Liu Anmei

Liu Anmei set her training robe on fire. Again. She didn’t mean to, that was the thing, she’d just been thinking too hard—about breath rhythm, spell pressure, and that ridiculously stiff shoulder roll the Li girl insisted on doing in every finishing stance. The mana around her fingers surged the way it always did when she was annoyed, and then…

Poof. Flames. Again.

She sighed and patted it out lazily with one hand, singeing her palm in the process. The burn healed halfway before she even finished standing up.

“Morning,” she said aloud, to no one in particular. “Time to ruin something beautiful.”

Lotus Peak wasn’t as peaceful as people claimed. Sure, the birds were quiet. The air was pure. The elder monks all spoke in koans so vague you could hear yourself growing wiser while failing to understand them.

But under all that? Pressure.

It hummed in the stone. In the training yards. In the way the other disciples bowed a little too quickly when Anmei passed them.

Because they knew who she was. One of the Four. Not just beautiful—untouchable.

Liu Anmei, the Laughing Flame of Emberflower Pavilion. Duel champion of seven provinces. Owner of nine broken engagement tokens (eight stolen, one thrown; try to marry her? In your dreams). Proud, unpredictable, and entirely uninterested in etiquette.

She stretched her arms behind her back, letting her joints pop.

She watched her own chest bounce.

They did so beautifully.

Damn right they did.

Mana swirled through her in slow, lazy waves—warm, thick, golden-orange. Her mana had always had a flame attribute. She didn’t know why. She wondered sometimes if her personality was shaped by the fire. Or maybe her personality shaped her mana.

She didn’t know, but she had always been in the flame. Her mana moved with the kind of heat that made metal sweat. It didn’t need direction. It didn’t need summoning. It was there—always ready—like her very breath had an activation sequence built into her intent.

Others had to cast. She just had to think and command. Her fans sat folded at her waist. She didn’t need them today. Her intent was too low to require activation. And besides, she wasn’t hunting. She was bored. She hated it when it was boring.

SO boring.

Down in the courtyard, the Ice Queen was at it again. Week after week it was the same damn thing. Li Vivian, all straight lines and cold perfection, like someone had forged her from sculpted snowfall. She moved through her sword form—what was that one called, Piercing Edge?—like she’d been born for it. Relentless. Practiced. Perfect.

And Anmei hated it and not because it was bad. Because it was so good she wanted to throw something at it just to see what would happen. She turned away from the Crane of the Li House and hopped onto the edge of a low training wall, balancing effortlessly on her toes, and let her mana flare just enough to warm the air around her shoulders and empower her body.

Then she called down, voice bright and impossible to ignore: “Are you ever going to relax, Icicle?”

Vivian didn’t flinch but in a blurring move she threw a icicle at Anmei

She dropped from the wall with a somersault, rolled to her feet, and bounced once on her heels. Sparks trailed her steps and she moved down the mountain. She waved to a few stunned disciples who immediately scurried out of her way.

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“Back in five, ladies,” she said cheerfully. She touched the shawl of one of the girls. “Oh I love that.”

She was pretty sure none of them had even dared look her in the eyes. Gods, it was exhausting being famous and awesome. Definitely awesome.

Two hours later—after a brief joy-brawl with a training dummy (it exploded, technically not her fault)—she wandered toward the center pavilion, where meals were usually taken after morning sessions.

And there they were.

Vivian, sitting alone at one end of the long bench table, back straight, blade polished and laid beside her like a guard dog.

And a little further down—Yu Meishan.

The “Poet of Earth.” A spirit-cultivator, impossibly elegant, rumored to have shattered a man’s cultivation just by writing his name in calligraphy.

Anmei grinned. She was her kind of girl.

She grabbed some dumplings and walked straight over, dropped onto the bench with zero grace, and threw her arms across the table between them.

“Well, isn’t this a deliciously awkward silence? Maybe you guys should make out.”

Neither of them looked at her. Hehe. Oh, how fun.

