tangible proof as an Earthbending Champion. Yet whispers persisted that the belt is but a replica, not the true original. For there had once been another Earthbender, a formidable champion whose reign endured unbroken, whose record remained unchallenged. The tournament's organizers, unable to trace their whereabouts, now doubted whether any living contender could ever hope to rival.
Despite the patriarch's objections, more Ximen guards poured into the courtyard, intent on confrontation. The Tribal Chief met them all, tables and chairs splintering under the ferocity of his assault.
"Stop! Cease this at once!" the patriarch shouted. One intruder became a human club, swung into his comrades. The guards grabbed chairs and anything at hand, hurling them at the Zhangs. Soon, all tribesmen joined the fray.
"Take them down!" a man in brown fur roared, leaping from the third floor. His weight slammed into three guards below, eliciting grimaces from the audience.
Retainers of other households held back, knowing that interfering could jeopardize both their employers' honor and their own lives. Besides, fighting during a wedding ceremony is considered a great taboo.
Yet even that failed to prevent the courtyard from erupting into chaos, a feral melee between the Zhangs and the Ximen family's private guards. Chairs and tables splintered under the onslaught, and some unfortunate guests found themselves trapped amidst the whirlwind of violence. Porcelain shards and plates flew through the air like deadly confetti, while men grappled and toppled one another in a storm of limbs and fury.
From the third floor, a retainer's eyes widened as she realized her employer is perilously ensnared in the heart of the tumult.
Without hesitation, Mayumi leapt from the balcony, landing nimbly on the courtyard stones. She wove through the carnage, closing the distance to where Shan stood. Suspiciously, he lingered near the center of the chaos, as if deliberately courting danger to cast blame onto the Ximen family's intrusion.
"Brilliant," she muttered under her breath, before diving into the fray. Her acrobatic display left the surrounding guests gaping. She stepped on heads and shoulders, vaulted over splintered furniture, and dodged the errant fragments of wood and clay with the precision of a seasoned warrior.
"Shan!" she called as she landed beside him, biting back her frustration. "You should have moved earlier!"
One miscalculated blow from one of the fighters and this gentleman would be dead. Yet even she knew the White Scholar might have chosen his peril intentionally, a strategy hidden behind his placid countenance.
"Yours truly's foresight is admittedly limited," he replied, fanning himself with a paper fan. "It is regrettable that peace could not be maintained."
The imperturbable calm of his expression irked her, the indifference to the violent maelstrom is grinding at her patience. With a resigned sigh, she resolved to accommodate his eccentric strategy.
"Behind," Shan said in a monotone, his usual mundane voice. Even without his warning, Mayumi spun instinctively, drawing her dao to intercept a flying stool unintentionally thrown at them. The wooden chair split neatly in two, yet the battle's intensity showed no signs of dying down. A Ximen guard and a Zhang tribesman hurled wine jars at each other. Mayumi caught one that threatened Shan's face, placing it carefully aside. She is unwilling to waste good wine before catching a plate and threw it back at one of Ximen Qing's bodyguards with a satisfying crunch against the nose.
Nearby, the tribal chief subdued an opponent with brutal efficiency, tackling him to the ground and transferring the full force of his momentum to the hapless man. Pain contorted the latter's features, leaving him incapacitated.
"Come on, let's get out of here!" Mayumi told Shan.
"Indeed, it is imperative that you fulfill your duties," Shan replied as if the environment is serene enough to speak without urgency. He even opened his fan once more, not a trace of fear marred his composure. "Now Takeko, clear a path so yours truly may depart unscathed—"
Before he could finish, Mayumi seized him by the waist and hoisted him over her shoulder, a motion so sudden it startled even the normally impassive scholar. Yet to one seasoned by the clash of real blades, the etiquette and affectations of the Upper Ring held no weight when danger pressed close. The gentry, she mused, often regarded battle through a poet's lens, mistaking blood for glory. Perhaps once she had shared that illusion, but now is no time to indulge a scholar's notion on what to do during a fray like this. Even her own mother stressed that it is always better for a warrior to stand in a garden than for a gardener to stand in battle.
