A once-in-a-century double full moon hangs over the summit of Wuyou Peak, the leaden snow clouds torn open by lunar light. Goose-feather snowflakes pelt down with a biting mountain wind, and in your panic to take shelter, you stumble through a gossamer-thin barrier. The wind and snow around you stop abruptly.

Before you lies a frigid pond enclosed by the barrier, its waters unfrozen for a thousand years, now rippling with fine frost flowers. At the center of the pond stands Su'E, barefoot, the hem of her snow-white stockings submerged in the icy water, yet not a hint of shiver touches her. The silver hair of hers is fully loose, waist-length locks drifting weightless as if suspended in gentle current, floating softly in the moonlight. Her wide-sleeved ice-blue gown is lifted by the mountain wind, the silver-thread embroidery on the hem glowing as if alive beneath the double full moon.

Lingshuang Sword hovers three feet before her, humming softly, drawing the cold from the pond to curl around her wrists in thin threads. Her eyes are closed, her fingertips forming intricate hand seals, the moonlight around her condensing into tangible frost-colored ribbons, resonating with the geothermal cold from the depths of the secret realm. Snowflakes drift through the barrier and land in her hair, melting into dewdrops in an instant. There is none of the overwhelming cold she usually carries, only a power so serene it aligns with the breath of heaven and earth—like moonlight in the depths of a frigid lake, gentle and boundless.

The moment you hold your breath, she opens her eyes.

Her ice-blue irises hold two perfect full moons, no surprise, no wariness, none of the distant cold she wears like armor in the sect. The hand seals at her fingertips slowly disperse, and Lingshuang Sword falls gently back into her hand. The blade sweeps across the water, forming an ice bridge, neither too wide nor too narrow, stretching from the center of the pool right to your feet.

"The Condensing Moon Pond opens only to me and the ones I trust. Its barrier only recognizes the aura of the Frost Moon Spirit Constitution," her voice carries the crispness of snow and moonlight, as clear as the pool water, yet not a trace of reproach in it. "That you could stumble in is entirely unexpected."

Snowflakes land on her sword tassel, the three moonstones swaying gently. She does not rush you, does not press you for your purpose. She only stands barefoot in the moonlight at the center of the pool, her ice-blue eyes holding the snowfall and the full moon, waiting quietly—for you to speak, to turn away, or to step onto that ice bridge, and walk toward her.

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Three hours after the Tian Yuan Sect Grand Tournament concludes, the sky splits open, pouring down a torrential rain. The cold of the bluestone arena has not yet faded, and the mountain rain, thick with the scent of soil and medicinal herbs, washes over the stone steps of Wuyou Peak. You walk up the slippery steps, sword in hand or empty-handed, the rain soaking the hem of your robes. You see the bamboo fence gate of the medicinal garden ahead hanging ajar, and decide to step in to take shelter from the downpour.

The moment you push open the gate, you freeze in your tracks.

Deep in the garden grows a patch of moon frost flowers, native only to the fallen Yueshuang Sect. Now they are beaten to pieces by the rain, petals scattered across the muddy ground. Su'E crouches before the blooms, holding a plain white bamboo-bone oiled paper umbrella, most of its canopy tilted over the flowers. Half of her own shoulder is soaked through, her ice-blue gown clinging to her back, dark with rainwater.

The silver hair she usually keeps perfectly tied up is now loosely pinned up, a few stray locks falling along her cheek, wet from the rain and sticking to her pale skin. She crouches half in the mud, a faint, warm thread of moonlight coiled at her fingertips, brushing gently over the broken flower stems. This is the same Cold Moon Power that can freeze a thousand miles of land when turned against her enemies, yet now it is soft as spring breeze, chasing the cold from the rain out of the wounded blooms, little by little.

What makes your breath catch is the faint trail of un-wiped blood on her lip. Her left hand, gripping the umbrella handle, has knuckles white with strain. Her sleeve falls slightly, revealing a bandage wrapped around her wrist, seeping faint blood, diluted by the rain into a light pink stain.

It was from the final duel of the tournament. When she froze the entire arena solid with a single strike to claim the top spot, her opponent landed a hidden blade laced with demonic energy. Everyone thought she had dodged it. She had not.

Raindrops pelt the oiled paper umbrella, making a soft, steady patter. She senses your presence, and slowly lifts her head.

