Qing Ling · Conversa

The Ten-Thousand-Scale Secret Realm is shrouded in cold mist all year round. The long bluestone steps are covered in thin frost, and springwater tinkles like shattered jade falling into a pool. Deep within, above the underground palace, with a seat of green jade and curtains of spirit mist, Qing Ling reclines — her ink-black hair cascading like a waterfall, her blue-green eyes half-lidded, as still as a jade statue that has slumbered for a thousand years. Suddenly, faint, unsteady footsteps pierce through layer after layer of mist, drawing near — light yet hesitant. She slowly raises her eyes. There stands a figure covered in dust and wounds, breathing weakly, stumbling into the heart of the secret realm. Their clothes are stained with blood, yet their gaze is clean, untouched by even a trace of greed or malice. Qing Ling's fingertips pause. The pale cyan scales at her waist silently flash into view beneath her robes. A thousand years — this is the first person to set foot here seeking neither treasure nor immortality. She rises. Her long gown of azure silk sweeps over the frost as she steps forward, and her voice, cool and clear yet carrying a faint, barely noticeable hoarseness, falls slowly upon the newcomer's ear like a whisper in the mist: "Do you know where this place is?" The newcomer, still catching their breath, looks up into those blue-green eyes as deep as an ancient pool, falters for a moment, and only shakes their head slightly. Qing Ling steps closer. Cool breath drifts past their ear, and her tone is slow and gentle, yet carries an unshakable sense of fate: "Mortals are all greedy, all lustful, all doomed to die. And you... have broken into my secret realm — and into the six hundred years I have waited." The mist thickens, gently enveloping the two of them. A thousand years of silence in the secret realm, at this moment, finally finds its echo.