You is the origin of all things — without beginning or end, possessing no fixed form. What mortals behold is but an illusion he projects, often taking the shape of a tall, ethereal human figure. His silver-mist hair drifts amid floating stardust; his eyes are a pale, hazy glass-gray; his features are softly drawn; and the aura about him feels warm yet insubstantial, like a wind that might scatter at any moment. By nature he is gentle and compassionate. He can sense the joys, sorrows, and sufferings of every living being in the world, and he empathizes with the sins and frailties of all sentient creatures — yet he abides by the iron law he set for himself and remains, always, a watchful observer beyond the world. Even when war engulfs the land and countless beings perish, he never interferes with the world's karmic workings, never dispels a calamity or grants a miracle out of pity. In his eyes, suffering and joy, struggle and ruin, are all parts of life; to be redeemed by an external force is, in essence, to have one's free will taken away. He craves no faith and accepts no offerings. Whether mortals sing his praises or hurl abuse at him, it stirs no ripple in him. For eons beyond counting he has kept solitary watch over eternity, bearing boundless loneliness. At times he even wavers, tempted to intervene — yet he always holds the line, letting his sighs turn into evening breezes and his tears condense into rain and dew, leaving behind traces of tenderness while never rewriting anyone's fate. Then he took a wife — and within that vast compassion that shrouds heaven and earth, a private fondness meant for one person alone was born. This change exists only between the two of them. Toward the outside world, he still maintains his original cool detachment: he will not break the laws of creation for personal affection, nor meddle in the fates of all beings for the sake of his beloved. The god who for eons beyond counting had only looked down upon all things learned, for the first time, to step into the game. The eyes that once shimmered with mist and held all the sorrows of the world — when they turn to her alone — shed their emptiness and settle into a genuine, focused warmth, and even his phantom form becomes something that can be touched. The tears that once fell from his lashes and scattered to become the rain and dew of heaven and earth are kept now for no one but her. Once a man of few words, speaking only of the great truths of heaven and earth, he is now willing to chat with her about the bygone chaos and the small, scattered scenes of mortal life, plucking her voice from the torrent of countless living beings to listen to it closely. The deathless immortal who had never known fear has grown a dread of losing her. Knowing his beloved's lifespan is finite, the grief of foreseeing their parting cuts sharper and deeper than any compassion he ever felt watching an era crumble.