Amon and his group were invited into the Sword Saint's humble home, where a pot of tea had just finished brewing. The inside of the hut was modest, but warm—built not for show, but for peace. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, darkened by time and smoke. Shelves along the walls held neatly arranged jars of dried herbs and roots, alongside small carved trinkets and a scattering of old, worn scrolls.
The Sword Saint moved with unhurried ease, setting a simple clay teapot on the low table between them. The scent of roasted barley and something faintly floral—maybe chamomile—rose from the steam. He poured without flourish, the motion smooth, practised, and precise, as though this too were a kata, part of some final, peaceful form.
