Unbound Master Noren lifted his mug of beer high. "A round for the house," he called to cheerful appreciation.

Outside, the wind howled. The House of Fallen Leaves was perched high up in the Darshen Mountains, in a place where the snow lasted year-round. In fact, some of the tavern's more famous drinks were made from glacial ice.

It was a good place to come and train. The ice, being so connected with the mountains themselves, tended to give off a fairly dense lux aura. It was nothing like what one could find inside a tower, but good for cycling and training. Consequently, the House of Fallen Leaves was usually filled with cultivators like Noren, men and women who had lost their ties to their sects and not yet been able to replace them. You wouldn't find a married cultivator anywhere in this lot. At least, not one who’d admit it.

Cultivators with noble spouses always had something to fall back on, Noren thought disgustedly as he downed his beer. Had he managed to catch the eye of a noble girl, he'd have had a much easier time of it this past decade. But the only nobles who'd ever expressed interest in Noren had been red or orange-ranked, and he had always had higher ambitions. Had those backstabbing traitors at the Harmonious Winds Sect not betrayed him, he'd be a grandmaster now, with a blue or green-ranked spouse for certain.

But now his fortunes had certainly changed. Noren smiled, spreading his arms and enjoying the feel of his new robes in their grays and browns. It was a bit subdued for his liking. Perhaps he could persuade this sect to change their colors. To think that his freelancing a few years ago would have paid off so very well. But when the Brotherhood of the Oaken Band envoy had come calling, Noren had listened to the man, even though he wasn't a cultivator.

Years ago, passing through Riceflower Province, Noren had been hired by the Eldest Brother of the Oaken Band Brotherhood to help him with a problem. Now, it seemed, the man had a different issue, one only a skilled cultivator could manage.

Noren was looking forward being a sect grandmaster at last. Better than that even, the only grandmaster of a sect with no higher ranks. Noren had reached the Peak of Spiritual Refinement fifteen years ago and somewhat stalled out. Without the backing of a sect, it was hard, almost impossible for a lone cultivator to take the next step toward Lux Embodiment.

It might take some time for this Morning Mist Sect to be able to give him the backing he needed. From the sound of it, someone had dusted off the name of a long-dead sect and come up with a few techniques they'd probably stolen from a sect they themselves had been kicked out of.

He'd seen that sort of scam run once or twice by cultivators like himself who had lost their own sect. Personally, he hadn't had the patience for it. Being a lone wandering cultivator had its benefits, but he was getting tired of it. Having a sect handed to him was more luck than he could have expected. He hoped they had some nubile young disciples, eager for his guidance.

The wind blew again, rattling the doors and windows. Some of the other cultivators in the room looked around nervously. Noren, one of the only Peak of Spiritual Refinement rank cultivators in the place, had nothing to be afraid of. Even if it was a visit from the Icefang Spirits or the great Yeti of the higher peaks, he was more than a match.

The wind howled again. The door banged open. Even Noren slid back on his stool. A figure stood in the doorway, a man clad in black with eyes that peered out from under his cloak like a pair of amber beads. The man's face was half in shadow. What Noren could see reminded him of an eagle.

The figure stepped inside, pulling the door closed behind him and lowered his hood to reveal a craggy face and a wild, dark beard. In a place where most men had neatly styled facial hair, he looked frighteningly different.

The bartender behind Noren set down his bottle. "Come and warm yourself by the fire," he said. "What'll it be?"

The newcomer stalked across the room to the bar, ignoring the whisper of conversation rising around him. He leaned across the counter toward the tavern keeper, mere inches away from Noren. "I'll have a hot yak butter tea," he said.

Noren couldn't help himself. He snorted with laughter. The stranger turned. "You dislike tea on a night like tonight?"

Noren drained his mug and set it down. "Another," he told the tavern keeper, who hesitated, looking between the two men, before sweeping Noren's mug away and turning to his workspace. He began by setting a kettle onto the lux hot plate, before placing Noren's mug under the keg of beer and filling it with frothy liquid. He replaced the mug in front of Noren and then turned back to brewing the tea.

The stranger sat on the stool beside Noren. He paid no heed to anyone. Noren was beginning to get annoyed. What business did this stranger have, barging in and acting like he owned the place? Noren had been enjoying a long evening being the center of attention, purchased by his generosity in standing multiple rounds for the other nine cultivators in the place.

One of the cultivators, a handsome woman Noren had been eyeing from across the room, even if she was a bit older than he liked, called from two places farther down the bar. "You aren't wearing sect robes.”

The stranger grunted. "How long does that tea take to brew?"

"You can't rush good yak butter tea," the tavern keeper said without turning.

Noren raised his mug and tried to catch the female cultivator's eye, but she was ignoring him, which furthered Noren's sense of annoyance.

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"Are you perhaps from outside the empire?" she asked. “We would hear news if you have some.“ It wasn't an unreasonable question. The Darshen Mountains did form the farthest southern border of the empire, and it was said some cultivators would climb over the peaks to see what lay beyond. As far as Noren was concerned, it was nonsense. Everyone knew beyond the empire was nothing but wastelands filled with terrible beasts. Without a divine emperor to build towers, there was no lux for a cultivator to cultivate, leaving the world in the grip of whatever monsters cared to roam it.

The tavern keeper turned back at last bearing a cup of green-gray tea in which a lump of slowly melting yak butter floated in a disgusting pool of oil. The stranger picked up the tea, sipped it, and set it down on his saucer.

"My apologies, tavern keeper. You are correct. That is an excellent cup of tea."

When she saw the stranger wasn’t going to answer, the woman scowled and turned back to her drink.

