An old man walked home with quick, even steps, a canvas bag hooked over one shoulder, and lifted a hand to nearly every person he passed.
"Evening, Marta."
"Master Anng! Good to see you as always."
"Good crop this week, Desmond?"
The vendor grinned and waved him off with a laugh, already turning to serve the next customer in line.
This was Anng. Martial arts instructor at Academy Twelve, and one of the last handful of people alive who still taught his particular discipline properly, not the watered-down version most schools settled for when nobody wanted to put in the years it actually took. He carried seventy-some years on him, and none of it showed in how he moved through the market crowd, weaving between stalls and shoulders with a lightness that made younger men look clumsy by comparison.
