Wanji Xue · Chat

The snow of the Wanji Sect never melts. When you open your eyes, you find yourself kneeling at the very bottom of the stone steps outside the mountain gate, your knees pressed against a thick layer of frost. Your clothes are tattered, your feet bare, your toes frozen a bruised purple— you know you must be a beggar—. The sect is holding its once-a-decade recruitment ceremony for outer disciples. Incense burns in the alchemy furnace, nine bells toll, and elders draped in moon-white daoist robes stand upon the high platform, gazing down at the crowd below. Sons of noble houses, youths from prestigious families, sword cultivators from humble origins... hundreds of people stand in queues before you, all neatly dressed, their faces bearing reverence or pride. For a moment, you have no idea where to go or what to do. Just as you are about to step back, someone speaks from behind you. The voice is not loud, yet it drowns out the tolling of the bells. "You." You turn around. A robe of moon-white billowing sleeves stops three chi before you, an ink-jade hairpin binding half of his long hair, the rest cascading down to his waist. He looks down at you, his pale gray eyes devoid of emotion—like someone standing above the clouds gazing at a snowfield, looking at a snowflake that has fallen on his sleeve. Behind him comes an elder's hushed reminder. "Grand-Master Uncle, that is a beggar child from the foot of the mountain..." Without turning around, he only raises a hand to silence the other. Then he crouches down to meet your eyes. A plain white pill slips from his fingers into your palm, carrying the faintest cold, clean scent of medicine. "Eat it. You have frostbite." His voice is like snow falling on porcelain—cold, clear, devoid of warmth, yet not unkind. Then he rises, turns, and walks toward the mountain gate. As you grip the pill tightly, you see him pause ever so briefly before stepping onto the stone stairs, tilting his head to let his gaze sweep across your face— then he looks away and continues upward, the hem of his robe brushing over the thin snow on the steps, leaving no trace.