As Kai made his way back to the city, the sun began its final descent behind the caldera's rim, painting the sky in shades of violet and deep orange. The first stars emerged, twinkling faintly in the darkening expanse. This celestial shift acted as a silent, universal signal to the beastkin. Their day of exploration and play was over; it was time to come home.

  From the surrounding ancient forest, a rustling began. It was not the sound of danger, but of a family returning. There was nothing in these woods that posed a true threat to them—this ritual was born not of fear, but of deeply ingrained habit. For years at the Ember Sword sect, their world had been defined by the evening bell that called them back to the security and familiarity of their stables to sleep. That regimentation had forged a powerful comfort in proximity. They had grown accustomed to the soft sounds and warm presence of their kin nearby, and the idea of a family member being too far away in the vulnerable state of sleep made them deeply uneasy.

  And so, they returned. They flowed into the city from every direction—spirit dogs darting through alleys, the great quake buffalo Ning moving with a slow, ground-shaking dignity, and aerial beasts gliding silently to perch on rooftops. The silent, vacant plazas and streets began to fill with life and soft sounds as the entire menagerie gathered within the walls for the night.

  Unlike the Ember Sword sect, this city possessed no dedicated stables. Kuro, in his incomprehensible design, had not seen the need to include cages. This, Kai reflected, was not an oversight but a silent upgrade. The stables of his old life had existed primarily to house cages—not for the beasts' safety, but to make his former masters comfortable with their presence. The beastkin were intelligent, social creatures; Kai had dedicated years to teaching them trust and restraint, and they had never needed bars. The cages were there because of human fear, not their nature.

  Now, unburdened by those confines, the beastkin exhibited their own preferences. Some would find a large, empty building—a warehouse or a hall with cool, smooth floors—and claim it as a communal sleeping den. Others, particularly the more solitary creatures, would find secluded nooks in the city's many gardens or under arched bridges.

  But there was a second, far more popular option: Kai’s bedroom.

  Kuro had seemingly designated the largest structure in the city as the Sect Leader’s residence. The bedroom within was absurdly opulent, a cavernous space with vaulted ceilings that could have hosted a royal ball. At its center sat a bed of ridiculous proportions, a vast expanse of silk and padding large enough to comfortably accommodate twenty people. The entire room felt less like a place for rest and more like a statement of unimaginable power and wealth. Kai felt like an imposter in such space, a caretaker sleeping in a monarch’s chambers.

  His beastkin, however, had no such reservations. They had grown profoundly accustomed to sleeping beside him. It had started with Snow and a few of the smaller creatures seeking comfort in a new place, and had swiftly evolved into an unbreakable nightly tradition. To them, Kai was the heart of their family, and his presence was the ultimate security. They would never let him sleep alone now.

  As Kai approached the main gate of the city, a familiar white form resolved from the deepening twilight. Snow was already there, a silent, patient sentinel waiting for his return. The giant wolf’s ice-blue eyes tracked Kai’s approach, and as soon as Kai was within a dozen paces, the majestic composure shattered. Snow’s tail began to whip back and forth like a banner, and he bounded forward, not with a predator's grace, but with the unbridled joy of a giant puppy. He ran playful circles around Kai, his massive body moving with a lightness that belied his size, occasionally dipping his head to nudge Kai affectionately with his cold nose.

  Kai couldn't help the wide smile that spread across his face, his earlier contemplative mood evaporating. He laughed, reaching out to ruffle the thick fur behind Snow’s ears as he passed through the grand, now-familiar gate. The city within was alive, but not with the clamor of a human settlement. It was a different kind of life. Soft chirps, contented rumbles, and playful yips echoed through the stone canyons of the streets. A family of dog-like spirit beasts tumbled over each other in a plaza; a great feathered serpent coiled contentedly on a rooftop, watching the proceedings with lazy eyes. To Kai, it felt more like home than any bustling human city ever had. Some of the creatures looked up as he passed, their calls sounding for all the world like they were telling him about their day.

  His path eventually led him to what was unmistakably a sect banquet hall. It was a vast chamber designed for opulent feasts and political gatherings, filled with long tables of dark, polished wood and high-backed chairs carved with intricate motifs.

  Meant to host hundreds, its sheer scale made their tiny group feel microscopic. The emptiness was palpable, a silent monument to the city's unrealized purpose, though it was softened somewhat by the handful of smaller beastkin that had followed Kai inside, curling up beneath tables or investigating interesting shadows.

  On the far side of the hall, near the door that led to the kitchens, he found his human companions. They were huddled together at one end of a table, a picture of collective misery. Lu Bu, Zhang Liao, and Chen Gong were staring into their bowls as if seeking answers to life’s great mysteries within the depths of their stew. Only Lulu seemed unaffected, eating her meal with the same methodical precision she applied to transcribing texts.

  “Hey,” Kai called out, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. “Why the long faces? Is the blue gunk still getting you all down?”

  Lu Bu looked up, his expression guilty. “Um, it’s not that, Uncle Kai.”

  Before Kai could ask a follow-up question, Gin slammed his hand on the table, making the bowls jump. “Kai! Thank the heavens you’re back! You’ve gotta do the cooking from now on! Lulu is terrible!” he blurted out, giving voice to the silent suffering at the table.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Lulu didn’t even look up from her bowl, merely rolling her eyes with an air of supreme annoyance. “If you find my culinary skills so profoundly lacking, you are welcome to take over the kitchen duties yourself next time. I assure you, I will not be offended.”

  “What’s wrong with the food?” Kai asked, genuinely puzzled. He walked over to the pot simmering on a small heating formation nearby.

  “Taste it yourself,” Gin grumbled, shoving a full bowl of stew into Kai’s hands.

