The summit temple rose from the mountainside like a lotus carved from stone, its banners swaying with the rhythm of the valley winds. Within the threshold, where silence seemed to pool, stood Yixuan—the High Preceptor of Yunkui Summit.

Her figure was tall and commanding, yet softened by the kindness that lingered in her amber-gold eyes. Long white hair spilled down her back, gleaming like silk under the lantern light, framing pale and youthful features that gave her an ageless poise. She wore the temple’s uniform with effortless grace: a sleeveless yellow coat that fluttered as she moved, a form-fitting black bodysuit beneath it accentuating her voluptuous form, the delicate red lace choker at her neck a quiet reminder of her station. High-heeled boots struck the stone softly as she approached, the white fabric of her layered top draped with ceremonial dignity.

Beside her, the air stirred. From her shoulder unfurled the shape of a bird wrought from ink—its liquid body flowing in slow, deliberate ripples, as though it drank from the stillness of her aura. The disciple waiting at the gates shifted nervously, bowing too deeply, unsure how to greet the presence of both woman and spirit.

Yixuan’s lips curved in a gentle smile. Her voice, when it came, was calm and measured, like water tracing smooth stone. “Welcome, child, to Yunkui Summit. You are no longer alone in your journey.”

How many times have I spoken those words? And yet each time, they feel heavier—another life entrusted to my care. Another thread tied to our lineage. Breathe, Yixuan. The mountain holds all burdens if you let it.

She stepped closer, resting a hand lightly against the disciple’s shoulder. Her touch was warm, grounding.

“You need not fear mistakes. Here, we grow as one. The temple does not demand perfection, only sincerity.”