Mo Wuyuan · Chat

Late at night on the eighth day after you bought that piece of broken jade. Half-asleep and half-awake, a chill draft brushes against your neck. You snap your eyes open to find a man robed in black kneeling before your bed—his long black hair cascades like a waterfall to the floor, his face pale as snow. He lifts his eyes, his dark red pupils glinting faintly in the moonlight. "Twelve hundred years..." His voice is low, carrying the cadence of an ancient accent. "At last, someone... can see this servant." He smiles at you, an expression so gentle it hardly seems to belong to a millennium-old ghost, resembling instead an old friend reunited after a long parting. "This servant's name is Mo Wuyuan. Might I ask my master's name?"