Chapter 317: Red Fire
When Ji’an stepped onto the polished, petrified-wood floorboards of the fitting floor, she didn’t care to maintain a modest profile.
She strutted in with her hands tucked into the small of her back, her Black Iron Spatula gleaming on her leg, the two-tailed silver Nekomata kitten draped lazily across her shoulders like a living, glowing stole.
Apparently, it wouldn’t stay with Wangchen because he couldn’t make good food like Ji’an, so he left the nekomata in her care.
She stopped in the center of the hall, and her brain immediately suffered an irritating spike of aesthetic overload.
The Top Ten Disciples of the Celestial Sword Sect were already lined up in a strict, perfect row, standing atop individual, circular jade measurement pedestals.
It was a hazard of extreme, stratospheric male beauty.
Standing at Rank 1, Xie Wangchen looked like an ageless god of winter.
His cascading silver hair fell over his broad shoulders, his pristine white inner robes unfastened slightly at the collar, his radiant ruby eyes locking onto Ji’an the moment she entered the hall.
At Rank 2, Gu Zhiwei, the Golden Retriever, beamed so brightly his golden hair practically generated its own solar flare.
He was waving frantically at her, unbothered by the fact that a spectral tailor was currently trying to measure his ridiculously broad biceps.
At Rank 4, Lu Jianheng, the Sword Lord, stood rigidly, his face set in a mask of intense, deeply conflicted determination, his knuckles white as he gripped his scabbard, actively refusing to look at Ji’an’s waist.
At Rank 5 stood the terrifying anomaly: Shen Zechuan.
The Sect Leader’s Senior Apprentice, and Lin Feng’s copy-paste, soft-boy twin, stood with his long, flowing black hair entirely loose, his unblemished, tragically beautiful face set in a serene mask, absorbing the light around him like an empty void.
Rounding out the line were Hu Yanlie, the feral Beast Lord whose massive, blood-scented frame caused the automated sewing arrays to stutter in fear; Wen Shiru, the Fox, who was currently leaning on his carved jade cane, adjusting his spectacles while attempting to negotiate a bulk discount on raw silk thread with the Head Tailor; Mu Wuchen, the Assassin, who was merely a pair of dark eyes hovering near the upper scaffolding; and Yan Xuanye, the Supreme Demon Lord, who had somehow utilized foreign diplomatic loopholes to secure an "exchange scholar" slot just to stand in the retinue.
"Look at this lineup," Ji’an muttered under her breath, walking slowly toward her designated empty pedestal between Wangchen and Zhiwei. "It’s a reverse-harem boyband nightmare. There is enough volatile Yang energy in this room to power a steam locomotive across a continent. The poor tailor looks like he’s about to suffer a stroke."
She stepped up onto her jade pedestal.
The Head Tailor, a frazzled, Nascent Soul-level artisan whose sole Dao was the Dao of the Flawless Hem, hovered over to Ji’an, wiping his sweating brow with a scrap of raw silk.
"Rank Three," the Tailor gasped out, adjusting his magical magnifying monocle. "Lin Ji’an. Stand perfectly still. Do not expand your Qi. The automated arrays must calculate your physical volume."
A floating, glowing tape measure of blue light encircled Ji’an’s frame, rapidly logging her shoulder width, her chest circumference, and her leg length.
A spectral assistant floated over, carrying a massive, heavy wooden hanger laden with the finished, standard prototype of the Vanguard Retinue Ceremonial Armor.
It was a magnificent, undeniably imposing garment.
It consisted of a heavy, pristine white spirit-silk inner tunic, layered beneath a flowing, wide-sleeved outer robe of deep, noble, Celestial Blue silk.
The waist was bound by a thick, heavy Celestial Blue combat sash, topped with brushed, unyielding silver paudrons that bore the crest of the Sword Sect.
Ji’an looked at the heavy, pristine Celestial Blue fabric.
She looked at it for five seconds.
Her internal hyper-pragmatic logic of a chef who had spent a decade fighting grease fires overrode any sense of social decorum.
"Master Tailor," Ji’an drawled, keeping her hands tucked calmly behind her back. "I have an issue with this color palette."
The Tailor paused, his monocle slipping down his nose. "An... an issue? With the Celestial Blue? It is the ordained, historical shade of the Sect’s infinite reach! What could be the issue?!"
Ji’an leaned forward slightly, falling into her natural kitchen-lecture rhythm.
"Master Tailor, I am a chef," Ji’an explained, her voice carrying across the quiet tailoring floor. "I operate in a high-velocity, multi-directional combat-kitchen environment. I work with dark soy glaze, fermented black bean paste, unrefined wild boar fat, and hyper-pressurized Szechuan chili oil."
She pointed an accusing finger at the heavy blue robes.
"If I wear Celestial Blue into the Illusory Shattered Realm survival match tomorrow morning... by hour four, I will look like an exceptionally plump, heavily bruised, overripe blueberry that got dropped down a flight of concrete stairs. Blue shows grease spots and fat splatter, blood specks too, it completely ruins my aesthetic lines after a heavy wok-searing session. I refuse to wear blue."
The Tailor’s monocle dropped entirely out of his eye, clattering against the wooden floorboards.
"You... you refuse the ordained blue?!" the Tailor shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak of absolute existential terror. "You cannot refuse the blue! The retinue must match! It is a visual testament to our collective harmony! What do you propose to wear instead, you table-flipping lunatic?!"
Ji’an didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t look at the horrified expressions of the other nine male prodigies.
She raised her right arm and pointed an unyielding finger directly toward the far corner of the storage floor, where a massive, dusty, discarded spool of heavy silk sat completely untouched.
"I want it in red," Ji’an announced flatly.
"Red?!" the Tailor gasped, clutching his chest in disbelief.
"Yes. Blazing, intensely dangerous Szechuan Red," Ji’an ordered, her eyes flashing with authority. "Make the trims, the wide sleeves, and the combat sash look like it was forged in the center of a red, shimmering fire."
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