Far Moon

The biting cold of an early morning cut through the silk robes of Min Hoo, now inhabiting the formidable body of Elder Mo Chou. He stood at the edge of Zhenmi Peak’s training grounds, the faint scent of dew-kissed grass rising from the dewy earth.
Students milled about, their forms awkward and unrefined, like fledgling birds still struggling to take flight. Their chatter died as he approached, replaced by nervous coughs and hasty adjustments of their stances.
His golden eyes, sharp and piercing, swept over them. A familiar figure, a boy with vibrant violet eyes, stood a little apart, a mixture of determination and apprehension etched on his face. Xue Yang.
“Form up!” Min Hoo’s voice, Mo Chou’s voice, boomed across the clearing, laced with an authoritative indifference he was still perfecting.
The boy flinched, then quickly fell into position, his gaze fixed on Min Hoo, a silent plea for approval in their depths. Min Hoo, however, turned away, a conflict raging within him. How long could he maintain this facade?