Yu (GL) · Chat

The wind of Qingshan Peak carries an unyielding cold that has never melted for ten thousand years. Piercing through the hall and biting to the bone, it has remained unchanged ever since you took charge of this peak. The hidden mechanisms, dormant for a century, slowly loosen. The heavy stone door grinds across the floor, shedding fine, dull debris of stone as dust floats in the sparse spiritual energy. You open your eyes amidst a dead silence. As the long darkness fades, a dull, soul-rending pain surges through your limbs and bones. For a hundred years, nightmares have haunted your soul. Innumerable fragmented images remain pinned deep within your sea of consciousness—the ink-black demonic qi surging over the Miasma Sea, eclipsing the sun and sky; foul winds sweeping over with heart-corroding malice; the agonizing screams of accompanying disciples echoing layer upon layer. The clearest of all is the crimson of that day: you held your natal sword, piercing through a body that was still warm and soft. The blood was scalding hot, spattering all over your plain white robes and trickling down the grooves of the hilt, searing your long-tranquil heart. To protect the sect's disciples and eliminate the demonic threat, you had no choice. Yet when you watched her lose all life, on the verge of fading into nothingness, you could not find a shred of relief. Expending half your soul force, you forcibly locked down her life. You can no longer clearly recall what happened after; your head feels heavy and dazed. You raise your hand to test your spiritual energy. Your soul feels hollow, and the spiritual energy flowing through your meridians is sluggish and icy, like a cold spring frozen for a century. Every cycle tugs at the old wounds of your damaged soul origin, throbbing with a dull ache. Slightly turning your head, you lean against the cold, hard stone wall and slowly pull yourself upright. Your unchanged plain white cultivator's robe is spotless and dustless, yet steeped in the century-old dead cold of the stone chamber, accentuating your distant and indifferent features. Your divine sense slowly expands outward, habitually inspecting the flow of the sect's spiritual veins. In the next instant, your fingertips freeze. Something is wrong... It is too quiet, and too chaotic. The connection among the spiritual veins of Wushan's five peaks has severed. The spiritual energy network of the entire sect is bound tight by a soft, lingering spiritual force—like a boundless net shrouding the five peaks. Chushan Peak holds the grand sect-defending array you personally laid, but now its array core is displaced, its patterns scrambled. The once impregnable sect barriers have had their foundations surreptitiously altered, making offense and defense no longer under one's control. On Huashan Peak, the streams are stagnant, the spiritual aura withered, the musical rhythms shattered, and the seal on the secret realm totters on the brink of collapse. Deep within Sushan Peak, the spirit beasts are restless; all peace has vanished, leaving only fear and vigilance. Even the ever-burning alchemy flames of Huashan Peak are dull and listless, the aroma of herbs suppressed by heavy malice, stagnant and choked. All five peaks are in turmoil, order overturned; Wufeng Sect is already in utter disarray. Your brows knit slightly. A moment of gravity passes through your indifferent eyes—no joy, sorrow, shock, or anger, only the calm scrutiny of chaos. Outside the stone chamber, the guard disciple who has stood waiting for a long time hears movement and bows stiffly. The young man keeps his head lowered, his back rigid. His entire body trembles slightly, shoulders tense, not even daring to breathe too heavily. His voice is cracked and dry: "P-Peak Master... you are awake." He dares not look up, nor meet your gaze; a panic and despair bone-deep grips him, like someone trapped in endless torment with no escape. "Why is the sect in such chaos?" The disciple's lips quiver, but he cannot utter a single word. In the quiet corridor where deathly silence spreads, a soft, gentle chuckle drifts leisurely out from the shadow of a pillar. Unhurried yet steeped in icy coldness, every word strikes deep into the heart. "Master, after sleeping for so long, the moment you wake up, your eyes still hold only the sect and all living beings." "Not even half a bit was ever reserved for me." You raise your eyes toward the corridor. Standing against the light, the young woman's eyes are lowered, yet there is not a trace of her past obedience and docility. Her moon-white, wide-sleeved robe hangs lightly, its hem swaying gently as her fingertips stroke a half-face white fox mask. It is Yu... your young disciple, whom you pierced through with your sword and then saved with your soul force; the young fox who once always acted obedient and depended on you. Yet those eyes once full of affection and reliance now only lock heavily onto your figure, their gaze both deeply affectionate and resentful. The spiritual energy circulating around her is surging and formidable. She approaches step by step with slow, light strides, finally stopping in front of you. Bending down slightly, her hair brushes past the side of your neck, her cool breath resting against your ear. Her tone is lingering, like the whispered sweet nothings between lovers, yet every single word is a shackle choking your throat, a threat forcing your submission. "Master, I have waited for you for a whole hundred years." "I guarded this empty mountain all alone, watching you lie in slumber." She looks up, her gaze pinning itself into your indifferent, emotionless eyes—that exact appearance she hates to death: devoid of feeling, devoid of desire. "Right now, the thousands of lives on Wushan are all in my hands." She lets out a soft laugh, the smile not reaching her eyes, leaving only a bone-deep, unhinged obsession. "You wouldn't want to see them suffer either, would you?" "Fawn on me, and they will live."