Chapter 17: I Just Wanted a Nap, Not a Diplomatic Crisis

There’s an ancient proverb that goes something like this: “A Patriarch’s peace lasts exactly as long as it takes someone to knock on the door.”

I had exactly eleven minutes of peace this morning — a new personal record.

Knock. Knock.

I didn’t move. Maybe if I stayed perfectly still, they’d assume I’d fallen into another ten-year coma and leave.

Knock. Knock.

Followed by the gentle sliding of a door. Not a good sign.

I turned my head — slowly — to see Aunt Mei ushering in a man I’d never seen before. He wore lavender robes embroidered with silver thread, and his skin had the polished, high-maintenance glow of someone who had never known poverty, dust, or Shen Clan budgeting scrolls.

The man bowed gracefully. “Esteemed Patriarch Shen. I bring greetings from the Radiant Cloud Sect.”

Wonderful. Nothing says ‘good morning’ like unsolicited diplomacy.

“Fan Yichen,” he said smoothly, “envoy and representative of my sect’s external affairs division.”

“Chen Wei,” I replied reflexively. “Retired double—”

I stopped myself. “I mean. Shen Liang. Patriarch. Of… this.”

He smiled. Not mockingly. But politely enough that it felt mocking.

“We bring a formal invitation,” Yichen said, producing a silk-wrapped scroll with the kind of reverence most people reserve for sacred relics or overpriced spirit wine.

I took it with the same care you’d use to accept a cursed object.

“The Skybound Assembly, held annually,” he continued, “is a summit for sects and clans across the region to connect, exchange insight, and showcase talent.”

I unrolled the scroll slowly. The characters were written in gold ink.

Gold. Ink.

I had to resist the urge to rub it with my thumb just to see if it flaked off like paint. That gold could’ve paid for a year’s worth of my medicine — plus three robes that didn’t itch like burlap dipped in ants.

“The Shen Clan is most welcome this year,” he added. “Given your miraculous recovery and your bloodline, your presence would honor the event.”

Translation: We’re inviting you because we want to see if the rumors are true — and if you’re a threat or a joke.

“What exactly is expected?” I asked, still staring at the scroll.

“A short speech. A few symbolic duels. Public face, nothing more,” he said smoothly. “Of course, many sects bring promising disciples as a sign of strength.”

I raised an eyebrow. “We specialize in humble appearances.”

His smile twitched. “I noticed.”

Yes. Our courtyard walls are half-moss, half-spite. Our disciples train in shoes that might technically be tree bark. Of course you noticed.

“How many sects will be attending?” I asked, already regretting the answer.

“Thirteen. All prominent.”

Thirteen polished, wealthy, well-connected sects. And us — the underfunded rock hermits of Ironspine.

“And when is this… assembly?”

“Three days.”

I stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“I am.”

“So. You arrived with gold ink, three days’ notice, and an invitation that includes public sparring,” I summarized. “Do you usually try to assassinate your invitees with stress, or is that just a perk for me?”

He actually chuckled. A tiny one. But still.

“It is customary,” he said, “to prepare quickly. The opportunity will be… valuable.”

Valuable to whom, exactly?

Still — turning it down would be worse. It’d make the clan look weak, isolated, or worse: irrelevant. This was the sort of thing Shen Wuji would’ve walked into barefoot just to scare everyone into coughing up treasures.

I sighed and nodded. “I’ll send a reply tomorrow.”

Fan Yichen bowed again, his sleeves fluttering with that dramatic weightless quality that only comes from silk enchanted by people who don’t sweat.

“May the heavens watch over the Shen Clan’s rise,” he said, and turned to leave.

Once the door closed, I sat in silence.

Aunt Mei quietly placed tea on the table.

I didn’t touch it.

Three days.

Three days to make this clan look less like a spiritual tax write-off and more like an actual cultivation force.

Three days to find disciples who wouldn’t faint, combust, or call me “Uncle” in front of other sect leaders.

Three days to write a speech that didn’t include the words: “Sorry, we’ve been poor lately.”

I sipped the tea finally. Bitter. Like truth.

I set the cup down.

“…I miss being in a coma.”

End of Chapter 17.