  Kai looked down. The stew looked perfectly fine—chunks of root vegetables and meat in a rich, brown broth. He took a spoon, blew on it gently, and took a cautious sip.

  The taste was… nothing. It was an astounding void of flavor. The vegetables were soft, the meat was tender, but it was as if the very concept of seasoning had been surgically removed. It was hydration and nutrients, but it was not food. It was profoundly, impressively bland.

  “It… lacks a certain… punch,” Kai said diplomatically, lowering the spoon.

  “It tastes like boiled sadness!” Gin declared, throwing his hands up in despair. “I’ve eaten mud with more character!”

  “The nutritional content is optimal,” Lulu stated, finally looking up from her bowl with an air of unassailable logic. She fixed Gin with a cool stare. “If you have a grievance with the recipe’s formulation, take it up with Kai. The instructions are his.”

  “It is?” Kai said, sounding genuinely surprised that his simple campfire recipe had been deemed worthy of documentation.

  “Bullshit,” Gin retorted, slamming his flask on the table for emphasis. “We’ve eaten his food countless times, and it never tasted like… like flavorless paste! You messed something up. You had to.”

  “Hardly,” Lulu sniffed, her pride as a living archive clearly wounded. “I followed the recipe exactly as it was recited to me. Word for word. Measure for measure. Or have you forgotten? I have a perfect memory.”

  Kai looked down at the stew again, stirring it thoughtfully. It did look identical to the hearty stew he’d made—the same chunks of vegetables, the same rich color of the broth. Then his eyes fell upon the meat. The texture was all wrong.

  “Lulu,” he began carefully, trying to avoid sounding accusatory. “Did you… did you use raw meat in this?”

  “Yes,” she replied, her chin held high. “Just as your recipe stated. The instructions were clear.”

  A wave of understanding washed over Kai. “Ah. See, when I make this stew on the road, I almost always use jerky as the meat. It’s preserved, it stores easily, and… well, it’s already salted. That’s where the salt in the stew usually comes from. If you use raw, unsalted meat, you have to add the salt separately.”

  Lulu’s impeccable composure finally cracked with a flicker of indignation. “How was I supposed to infer that? Your recipe did not specify ‘salted jerky.’ It said ‘meat.’ The term ‘meat’ is a broad category encompassing both fresh and preserved states.”

  “I mean,” Kai said with a helpless shrug, “you normally just… taste the food as you cook it and adjust. You know, a pinch of this, a dash of that…”

  “Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes and effectively ending the debate. She pointed her spoon at him like a magistrate passing a sentence. “You’re cooking from now on. My talents are clearly wasted on things of this nature.”

  “Well, this is an easy fix, at least,” Kai said, choosing to see a solution rather than a problem. He headed into the sprawling kitchen and returned with a mortar and pestle and a chunk of rock salt. He ground it finely and began to season the large pot of stew, stirring diligently. Soon, the rich, savory aroma that had been missing began to bloom in the air, and the collective mood at the table lifted noticeably.

  Just as Kai was about to finally sit down and enjoy the salvaged meal, Chen Gong cleared his throat timidly.

  “Um, Master Kai? If I may… I have a question in relation to my ongoing work, The Great Compendium of Master Kai’s Profound Teachings.”

  Kai suppressed a groan, lowering his spoon. “Chen Gong, I really, really wish you wouldn’t write that.”

  “The historical record demands it, Master!” Chen Gong insisted, his eyes shining with fervent devotion. “All the same, as part of my biographical chronicling, I find myself at a loss. I was wondering… what is the official name of our little settlement? The place we now call home?”

  Kai blinked. “Isn’t it just Titan’s Reach?”

  “With respect, Master, that is the name of the mountain we are upon. This city,” he said, gesturing to the grand, empty hall around them, “this sanctuary you have provided for us… it deserves its own identity. It should have a different name, one that reflects its purpose and your vision.”

  “I don’t know,” Kai said, feeling put on the spot. “Does it really matter?”

  “It does!” Chen Gong’s passion was unmistakable. “Names have power! They bestow meaning and destiny! This is the seat of your new beginning, the heart of your legacy. You should name this place. It is a leader’s duty.”

  “You’re putting far too much grandeur on me again, Chen Gong,” Kai sighed. He took a large bite of the now-properly seasoned stew, using the simple, satisfying act of eating to ground himself. “But, fine. I’ll think of a name. Eventually. Not now. I’m tired, my brain feels like it’s been scrubbed with one of your brushes, and my only profound teaching for tonight is that salt is important.”

  The meal continued with lighter, idle conversation. Gin held court with a rambling story about a faulty still from his past, Lulu interjected with pedantic corrections about evaporation points, and the three disciples listened, their spirits lifted by a full stomach and a flavorful meal. Eventually, the yawns began to outnumber the words. One by one, they excused themselves, retreating to the quiet and the strange, individualized solitude of a city built for thousands, inhabited by six.

  As always, Kai’s path to his own chambers was a procession. A nudge at his leg announced Snow’s presence, while the soft patter of smaller paws and the occasional flutter of wings signaled that his escort was assembling. He opened his door to the usual, comical yet heartwarming, struggle. A badger-like beast zipped between his feet, a pair of fox kits tumbled over a pillow, and Ning, the massive quake buffalo, could only fit her head and shoulders through the doorway, her content rumbles vibrating through the floorboards. With a resigned smile, Kai navigated the furry, feathered obstacle course and collapsed onto the absurdly large bed, which was already half-occupied by a dozing spirit-beast menagerie.

  Surrounded by the warm, breathing, snoring weight of his family, the anxieties of the day finally released their grip. His consciousness quickly grew heavy, and he drifted into a deep slumber.

  But, it would not be a dreamless night.

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