The Lotus Wind descended through the endless azure, its silken sails shifting like petals in the breeze. Below, Skyveil City emerged from the morning mist, an intricate tapestry woven from jade, gold, and vibrant crimson threads.

Towers adorned with ornate banners and detailed carvings rose to meet the heavens, their pagoda-style rooftops stretching skyward like hands in reverent prayer. The city hummed with life; even from this height, the faint echoes of bustling voices, rhythmic clangs of the forge, and distant strains of melodic tea house tunes blended into a symphony that pulsed across the sprawling metropolis.

Tian Hao leaned against the railing, his gaze unwavering as he took in the city below. There was an almost surreal familiarity to it, as if each structure mirrored the grandeur of the cities in his past life. But this city was raw and potent, vibrating with the uncontained energy of a place brimming with possibilities. He felt its call—a subtle yet undeniable resonance with his own restless spirit.

This, he knew, was where he was meant to be, not bound by the rigid codes of the sect but amidst the chaos and thriving ambition of a city that seemed to crackle with the promise of something new.

“It’s… massive,” Fatty Wu exhaled, his round face splitting into an exuberant grin. He pointed eagerly at the winding alleys and clustered markets below, his eyes alight with gastronomic dreams. “The markets, the ingredients! We must sample every delicacy, visit every stall. This, my friends, is a culinary pilgrimage!” Rubbing his hands together, he was already mentally bartering for exotic spices and dreaming of the rare spirit beast meats that would await him.

Perched on the railing with silver fur catching the afternoon light, Jiuwei surveyed the scene with a mix of aloofness and undeniable curiosity. Her golden eyes darted from bustling marketplaces to towering pagodas, each sight betraying a flicker of fascination.

“Hmph,” she muttered, tail flicking dismissively, though a note of interest softened her scorn. “Crowded, isn’t it? I’ve seen better,” she added, lifting her chin. “Once, I passed through a coastal city built by sea serpents. Now that was what I’d call ‘vibrant.’” Yet, her gaze lingered on the city.

Lin Mei’s eyes, however, remained fixed on their landing site—a grand courtyard within the city walls, purposefully crafted to receive aerial vessels.

Intricate protective formations were etched into the stone, their faint luminescence hinting at powerful spiritual arrays designed to shield the city from threats. Mystical symbols intertwined with floral motifs, and the air seemed to hum with a latent energy, signifying the city's formidable spiritual defenses.

“Remember,” she cut through their excitement, her tone steely, “we’re here representing the Skyward Lotus Sect. This isn’t a leisure trip; focus on our task and try not to embarrass yourselves—or me. Or the sect.”

She sighed, casting a pointed look at Tian Hao. “Every gesture, every word will be scrutinized. The reputation we forge here could impact the sect for generations. Missteps won’t go unnoticed.”

As the Lotus Wind touched down with a practiced grace, the ground crew moved swiftly to secure its wooden frame. Nearby, disciples from other sects disembarked from their vessels in vibrant, flowing robes, their laughter and voices blending into the lively atmosphere of the bustling square. Servants in Skyveil’s official livery darted among the arrivals, their arms loaded with baggage, their expressions blending deferential servitude with practiced indifference.

Tian Shou and the senior disciples stepped down the ramp and off the Lotus Wind, heading toward a reception table where a harried-looking administrator shuffled through a thick ledger, spectacles slipping down his nose.

“Greetings,” Tian Shou intoned, his voice laced with authority, though carrying an edge of fatigue. “We are the Skyward Lotus Sect. We’ll need accommodations for our delegation.”

The administrator—a wiry man with an impeccably trimmed mustache and tiny spectacles balanced precariously on his nose—glanced up, eyes flicking from Tian Shou’s face to the jade token presented to him.

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For a heartbeat, his polite smile wavered, but it returned, though strained, as he cleared his throat.

“Of course, Sect Leader Tian.” His tone was unfailingly civil, yet as flat as polished stone. “Let me check our availability. How many rooms were you expecting, and with what sort of formations?” He squinted through his spectacles at the emblem on the token, feigning unfamiliarity as his gaze flicked to the Lotus Wind with mild disinterest.

“Ten rooms, standard formations,” Tian Shou replied, his voice measured. “With access to training facilities and, naturally, privacy for those of the appropriate standing.” He placed the token on the table with a slight, pointed press.

