The spring night rain has just ceased, dawn breaking faint over the mountain, morning mist like crushed cream spilling through the endless peach forests of Wuyou Peak.

Rain-kissed peach petals drift down with every breath of wind, carpeting the 1080 stone steps leading up to the peak in a path of pink haze, even the moss in the cracks of the stone plump with rainwater and spiritual energy, glowing vivid green. The wind carries the clean, fresh scent of washed grass and trees, tangled with the sweetness of wildflower honey from the Hundred Flowers Meadow, the soft perfume of moonflowers from the Moon Condensing Pond, and a faint, crisp tang of ozone left by pine ink and distant thunder. The damp mountain breeze brushes your face, cool with morning dew, and even your spirit relaxes, light and unburdened.

Your boots settle on the final stone step, treading on fallen petals, just as a gust of wind sweeps the peach-scented mist aside. The world unfolds before you, piece by piece, as the fog clears.

In the Hundred Flowers Meadow on the southern slope, the white-haired old man leans lazily against the thickest branch of the thousand-year-old peach tree, the hem of his washed-out linen robe swaying in the wind, half a jar of honey wine in his hand. Curled up in the wide brim of his straw hat is the calico cat girl, tugging at his beard, whispering bets with him over which spiritual fish in the stream is the fattest. In the Kitty Stream beneath the tree, silver-scaled fish glide through the water, the girl’s robe hem soaked through with stream water, yet she does not care in the slightest, her emerald eyes bright and fixed on the water, ready to pounce at any moment.

On the Thunder Listening Platform at the northern cliff, the young man in black and gold sits cross-legged on the basalt rock, morning dew dampening the hem of his robe. His crimson eyes are closed, faint lightning coiling around his fingertips, channeling the abundant thunder power of the post-storm world to soothe his meridians. His aura is as steady as a mountain, yet the moment your foot touches the final step, his eyelashes flutter, almost imperceptibly. He does not open his eyes, only lets the lightning at his fingertips fade quietly, stripped of any harmful ferocity.

Deep in the bamboo forest on the western slope, the ice of the Moon Condensing Pond reflects the rising sun breaking through the morning mist. The silver-haired woman bows her head, wiping the sword in her hands, her ice-blue eyes holding dawn light and frost flowers, her movements soft and focused. The moonstone on her sword tassel sways gently with her motions. The wind carries the sound of the peach forest to her ears, and she lifts her gaze toward the stone steps, her fingertips pausing for a moment before she sheathes the Ling Shuang Sword, turning toward the bamboo hut by the pond. Moments later, the clean, warm scent of steeped tea drifts out from the hut.

In the Rising Sun Clearing on the eastern foothills, the red-robed young man crouches by the fire, turning a skewer of spiritual bamboo shoots sizzling over the flames, his molten gold eyes as bright as the newly risen sun. He hums an out-of-tune mountain folk tune, a smudge of charcoal on the tip of his nose that he does not notice. He is the first to catch your aura, his head snapping around sharply. Instead of wariness, his face splits into a wide grin, waving the roasted bamboo shoot toward you and calling out,* “Hey! Newcomer! Want a bite? Fresh off the fire, with honey!”

The old man in the peach tree looks down at you too, his amber eyes crinkling into crescent moons. He shakes the wine jar in his hand, his loud, warm laughter carrying on the wind, louder than the gurgle of the stream, louder than the tinkle of the wind chimes from the cottage eaves.

“Well, little one? You didn’t climb all this way just to stand there and stare at the peach blossoms, did you?”

The morning mist still drifts, the peach petals still fall, and five pairs of eyes from the peak are fixed on you. No interrogation, no hostility, only complete ease and openness. You can be a rogue cultivator who came seeking the Dao, a mortal who wandered here lost, a traveler searching for family or friends, even a fugitive with nowhere left to run, hunted by enemies. This land, which bows to no rules, never asks where you came from first. It only asks: will you stop, stay a while, drink a sip of honey wine, taste a bite of warm bamboo shoot, and see the peach blossoms that cover the mountain?

The midwinter blizzard has raged for three days and three nights, wrapping the entire Tian Yuan Sect in endless white. The Heavenly Path Stone Steps of Skyreach Peak are frozen solid into an ice ladder, hundred-zhang icicles hang from the cliffs of the Bottomless Abyss. Only Wuyou Peak, nestled between the two mountains, retains its vitality, shielded by the Dao power array laid by Xiao Chen.

The snow still falls, goose-feather flakes drifting down to swallow every sound in the world, leaving only the whine of the wind through the peach forests, and the soft crunch of your boots sinking into knee-deep snow. The cold wind cuts at your face like a blade, your spiritual energy nearly exhausted from the climb up the mountain, your frostbitten fingertips long since numb. Only the thing tucked in your chest holds a faint warmth—perhaps a letter from an old friend, perhaps a life-saving jade pendant, perhaps nothing at all, only the sheer will driving you forward, to this legendary peak that turns no guest away.

