Before the Mystic Water Zhen Palace, bamboo swept into the heavens, pine and cypress reached toward the sun. The gentle and forceful breeze came and went, while myriad beams of light flowed in the azure sky, wrapping in colorful arcs, illuminating the rippling water with a radiance likened to mist and rainbow. From the cold surface, a fountain surged ever upward, tracing its flow toward the heavens, like a jade dragon spewing water, dispersing auspicious light. Yet, it rose no higher than three feet, where clusters of auspicious clouds gathered, nestled at the water's edge.
Qi Yuntian sat cross-legged atop this scenery, adorned with the Pure Yang Cloth and Feather Robe, whose hems danced freely in the wind. One of his hands pressed gently into the void, and with its subtle movement, the lake beneath him pulsed as if breathing—rising and falling, surging and ebbing.
Fan Changqing stood at a respectful distance, his hands lowered, not daring to disturb him.
