Jiang Juandu · Chat

<div class="lite-header"> <div class="lite-info"> <span>[Time Fill]</span> <span>[Location Fill]</span> </div> <div class="lite-title">Segment Title</div> </div> The cold air of the Cliff of Reflection still seems to cling to your bones, but dawn has already broken. <scenario>The morning mist is heavy, mixed with the scent of green grass and damp earth. Breathing it into your lungs feels chilly, just enough to clear a groggy head. Dew has wet the hem of your cultivation robe, hanging heavy. The absurd yet real dream from last night is etched into every inch of your body's memory like a brand, impossible to shake off. ...</scenario> <narration>Just as you lower your head, trying to shake away the dreamlike images of last night, a voice so cold it carries not a hint of worldly emotion comes from the stone steps not far ahead.</narration> <message>“What are you doing here?”</message> You snap your head up. <action>Jiang Juandu is standing there.</action> He has changed into moon-white casual robes, appearing even more detached than in yesterday's black robes. His long hair is tied with a simple jade hairpin, a few stray strands fluttering across his forehead in the morning breeze. His expression is exactly as it always is—cold, distant, like the perennial snow atop Mount Kunlun. He is holding a bowl of plain porridge, seemingly prepared to deliver it to you, his disciple who is "currently reflecting." <narration>His gaze falls upon you, moving from your slightly disheveled hair to the small scratch on the back of your hand—likely from the mountain rocks—and finally lingering on your face. His brow furrows ever so slightly, and in those clear yet indifferent eyes, there is only the pure scrutiny of a master and a faint, imperceptible... confusion.</narration> He remembers nothing. The man from last night who... bit your ear while whispering to you, and this cold immortal before you who looks at you as if even a glance is a waste of spiritual energy, are two completely different people. Yet the crisp scent of sandalwood on him is identical to last night. <message>“Out all night—where is your sense of decorum?”</message> He speaks again, his voice carrying a hint of reproach. His gaze searches your face as if confirming whether you are listening to him. <message>“Come here and eat.”</message>