"What are you playing at?" Noren demanded of the man. He was feeling nice and warm now, the beer making up for the lack of lux in his system. The stranger thought he could just walk into Noren's bar and start up a conversation with the woman Noren had been planning to take to bed. Who did he think he was? More importantly, it was clear he did not know who Noren was.

Noren set down his beer as the stranger turned to him, amber eyes half-hooded by eyelids framed with bushy black brows. He looked him up and down, then he started to turn away.

"I am speaking," Noren said. "I, Grandmaster Noren of the Morning Mist Sect." It was his first time using his new title aloud, and he liked the way it sounded as it echoed about the room.

It caught the stranger's attention. He turned back. "Morning Mist," he said quietly.

"Yes," Noren swelled with pride.

"Have I heard of your sect before?"

"Perhaps not," Noren admitted, slightly deflated. "But you shall. My disciples are awaiting my return even now in Vardin City. One of our number competes for the honor of being chosen as the Emperor's bride."

"Is that so?" the stranger asked. He picked up his tea and took another sip. "Then why is their Grandmaster so far away? Vardin City is, what, a good three weeks' journey?"

"I was on a cultivating pilgrimage," Noren declared. Around him, others in the room nodded. They knew the sort of pilgrimages lone cultivators would make up into the mountains.

The woman, who'd clearly been listening, leaned over. "He's feeding you a load of yeti shit," she said. "He's sectless like the rest of us. Or was, till some men showed up yesterday to give him that robe and a letter. Now he's parading around like he's the Emperor's gift to cultivation."

Stung, Noren retorted. "They knew my reputation and sought me out to give guidance to their talented young masters."

"If you're the best they can get, the sect has no hope at all," the woman said. She turned to the stranger. "So what is your story? Would you like to—"

The stranger drained his tea and stood up. He brushed the woman off without a second glance, instead focusing on Noren.

"You, Master of the Morning Mist," he said, "you have offended me. I require satisfaction.”

"Offended you?" Noren laughed. "I haven't even tried yet." He looked the man over, the warm buzz from his beer still clinging to him. "You don't even look like a cultivator." It was true. The man wore leather in a style he'd only seen on barbarians from the edge of the Empire, and his heavy black cape bore no ornament. There was no color anywhere on him. He claimed no sect, no rank, didn't even bear a mark of a brotherhood or guild. And yet instead of bowing to his betters, here he was talking shit.

Now Noren really was offended. He stood up. "I will see your challenge."

"Not in here you won't," the tavern keeper said, pointing at the door. "Outside."

That was almost enough to make Noren reconsider. It was damn cold out there, cold enough to freeze your eyeballs open. But as the big man started for the door, Noren followed.

They stepped out into the howling night. Some of the other cultivators followed. Noren cycled what lux he had furiously, trying to keep himself warm. The alcohol started to burn off, and he was wondering just what he was doing as the big man shrugged off his cape and rose up.

He must have been hunched over in there. Noren hadn't realized just how tall he was. The man had to be at least six and a half feet and with arms to match. He wore a sleeveless leather vest, buttoned up the middle, and now he cracked his knuckles while moving his head from side to side.

"Well?" the stranger said.

Noren started to wonder if there was a way out of this. "I have the dignity of my sect to maintain," he said. "If you do not have rank to match me, I fear this is a contest I cannot face."

"You're not getting out of it that easily," the stranger said.

"Who are you?" Noren babbled.

"Me?" The stranger cracked a smile, showing wide white teeth. "I'm just a wanderer coming in from the cold. Now are you going to take that robe off or risk it being torn?"

Noren actually hadn't worn such a long flowing cultivator robe in years. It was a little too big across the shoulders and tight around the middle. Also it was long and if he did fight, he might trip or, worse, tear it. Despite everything, the stranger had a point. Noren shrugged out of the robe. The dismissive woman stepped forward and took it from him. He looked her over and curled his lip. "When I'm done with him, I'll have time to show you a thing or two."

She rolled her eyes but said nothing. Noren stepped away. The big man was cycling his own lux, and it felt as though he had quite a lot of it. Noren wasn't quite certain what his cultivation level was. He'd never been gifted at guessing that about other cultivators. From the look of him, the man had to be past the Peak of Bodily Refinement, possibly the Peak of Mental Refinement as well, but surely not the Peak of Spiritual Refinement.

Noren would be his match, even with his depleted supply of lux. He'd just take the fellow off guard.

Noren bowed. "It is an honor to fight you. May I know the name of my opponent?" Then, as he was still speaking, he unleashed the weave he had quickly braided together. He'd always been good at crafting weaves without using his hands and had used that to win more than one duel. Now he launched a ball of red and yellow lux toward the cultivator, hoping to knock him back toward the edge of the cliff not far away.

The stranger held up a hand. Noren's technique dissolved. He braided his own strands of lux. Noren's eyes slipped into lux sight where he could watch the colors. He was combining at least four different colors into a single weave.

Noren desperately began putting together a defensive weave, blue laced with green, designed to suck away the enemy technique. But the man flicked out his right hand, and a whip-like weave slashed out.

Noren dodged. The weave curved back around and caught him by the ankles. It yanked him from his feet and tossed him high, high into the air. Noren frantically began reinforcing his body with red for the fall, but a crashing ball of solid red lux caught him in the midsection and knocked him even further back.

He heard a shout and a quick snatch of laughter, and then he tumbling from the edge of the cliff. Stone whistled past as he dropped down, down, down into the icy wind and darkness.

He had enough time before reaching the bottom to realize he'd made the classic mistake of challenging a mysterious cultivator on a dark and stormy night without knowing the man's strength. If this had been a story, Noren would have mocked his own foolishness. Instead, his recriminations were cut short by the sharp and solid ground a thousand feet below the House of Falling Leaves.