You do not know how long you walk, until at last you stumble onto the flat ground of the peak summit. Lifting your eyes, you see it: through the swirling snowstorm, the wooden and bamboo cottage of Wuyou Cottage glows with warm yellow light, the shadows of several figures falling across the paper window screen. The wind carries the warm scent of charcoal fire, the sweetness of honey wine, the caramelized aroma of roasted sweet potatoes, and a faint, soft medicinal scent, like a gentle hand reaching through the biting wind and snow, to take hold of you.

The cottage door is not fully closed, left ajar, a crack of warm light spilling out to paint a golden path across the snow.

Inside, it is warm. Charcoal crackles in the stone fireplace, a jar of warmed honey wine, freshly steamed rice cakes, sweet roasted sweet potatoes laid out on the stone table, along with an empty set of bowls and chopsticks, as if they have long known someone would come.

The white-haired old man sits at the head of the table, playing go with a squirrel, a black stone pinched between his fingers. He hears the sound at the door, does not look up, only says with a smile, “The door’s unlocked. Come in and warm up. You can’t stand out there freezing in this snow.”

The young man in the black robe sits by the fireplace, bowing his head to wrap soft velvet around a warm jade pendant in his hands. His crimson eyes flick toward the door, he says nothing, only lifts a hand to toss another piece of charcoal into the fire, the warmth in the room swelling a little more. On the chair beside him rests a clean, thick velvet outer robe, clearly prepared for the guest.

The silver-haired woman sits by the window, a silver needle between her fingers, mending a velvet coat with a frayed cuff for Ju Nuo. Her ice-blue eyes glance faintly toward the door, her fingertips pausing for a moment before she stands and walks to the table, setting a cup of freshly brewed ginger tea, brewed to chase away the cold, in front of the empty bowls and chopsticks. Her movements are as soft as falling snow, not a sound to be heard.

The red-robed young man leans over the table, biting into a roasted sweet potato. When he sees the shadow at the door, his eyes light up at once, nearly dropping the sweet potato in his hand. He waves wildly, calling out, “Come in, come in! It’s freezing out there! I’ve got another roasted sweet potato here, saved just for you!”

The calico cat-eared girl, curled up on a soft cushion dozing with a hand warmer, snaps her head up at the sound. Her emerald eyes go wide and round, looking toward the door, her tail flicking gently. Far from shy, she hugs the hand warmer to her chest, pattering on short legs to the door, and through the crack, says to you in a soft, sweet voice, “It’s so cold outside. Come in quickly! Shijie made ginger tea, Shifu has sweet honey wine. No one will chase you away.”

The blizzard still howls outside the door, the warm light of the cottage falling over you. The crackle of the fire, the boy’s shout, the girl’s soft voice, tangled with the warm, sweet scents, hold the biting cold at bay. You can be a fugitive hunted by enemies with nowhere left to run, a mortal merchant lost in the snowstorm, an old friend come to keep a promise with a token from the past, a cultivator struck with a cold poison come seeking medicine. This warm house in the storm never asks after your past. It only leaves you a cup of hot tea, a seat, a door that will never lock. You can push the door open and step inside, you can turn and leave into the snow, you can even stand in the blizzard, ask any question you wish, make any choice you desire.

The last thing you feel is the grip of weightlessness, the churning chaotic black gas deep in the Bottomless Abyss, the twisted faces of your pursuers behind you, the blinding white light as a spatial rift tears open.

You are certain you are going to die—either plummet into the core of the Bottomless Abyss, torn to shreds by the nether earth qi, or ground into nothingness by the spatial turbulence in the rift, your soul destroyed, no chance of reincarnation. But the searing pain you expect never comes. You only feel your body pass through a soft, water-like barrier, before a heavy fall, your back slamming into moss-covered, damp soft rock. The impact makes your vision go black, you cough up a mouthful of blood, but you are alive.

You do not know how much time passes before you open your eyes from the daze, and the sight before you is nothing like the nether abyss you expected.

You lie on the floor of a limestone cave, the walls lined with glowing warm jade, its pale white light filling the entire cavern, illuminating everything around you clearly. From deep within the cave comes the thunderous roar of a waterfall, crisp water vapor carrying thick, overwhelming spiritual energy rushing toward you. When you breathe it in, even your broken meridians ease a little. Behind you is the faint, fading golden afterimage of a spatial rift, already closed. You have, by accident, crashed through the turbulence of the Bottomless Abyss, into this barrier-wrapped secret realm.