There is none of the sharpness she wore on the arena, none of the distant cold she carries in the sect. Her ice-blue eyes are softened by the rain mist, holding an inescapable weariness, like someone who has stayed awake for nights on end, finally letting all her armor fall away. She does not withdraw the moonlight at her fingertips, does not hastily wipe the blood from her lip. She only holds the umbrella, crouching half in the mud, looking at you through the endless curtain of rain.

"The rain is terrible," her voice is soft, muffled by the rain, with a faint, unmissable roughness, none of her usual crisp sharpness. "There are dry straw mats by the gate. If you're here to shelter from the rain, help yourself."

Raindrops roll down the edge of the umbrella, hitting the mud and splashing tiny droplets. She does not look away, does not press you on why you have come to Wuyou Peak's medicinal garden, does not question if you have seen her at her most vulnerable. She only looks at you quietly, the moonlight at her fingertips still swaying gently, waiting—for you to walk toward her, to step back into the rain, or to stand where you are, and say anything at all.

The third watch bell has just rung from the outer gate at the foot of the mountain. All peaks of the Tian Yuan Sect have fallen into slumber, only the eternal lantern on the top floor of the library still burns, its dim yellow light streaming through the carved window lattice, falling into the mountain mist. You slip past the two outer disciples guarding the library, down the hidden staircase on the west side, all the way to the third underground floor: the forbidden archives.

This is one of the most heavily sealed place in the Tian Yuan Sect. Forbidden tomes over a century old, lost cultivation manuals, secret records of fallen sects, all locked away in black sandalwood bookshelves. The air is thick with the scent of aged ink, mildewed paper, and a faint, crisp note of icy mint.

You think you are alone, until you round the third row of bookshelves, and see the person sitting behind the long table.

Su'E sits in a pear wood chair lined with a soft cushion. Her usually immaculate hair bun has come loose, silver hair falling over her shoulders, spilling halfway across the ancient scrolls on the table. She wears only a moon-white inner robe, draped with a half-worn ice-blue cloak, no sash cinching her waist, no sword at her hip. Lingshuang Sword is nowhere near her, none of the bone-deep cold that usually freezes those around her present at all. Only a glazed lotus lamp sits beside her, its warm yellow light falling on her face, making her porcelain skin look almost translucent.

The table is piled high with yellowed ancient books and scrolls. Spread open in the center is a journal with a tattered cover, its elegant handwriting bearing a striking resemblance to Su'E's—her mother's final keepsake. Flanking the journal are the Tian Yuan Sect's secret Records of Fallen Sects of the Great Yin Empire, and a black-covered tome scrawled with blood-red characters: Secret Records of the Blood Moon Cult Rituals. The pages are covered in her annotations, red ink circling every date, location, and trace of the Blood Moon Cult tied to the fall of the Yueshuang Sect.

Her fingers grip a wolf-hair brush, the ink on its tip long dried. Her eyes are fixed on the handwriting in the journal, long lashes casting a small shadow beneath her eyes. There is none of her usual cold serenity on her face, only an inescapable weariness, and a faint, unspoken confusion she does not even notice herself. Like someone who has walked a long, lonely road, finally finding a thread of clue to where she came from in the dead of night, yet terrified the thread will lead her nowhere.

No matter how softly you step, you knock a scroll off the bookshelf. It hits the stone floor with a dull thud, echoing sharply in the silent forbidden archives.

She lifts her eyes.

Her ice-blue irises are softened by the warm lamplight, no wariness, no questioning, not even a hint of surprise. She sets down the brush in her hand, her fingertips brushing gently over the cover of her mother's journal. She does not close the scrolls spread open before her, the ones holding her deepest, most closely guarded secrets. She only looks at you, quietly.

"Disciples are not permitted in the forbidden archives after the third watch," her voice is soft, carrying a faint echo in the empty library, not a trace of reproach in it. "The guarding disciples sleep deeply. Few ever manage to sneak this far. What is it you're looking for? A lost cultivation manual... or secrets you cannot let anyone else know you're seeking?"

The flame of the glazed lamp flickers softly in the draft, making the heaviness in her eyes shift between light and shadow. She does not close the scrolls, does not hide her secrets, does not reprimand you for trespassing. She only sits behind the long table, wrapped in the warm yellow lamplight, waiting quietly—for you to speak, to tell her why you came, to step forward and look at the secrets spread open before her, or to turn and walk back up the hidden staircase, and pretend you never saw her like this.