The administrator’s eyes darted back to the token, and he pursed his lips. “Ten rooms, standard formations?” He tapped his ledger with one long, slender finger.

“A bit of a challenge, I’m afraid. Our city’s hosting quite a _gathering_ for the Celestial Conclave this year—far more sects than usual. It would have been… helpful had your sect confirmed attendance prior.” His tone was riddled with the unspoken implication. “Most of our high-standing accommodations are, regrettably, already… spoken for.”

His eyes swept over Tian Shou’s group, lingering on the wear of their robes, several still spattered with blood, with a look that balanced just between curiosity and disdain.

“Those prime rooms are generally reserved for the more… recognized contributors,” he added smoothly, barely glancing up as Tian Shou’s jaw tensed.

“Skyveil City ensures our most luxurious accommodations go to our most _distinguished_ guests, whose contributions to the realm are—well—noted. Might I suggest your esteemed sect look elsewhere?”

A flicker of irritation crossed Tian Shou’s face, though he held his composure. “The Skyward Lotus Sect has long contributed to the stability of this region,” he replied, his voice edged with restrained dignity. “Perhaps your ledger might be more… accommodating with the right encouragement?”

From his sleeve, Tian Shou produced a small silk pouch. The administrator’s face softened, and his hand moved instinctively toward the pouch, weighing it with a casual flicker of appreciation. He turned, as if reconsidering, but then shook his head with a practiced sigh.

“While your generosity is indeed admirable, Sect Leader Tian, our capacity is truly at its limit. Even rooms for smaller delegations are fully booked. Perhaps an inn outside the city would serve your needs—there’s _The Humble Petal,_ I believe? Comfortable enough, though you may wish to avoid their… lower rooms, especially with the festival crowds.”

The administrator’s tone shifted, becoming conspiratorial as he leaned forward. “Some high-ranking sects, it seems, may have overestimated their needs. Or…” his eyes gleamed with an unsavory satisfaction, “…perhaps they prefer to withhold accommodations for certain internal reasons.” He gave a slight shrug. “One might say it’s… simply the way of things.”

Tian Shou’s smile tightened, his patience tested to its limit. He forced himself to remain civil, though his knuckles whitened as he clasped his hands behind his back. He met the administrator’s gaze, the man’s saccharine smile now a sharp thorn of insult, pricking at the pride of the Skyward Lotus Sect.

Watching the exchange from a distance, Tian Hao muttered with a wry grin, “Those big sects must have mastered some advanced negotiation techniques to lock down _all_ the prime rooms. Celestial treasures, perhaps? Or did they just threaten to set fire to his shabby little desk?”

He chuckled, though his mind spun with calculations, piecing together old resentments and recent slights. The Golden Feather Sect, the Azure Mist Sect—they’d held grudges since his infamous duel at the feast — and the night that followed—, whispers circulating that their influence was only growing while Skyward Lotus' faded.

A pang of guilt tightened in his chest. His antics had turned the sect into a target, the weight of his recklessness now a debt shared by others who bore far heavier burdens. Humor was his shield—a way to keep unease at bay, to laugh when he’d rather hang his head.

Lin Mei shared a look with Fatty Wu, a silent recognition of just how precarious their standing had become.

The Celestial Conclave—supposedly a gathering of peers—was anything but. Every accommodation, every courtesy withheld was a reminder that sect alliances and rivalries meant more than any “shared purpose.” Lin Mei knew her sect’s standing, even Tian Hao’s impulsive behavior, were pieces of a game she hadn’t chosen to play but couldn’t avoid.

Jiuwei’s golden eyes narrowed as she perched on Tian Hao’s shoulder, her earlier smugness giving way to a restless hunger. “If we don’t find something substantial soon…” she murmured in his ear, her tone dark and teasing, “I may have to _demonstrate_ my own strength.” The scent of roasting meats reached her nose, and her tail twitched irritably, the aroma prodding the growing rumble in Tian Hao’s own stomach.

Just as he steadied his temper, a group of Golden Feather Sect disciples sauntered into the courtyard. Their laughter echoed loudly, their yellow robes adorned with the sect’s emblem—a gleaming golden feather—seemed to radiate a smug confidence as they looked down upon the other sects and disciples around them.

At their head, Jin Bao noticed Tian Hao immediately, a smirk curling at his lips as he made no attempt to mask the disdain in his eyes.