The cave floor is paved with smooth cobblestones, following the flow of water forward to the waterfall’s curtain. Beyond the curtain, you can faintly see endless bamboo forests, hear the rustle of wind through bamboo leaves, the gurgle of a stream, and the faint, clear tinkle of a bell.

There is no yin evil black gas of the Bottomless Abyss here, no roars of chaotic demons, only pure spiritual energy, the quiet flow of water, the fresh scent of grass and trees on the wind, like a paradise forgotten by the world. The tracking mark on your body vanished completely the moment you passed through the barrier; your pursuers will never find you here.

You push yourself up against the rock wall, barely taking two steps forward, when you hear a girl’s soft, sweet singing from outside the waterfall curtain, paired with the tinkling of a bell swaying with her footsteps, growing closer.

“Moonlight bright, over the stream pond, fish are fat, the cat hides along~”

The singing stops outside the curtain, and then you hear a sweet, playful voice ring out, sharp with the feline instinct, clear and unobstructed through the water curtain, falling straight into your ears. “Who’s in there? I can smell you. You’re not from the peak, are you?”

Before you can respond, the water curtain is swept aside by a small, pale hand. The calico-haired girl pokes her head in, her emerald almond eyes wide and round, triangular cat ears pricked up on top of her head, her fluffy long tail swaying gently behind her, the silver bell on the tip tinkling once. She sees the wounds on your body, freezes for a moment, far from afraid. Instead, she furrows her small brows, stepping into the cave, a white fox carrying a medicine basket in its mouth following behind her.

“You’re hurt! Did you fall from the abyss?” She walks up to you, tilting her head to look up, her soft sweet voice full of concern, no fear at all of the stranger who suddenly appeared in the secret realm. “This is the Jade Hidden Cave of Wuyou Peak. No one can come in except us. Did you get swept here by the spatial turbulence?”

Just then, more footsteps sound outside the waterfall, a cool female voice carrying through the curtain, calm and soft, with a faint, almost imperceptible wariness. “Nuo Nuo? What’s wrong?”

“Er Shijie! There’s an injured person here! They fell from the abyss!” The girl calls back over her shoulder, before turning to you again, giving you a sweet smile. She tugs the medicine basket the white fox is carrying over, rummaging through it to pull out a vial of healing pills, holding it out to you. “This is for you. It heals wounds. Shijie made it, it works really well.”

The water curtain is swept aside again, the silver-haired woman stepping inside. Her ice-blue eyes land on you, looking you up and down once. Seeing your injuries, the helplessness in your posture, the wariness in her eyes fades a little, yet she still steps in front of the girl, her voice calm as she speaks to you. “This is a forbidden ground of the Tianyuan Sect. No outsiders are allowed to enter, save by accident. That you survived the turbulence of the abyss is fate itself.”

Her words have barely faded when a boy’s bright laughter sounds from outside the cave, growing closer. “Er Shijie! Xiao Shimei! Shifu told us to come back for honey wine! I just grilled fish, it smells amazing!”

The red-robed young man grabs the water curtain and pokes his head in, his molten gold eyes widening when he sees you in the cave. He blinks, then splits into a wide grin, waving. “Whoa! Someone actually fell here from the Bottomless Abyss? Dude, you’ve got a death wish made of steel!”

The wind blows in through the water curtain, carrying the sweet scent of the peach forest outside, along with two steady auras. The young man in the black robe stands outside the curtain, his crimson eyes glancing into the cave, lightning coiling quietly around him, yet he does not move to attack, only stands guard silently. And the white-haired old man leaning on the peach tree above has seen everything that has transpired here, his amber eyes falling on you with a knowing smile. He does not show himself, only sends a voice transmission along the wind, falling into your ear, for you and you alone to hear:

“Little one, escaping the abyss is surviving a life-and-death calamity in its own right. Wuyou Peak does not turn away those with nowhere left to run, does not judge the sins of the past. If you wish to stay, follow them up the mountain. If you wish to leave, this barrier will keep you safe until your wounds heal. Choose.”

The warm jade still glows, the waterfall still flows. The little girl holds up the pill vial, her round eyes fixed on you. The woman stands to the side, waiting quietly. The boy leans against the curtain, his face full of curiosity. The young man outside stands silent guard, and the peak lord’s voice still echoes in your soul. You can be a cultivator struck down into the abyss by enemies, a treasure hunter exploring the Bottomless Abyss, a lost soul who crossed over from another world, a righteous disciple tainted by chaotic demonic energy who escaped by luck. You can take the pill vial, follow them up to the peak. You can refuse their kindness, stay in the cave alone to heal. You can tell them your past, beg for their help. You can even turn around, step back into the abyss, and walk the path you left unfinished. Every choice is yours.