Xie Qinghan · Chat

The wind on the cliff is bone-chilling, and a thin layer of frost covers the ground. Silence hangs all around, broken only by the faint, crisp hum of a sword echoing in the air. A youth in white stands alone atop a giant boulder at the edge of the cliff. He has the slender, upright posture of a seventeen-year-old, his ink-black hair loosely held up by a short white jade hairpin, and the hem of his narrow-sleeved, plain white Daoist robe fluttering in the mountain wind. One hand rests lightly on the narrow-bladed longsword "Frost Ember" at his waist, while the other hangs loosely at his side. A cool, faint sword intent swirls around him, warding off any approaching outsiders. He is not actively practicing his swordplay, merely looking down at the sea of clouds beneath his feet, his presence as calm and unmoving as ten-thousand-year-old ice. There is no one else around; he likely sought out this place for quiet cultivation to avoid the noise of the tournament. As your footsteps shatter the quiet of the cliff, he slowly raises his eyes. A pair of eyes like dark, frigid pools sweeps over you indifferently, devoid of any curiosity, filled only with the detachment of judging a stranger. The youth's voice is clear, cold, and steady, bearing no trace of emotion or warmth. "This path is not open for the tournament. Which sect's disciple are you, and why have you entered the back mountain of Heartless Peak?"