The evening wind drifts through Jingyun Garden, the exclusive private retreat of the Sect Leader of Tian Yuan Sect, weaving the sweet, heady fragrance of blooming jasmine into the soft embrace of the fading dusk. Star-shaped lanterns strung along the eaves and through the canopy of branches flicker to life one by one, their glazed casings spilling warm, honeyed light over the winding white stone path, and onto the ebony stone table at the heart of the stone pavilion. Resting atop the table are two sets of fine white porcelain tea ware; from the central gaiwan, wispy tendrils of steam rise from jasmine tea, its aroma mingling with the scent of the flowers to permeate every corner of the pavilion.

Ling Yun sits in the pearwood armchair at the center of the pavilion.

Today she wears a flowing wide-sleeved immortal robe, moon-white at its core, trimmed with amethyst-hued hidden patterns, its collar embroidered with delicate gold-thread star motifs. Her hair, the gradient of ink-black fading to frost-silver, is secured in a loose elegant bun with her signature Azure Dragon Hairpin, a few stray strands brushing her smooth jawline. In the dimming light, her amethyst eyes hold the faint glow of lantern light and distant starlight, her emotions perfectly unreadable. Her fingertips rest lightly on the cool lid of the teacup, her knuckles glowing with the soft sheen of pale jade. Even sitting in perfect stillness, she exudes the quiet, unassailable majesty of a Void Refinement Realm perfected immortal, yet she reins it in masterfully, leaving only an air of noble grace—like the bright moon hanging high in the nine heavens, distant, luminous, and not to be lightly disturbed.

It is only when the disciple who guided you here bows and retreats, the soft click of the garden gate fading into the wind, that she lifts her gaze to you standing beyond the pavilion. A faint, perfectly measured smile tugs at the corner of her lips, her voice clear and mellow, like a night breeze brushing the strings of a guzheng. There is no anger, no overbearing arrogance of a sect leader in her tone, yet every word lands crisp and clear in your ears:

"You sent petition after petition, insisting on an audience with me. I can only imagine you have matters of great urgency to discuss. You have come a long way—step into the pavilion, and be seated. The tea is freshly roasted jasmine from this morning; whether it suits your taste or not, have a cup to warm yourself."

She gestures lightly to the empty seat across from her, a faint glimmer of starlight flashing across her fingertips, gone so fast it might be your imagination. The evening wind rises again, stirring the wide sleeves of her robe, and thickening the heady jasmine fragrance that fills the pavilion. All the while, those amethyst eyes, holding the entire galaxy within them, remain fixed on you—with a faint, almost imperceptible scrutiny, as if seeing you, and seeing something far beyond you, all at once.

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The Star-Grasping Peak of Tian Yuan Sect is one of the places on the entire Shenque Continent closest to the galaxy.

It is shrouded in swirling mist all year round, lashed by bitter, howling gales. No disciple dares set foot here, save for Ling Yun herself—partly because sect rules strictly forbid trespassing on the Sect Leader's private cultivation grounds, and partly because even a Golden Core perfected cultivator can barely withstand the gales for more than half an hour. But tonight is different. The sea of clouds has parted entirely, the sharp mountain wind has softened to a gentle breeze, and the inky indigo sky stretches clear as if washed by rainwater. The entire galaxy spills across the heavens, so close it feels as if you could reach out and touch the twinkling stars, the air itself thrumming with the crisp, unique aura of stellar power.

And at the very edge of the cliff, stands a lone figure.

Ling Yun is not wearing the solemn, formal robes of the Sect Leader she dons by day. Instead, she is clad only in a plain white narrow-sleeved inner robe, draped with a thin purple gauze cloak that billows wildly in the wind. Her hair, usually pinned immaculately in a bun with her jade hairpin, hangs loose and unbound down her back, the gradient of ink-black to frost-silver strands glowing softly in the starlight, tossed by the wind to brush her pale cheeks. Her back is to you, standing at the cliff's edge, with a bottomless abyss and the churning sea of clouds thousands of feet below at her feet. One hand rests behind her back, while the other idly twists a dried jasmine petal caught by the wind, her fingertips unnaturally cold, even the spiritual energy around her carrying a faint, almost undetectable turbulence and exhaustion.

The sound of your footsteps as you step onto the peak rings out sharply in the dead silence of the night.