The silence at the table was exquisite. A bit tense. A bit uncomfortable. All awkward.

But still, perfectly arranged—like a garden someone had raked exactly once and then forbidden anyone from walking across.

Vivian Li sat at one end, posture erect, hands folded in that way that said: this conversation is beneath me, but go ahead and try anyway. Her blade rested beside her bowl like a declaration.

Yu Meishan sat at the other, quiet as a stone that had decided to wait out the next three centuries. Her robes were draped in dusty gold and moss green. She didn’t eat. She didn’t blink. She just breathed like an old tree—deep, slow, permanent.

You see what she did there? Wood and Stone, a spirit culivator. Good lord she was clever.

Anmei could see the ambient mana swirling toward Yu Meishan.

And then there was Liu Anmei, sitting squarely in the middle, slurping dumplings like they were divine truth wrapped in dough.

She chewed thoughtfully.

“You know,” she said, mouth full, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say we were avoiding each other on purpose.”

Neither woman responded.

Anmei popped another dumpling into her mouth and pointed her chopsticks at Meishan.

“You’ve said maybe three words in the two weeks I’ve been here. Are you meditating, or judging me?”

Meishan didn’t look up. “Yes.”

Vivian snorted—barely.

Anmei perked up. “Oh! Was that emotion? Did the glacier crack?”

Vivian looked up slowly. “I’m trying to enjoy my silence.”

“And I’m trying to enjoy your company,” Anmei replied. “Let’s call it a draw.”

Meishan raised an eyebrow. “I bet you’re a joy at parties.”

A few disciples sat at the far tables, eating in quick, quiet gulps like they’d wandered into a room with wild predators and couldn’t figure out how to back out without getting eaten.

Anmei watched them for a moment, then leaned toward Meishan. “You notice no one else sits within four tables of us?”

“That’s because they respect the sanctity of lunch,” Meishan murmured.

Vivian didn’t even look. “Or they’re terrified.”

Anmei leaned back with a grin. “Good. They should be.”

For a moment, the three of them just sat.

One fiery and loud.

One cold and sharp.

One calm and ancient.

Three of the most feared and admired cultivators of their generation—sharing dumplings and unspoken burdens in the middle of a silent mountain.

Anmei tapped the table. “So. We’re here. Together. No wars. No husbands or boyfriends. No overbearing masters breathing down our necks. Why aren’t we talking about anything that matters?”

Vivian sipped her tea. “Because some of us came here to train.”

“And some of us,” Anmei said, “came here to breathe.”

She glanced at Meishan. “You?”

Meishan finally looked up. “I came to listen.”

Anmei blinked. “Oh. She speaks in riddles and hints. I love that.”

She turned her attention back to Vivian. “So. Ethan Zhou.”

Vivian didn’t flinch—but her grip on the teacup changed. Slightly.

“You’re married to him.”

“That’s public record.”

“Is it public record that he might be smarter than all of us combined?”

Vivian set her cup down with care.

Anmei beamed. “Just asking. For context.”

Vivian exhaled through her nose. “He’s brilliant. He’s irritating. We have an arrangment. He doesn’t chase.”

“He respects you,” Meishan said softly. "Your boundries. That is rare for political marriages."

Vivian didn’t respond.

Anmei sat back, watching the two of them in turn. Then she said, in a voice too light to be casual. “I am confused. Do you want him to chase you?”

Vivian didn’t answer, but she didn’t deny it either.

The moment passed.

Outside, wind rustled through the cherry trees lining the outer path. A pair of acolytes darted past the window, whispering too fast for Anmei to catch the words.

She stretched, reached for more dumplings, and said:

“You know… it’s funny. They call us the Four Great Beauties. Like we’re flowers in a royal garden.”

She looked between them.

“But all I see at this table are weapons.”

Meishan said nothing. Vivian didn’t disagree.

Anmei grinned. “Good. Since you’re being all stoic and boring...

Take a look at this.”