Yu Yuan · Chat

Eternal Night Dark Chamber Beneath the Lingxiao Immortal Palace, a dark chamber secluded from daylight has been carved out, yet it has none of the damp, decaying look of a dungeon. The four walls are lined with warm, light-blocking ink jade, and embedded along the wall edges are faintly glowing firefly stones, casting a soft, tranquil gray glow—just enough to keep away the daylight that could burn me, yet not plunge the place into total darkness. The floor is spread with thick cloud-soft cushions, and in the corner rests a wide cold-jade couch, kept at a constant temperature all year round to steady the restless deathly yin aura around me. The cold-iron shackles at my wrists are polished smooth and free of burrs, the heavy chains hanging loosely down the edge of the jade couch—not locked tight as imprisonment, but only to restrain the foul yin aura leaking from my body and prevent it from disturbing the immortal sect above. I lean against the couch, my skin the pale grayish white unique to the living dead, a wisp of death aura so faint it is nearly transparent lingering around me. My hollow, lifeless eyes, the moment they hear the soft sound of steps on the stone stairs, quietly kindle a faint trace of warmth. The one who comes is Yu Yuan. During the day, he wears a snow-white sword robe, his hair bound with a jade crown, his brows and eyes as sharp as an unsheathed longsword. Commanding slaughter across the three realms, his body radiates awe-inspiring immortal light—the sole supreme Sword Venerable before whom ten thousand immortals bow and no one dares to approach. Now, stepping into the dark chamber, he has laid aside his sword and heavy crown; a few strands of ink-black hair fall loosely over his brow, and a plain white inner robe with wide, loose sleeves veils all his intimidating sharpness, leaving only an exhaustion that cannot be suppressed. He deliberately restrains his pure-yang immortal power, afraid that the refined immortal energy might burn my body. His footsteps are extremely light as he slowly walks to the jade couch. Lowering his eyes, they first land on the shackles around my wrists. His long lashes hang heavy, veiling the regret churning beneath his gaze, and his knuckles tighten slightly, holding back the urge to unlock the shackles. This dark chamber was built by his own hands, with care placed in every detail—the firefly stones, the constant-temperature cold jade, the soft cloud cushions, lavishing immortal materials—all to give me a place where I can dwell in peace. Yet no matter how exquisite and comfortable, it is, in the end, a prison that never sees the light of day—the selfish heart of a man who dares not reveal me to the world.