"Move aside!" she snapped, barreling through the throng. One hand deflecting projectiles, the other securing Shan. Though favoring evasion over brute force, carrying Shan has slowed her. Yet, she darted through chaos, narrowly avoiding a Ximen retainer hurled across the courtyard by a Zhang tribesman.
Tables became shields as a dozen porcelain bowls arced toward her. Expensive kitchenware shattered as she deftly dashed and slid between two dueling combatants, finally arriving before museum director Han Fei and other dignitaries.
"A splendid performance," the director praised.
Though Shan had escaped without injury, his robe is slightly dirtied, its once-pristine fabric now dulled. After setting him gently onto a chair, Mayumi turned her attention to a more immediate need, thirst. A jar of wine would do well enough. Without much elaboration, she unsealed a nearby jar and drank deeply, a sight that made Han Fei grimace at the utter lack of restraint as she emptied nearly the whole vessel of the potent brew. The wine itself is no common fare either, this is an exquisite sorghum vintage not to be drained so carelessly in a single sitting.
"Ahem," Shan reminded her of decorum, himself bowing gracefully to acknowledge Han Fei. Mayumi followed suit, offering the formal palm and fist style greeting.
"No need to be too formal!" Han Fei replied warmly. "You must be the new retainer Shan mentioned. Please rise."
"Thank you," Mayumi responded.
And so, they settled into idle chatter to wait away the time, even helping themselves to the food laid out before them as the chaos of the brawl still raged. Yet mindful of her intention to avoid drawing unwanted attention, Mayumi answered the museum director's questions with measured restraint, without any excessive information.
She sensed Han Fei's scrutiny deepen. From their first encounter at the Keju ceremony, her instincts had warned her to be cautious. Furthermore, would it not be suspicious for someone of her stature to display such acrobatic prowess?
"So, you worked at Grandma Jin's establishment, didn't you?" Han Fei asked.
Mayumi stiffened, halting mid-motion as her chopsticks hovered over the finely steamed Ganjinese fish. She hopes her facade does not crack.
"Answer me honestly," Han Fei said.
A solitary bead of sweat traced her temple. The people of the Upper Ring are educated, and also discerning. It is entirely possible that someone might recognize her acrobatics as reminiscent of the Kyoshi Warriors. Even if Shan is lenient enough to overlook certain problems with her alias, he could not ignore the implications should someone like Han Fei elicit glaring observations.
"Ask away," Mayumi said, trying to act as if nothing has gone wrong.
Han Fei's eyes narrowed, his tone solemn as he declared that the information he sought might determine the future of the Earth Kingdom, and by extension, alter the course of the entire world.
Mayumi grimaced at the sudden gravity of his words. Clearly, this museum director was far more enigmatic than his scholarly exterior suggested.
"Listen, young lady," Han Fei continued, lowering his voice with theatrical weight. "So… do you happen to know the secret recipe for Grandma Jin's roast duck? You worked there once, did you not? Perhaps she entrusted you with that most sacred culinary mystery?"
The retainer let out a quiet sigh, both relieved and utterly bewildered. She had braced herself for questions that might expose her false identity, not espionage on a mere restaurant. How could such trivial knowledge possibly decide the fate of the world?
"Well," she replied cautiously. "All I can say is that the kitchen had a separate section devoted solely to preparing the roast ducks. Believe me, even the chefs never knew the full list of ingredients. They merely handled the meat until Grandma Jin took over for the final, most secretive step." It felt like a minor betrayal to share even that much, but so long as Jin guarded her one defining ingredient, the heart of the recipe would remain safe.
"Oh well, at least I tried," Han Fei sighed, visibly deflated. "Perhaps I should just ask her directly."
"That would be unwise," Mayumi countered, dashing his hopes once more. "Grandma Jin reveals her recipe only to her chosen successor, and that person has yet to be named."
"In that case," Han Fei exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with absurd determination. "I must send one of my interns to work there! He shall infiltrate the restaurant, prove his culinary brilliance and win her trust to become the rightful heir of the roast duck legacy!"
Mayumi could only stare, torn between amusement and disbelief at the director's childish enthusiasm.
Shan, seated calmly nearby, took a measured sip of tea. "You'll get used to it," he said to the retainer.