The village was a waypoint, not a destination.
We passed through it in an hour — bought supplies at a market where the merchant spoke in broken MTL and refused to negotiate, ate a hot meal at an inn that served grey rice with a side of grey vegetables, and left before anyone could ask us to fix anything. The innkeeper had tried to charge us double because Lin Mei looked wealthy. She had stared at him until he reduced the price. She didn't say a word. The stare was enough.
Lin Mei walked ahead of us on the road, her white robes spotless despite the dusty path. She had recovered her composure after the incident at the stream, but there was a new tension in her shoulders. She was thinking about something. I didn't ask.
"Three days to the secret realm gate," she said as we cleared the village outskirts. "This one has calculated the optimal route."
"Of course you did."
"The path passes through the Thornwood Forest, crosses the Frozen River at its narrowest point, and ascends Spirit's Peak to the Frostbite Realm entrance. This one has prepared rations for four days to account for delays."
"What kind of delays?"
"Demonic beasts. Weather. Bandits. The usual."
"Right. The usual."
We walked.
The Thornwood Forest was exactly what it sounded like — a forest of thorn-covered trees that scraped at our clothes and left thin red lines on any exposed skin. The thorns were not content to simply exist; they reached for us, grabbing at sleeves and pant legs like they had personal grudges. Lin Mei walked through it like it wasn't touching her, her robes repelling the thorns with a faint shimmer of defensive energy. Every branch that got within a foot of her bounced back as if hitting an invisible wall.
Han and I were not so lucky.
"I'm bleeding in places I didn't know I had," Han said.
"Same."
"This forest was designed by someone who hates hikers."
"All forests in this world were designed by someone who hates hikers. It's a genre staple." I pulled a thorn out of my sleeve. It had gone through fabric and into skin. "In real cultivation novels, the protagonist walks through a forest like this and it's a minor inconvenience. In practice, it's a thousand tiny stab wounds."
"I counted thirty-seven scratches in the last five minutes."
"I stopped counting at fifty."
Lin Mei's voice drifted back from ahead: "The forest is approximately one mile wide. At current pace, you will endure approximately two hundred more scratches each."
"Thank you for the statistics," I said.
"This one believes in providing accurate information."
"That's not information. That's a threat assessment."
"Accurate threat assessment is a form of information."
We emerged from the Thornwood Forest with our clothes intact but our patience frayed. The Frozen River was, predictably, frozen. Lin Mei walked across it like it was a paved road, her feet barely leaving prints on the ice. Han and I crossed carefully, testing each step, our breath fogging in the cold. The ice groaned under my weight. I tried not to think about what would happen if it broke.
"Don't look down," Han said.
"Now I have to look down."
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"You always do the opposite of what I say."
"That's because you always say the thing I shouldn't do."
"Which means I successfully prevented you from looking down by predicting your contrarian nature."
"So you manipulated me?"
"I guided you toward a better outcome through targeted reverse psychology."
"That's manipulation."
"That's leadership."
We made it across without falling through the ice. Han counted it as a victory. I counted it as a temporary reprieve.
Lunch was a brief affair. We sat on rocks near the riverbank, eating dried meat and bread. Lin Mei produced her ceremonial dining set from her storage ring — the lacquered tray, the perfectly arranged portions, the tea brewed with water she'd heated using a single finger. Her set included individual dishes for rice, pickles, sliced meat, and a small bowl of soup that was still steaming.
"I feel underdressed," Han said, looking at his dried meat.
"Your meal is sufficient," Lin Mei said.
"Your meal has soup."
"Soup is a basic courtesy."
"That's not soup. That's a statement."
A young master approached during lunch.
We saw him coming from a distance — robes of expensive blue silk, a sword at his hip with a jeweled pommel, his hair tied back in a topknot that was slightly too elaborate to be practical. He walked with the swagger of someone who had never been told no in his life.
His internal monologue, visible to me through a brief flicker of my system interface: "That jade beauty is the finest I have ever seen. I shall approach with confidence. My opening line is flawless. She will be unable to resist my charm. I have rehearsed this."
He approached. Opened his mouth. Before he could speak, a notification appeared in my vision:
[ROMANCE SUBPLOT INITIATED: JADE BEAUTY ATTRACTS ARROGANT YOUNG MASTER. SCRIPTED REJECTION PROMPT #7 SELECTED.]
Lin Mei's mouth opened. Her voice came out flat, automated, as if someone else was speaking through her: "This one has no interest in romantic entanglements. Please remove yourself from this one's presence."
The young master's face fell. He mumbled an apology and walked away, his perfect opening line never delivered, his flawless confidence reduced to shuffling retreat.
I stared at Lin Mei.
She stared at the spot where the young master had been.
"Did you just—"
"Yes."
"You rejected him on a—"
"Yes."
"Automatically?"
Her jaw tightened. "This one does not know what you are implying."
"I'm not implying anything. I'm asking if you know you just rejected him on a script that someone else wrote for you."
She didn't answer. She packed her tea set with hands that shook slightly and stood up.
"We should keep moving."
"Lin Mei."
"The gate will not wait forever."
"Lin Mei."
She stopped. She didn't turn around. Her shoulders were rigid, her hands clenched at her sides.
I didn't know what to say. So I said the only thing that felt true.
"It's okay if you don't have answers. None of us do."
She stood there for a long moment.
Then she nodded, just slightly, and started walking again.
The river crossing took another hour. The far bank was a rocky slope that led to the base of Spirit's Peak. We made camp at the tree line as the sun set, the sky bleeding orange and red through clouds that were rendered in streaks of unblended color. Each streak was a different shade, and none of them blended at the edges — the sky looked like a child's painting of a sunset.
Lin Mei meditated. Han built a fire. I sat against a tree, watching my system interface flicker with half-formed notifications that dissolved before I could read them.
The young master from earlier had probably told someone about us by now. That was fine. We'd be gone by morning.
"This one has a question."
Lin Mei's voice. I looked up. She was still meditating, eyes closed, but her attention was on me.
"Go ahead."
"Your world. You spoke of it before. What was it like?"
I considered the question. "Loud. Bright. Full of things that didn't make sense. We had machines that could talk to each other across the world, but people still argued about what was true. We had food that was grown in labs and buildings that touched the sky and the ability to record every moment of our lives, and most of us were miserable anyway."
"That sounds terrible."
"It was. But it also had coffee."
"What is coffee?"
"A drink. Hot. Bitter. It wakes you up and makes you feel like you can do things you can't actually do."
"That sounds like a cultivator's awakening pill."
"It's exactly like a cultivator's awakening pill, except it's socially acceptable to drink four of them in a row. Also, it doesn't give you a spiritual hangover. It gives you a regular hangover, which is somehow worse."
Lin Mei's lips twitched. It was barely a movement — a fraction of a millimeter — but I caught it.
"One day," she said, "this one would like to try coffee."
The word "coffee" came out in normal speech.
She didn't catch herself this time.
We sat in silence for a while. The fire popped and crackled. The sky darkened, pixel by pixel, the colors fading to black in discrete steps rather than a smooth gradient.
Han's logbook entry, read aloud to no one in particular: "Day five. She said 'coffee' like it was a normal word. She didn't even notice. I know what that feels like — to have the programming wear off without realizing it. I hope it's true for her. I hope she finds whatever's waiting on the other side of the fortune cookie speech."
Lin Mei opened her eyes and looked at Han. Her expression was unreadable.
But she didn't correct him.