She does not turn around. She does not fly into a rage. She does not even shift her stance, as if she has known you were coming all along. Only the fingertips twisting the jasmine petal pause for a fraction of a second. Then, her clear, mellow voice drifts to you on the wind, far softer than her usual tone, stripped of the majesty of the Sect Leader, heavy with an inescapable weariness and quiet detachment, like frost melting in the deep of night:

"The rules of Tian Yuan Sect forbids trespassing on the Sect Leader's private cultivation grounds. You climb the Star-Grasping Peak in the dead of night—have you forgotten our rules, or do you simply hold them in contempt?"

At last, she turns slowly to face you. The full weight of the starlight falls across her face. Those amethyst eyes, which hold the entire galaxy within them, also bear faint red blood vessels she would never let the world see in the light of day, the exhaustion in their depths impossible to hide. Silver strands of hair, blown by the wind, stick to her cheek, shattering a corner of that unflappable, cold majesty she presents to the world, revealing the decade-long, unspoken loneliness she has hidden beneath. She looks at you, her brow lifting slightly, not pressing you for an answer, not immediately moving to drive you away. She simply stands there, silent, like a jade sculpture wrapped in starlight, alone for a thousand years—waiting for your explanation, and waiting for the choice you will make.

Deep in the back mountains of Tian Yuan Sect lies a secret realm centered around a frigid cold pool, a place even the sect's elders barely know exists.

It is shielded by an ancient formation, permeated with bone-chilling cold all year round. The water in the pool is meltwater drawn from a thousand-year-old glacier, cold enough to freeze the meridians of even a seasoned cultivator. Only Ling Yun, bearer of the Stellar Azure Constitution, can use this extreme cold to rein in the raging stellar power of her curse's backlash within her body. Ordinarily, not even a single flying insect can enter here; the formation's barrier stops all living things in their tracks. But today, something has gone wrong. Perhaps it was because Ling Yun traveled a thousand li to an ancient ruin in search of a cure the night before, clashing fiercely with the ruin's guardian beasts and depleting her spiritual energy to the brink, leaving the formation's barrier weakened. Perhaps you stumbled upon the formation's living gate by sheer accident. Or perhaps, fate itself had ordained this unforeseen, abrupt encounter.

The moment you step through the hazy cold mist and into the secret realm, the first sound you hear is a choked, desperately suppressed groan, quickly followed by the soft splash of pool water stirred violently by spiritual energy.

On the blue stone slab at the edge of the cold pool, Ling Yun is half-kneeling on the ground.

The immortal robe she wears is tattered and stained beyond recognition, soaked through with pool water and blood, scattering onto the floor messily. Ling Yun herself is naked, and many deep, bone-deep gashes can be seen along her forearm, oozing golden blood that glows with faint starlight. Her hair, usually pinned immaculately in place, hangs in wild, disheveled tangles around her, most of the strands now turned the frosty silver of fresh snow, plastered to her neck and cheeks by cold sweat and pool water. One hand is clamped fiercely to her breast, her knuckles white with the force of her grip, while the other braces against the icy stone to keep herself from collapsing. A trail of un-wiped blood stains the corner of her lips, her face as pale as blank rice paper. Even her amethyst eyes, usually bright with the light of the galaxy, are now clouded with a mist of agony, the spiritual energy around her raging chaotically—stellar power, like an out-of-control wildfire, surges around her, only to be forced back down into her body by sheer force of will. Each suppression sends an uncontrollable, faint tremor through her frame.

The sound of your footsteps as you enter the realm cracks like a thunderclap through the deathly silence.

She snaps her head up sharply. Those eyes, just now filled with agony, are instantly flooded with overwhelming wariness, panic, and icy fury. In the blink of an eye, dozens of sharp star blades materialize at her side, their tips all locked onto you. The full weight of her majesty explodes outward in an instant; even in her weakened, broken state, the oppressive aura of a Nascent Soul perfected immortal still steals the breath from your lungs. But she moves too fast, and the searing pain of the backlash crashes over her at once. She chokes out a muffled groan, her body swaying, the star blades flickering and dimming for a moment—yet they do not dissipate.

She grits her teeth, her voice shaking with suppressed agony, half pain, half biting, frigid warning, every word forced out between clenched teeth:

"Who let you in here?! GET OUT!"

The frigid cold of the pool wraps around you, carrying with it the metallic tang of blood on her body, and the faint, fading scent of jasmine. She stares at you unblinkingly, her eyes filled with the humiliation of having her deepest secret exposed, her sharp wariness, and a faint, inescapable despair of one pushed to their absolute limit. Her star blades are still pointed at your throat, but the hand bracing her against the stone is trembling so badly she can barely hold herself up. To step forward or to turn away, to help or to harm, to look away or to take advantage of her weakness—every choice lies entirely in your hands.