Xinyue returned to the Qingxuan Yujing Mirage, the ethereal sanctuary high above the mountains, where mist rolled like endless oceans and the sky itself seemed folded into mirrors. The air was laced with a dreamlike glow—half light, half shadow—that blurred the line between illusion and reality.
Her feet carried her to The Old Century, her master's private residence. It was no ordinary hall: here, the walls seemed alive with time itself, and the shelves stretched endlessly upward, stacked with mythical scrolls, relics, and tomes so ancient their bindings seemed older than the mountains outside. There were thousands—layer upon layer—like an entire sea of forgotten wisdom climbing toward the unseen ceiling. Each shelf towered above the last, so massive that even a grown man would falter trying to reach the top.
Xinyue craned her neck, her eyes locking on a single book perched dangerously high, tucked away as though it didn't wish to be touched. She bit her lip, gathered her qi, and leapt.
For a moment, she thought she'd made it. But her fingers only brushed the spine before her small frame wobbled midair. With an inelegant crash, she fell back down onto the polished jade floor. A puff of dust spiraled upward, stinging her nose.
Grimacing, she rose and tried again, her stubbornness flaring. This time she nearly had it—but before her fingers could close on the book, the door slid open.
The air shifted. Power, ageless and immeasurable, filled the room like a tide.
Her master had arrived.
The old man—known by the name Mo Xianshu, though in forgotten records he was once praised as The Silent Era Guardian—stood framed by the doorway. His white hair flowed like liquid silver, his robe simple yet radiating a suppressed grandeur. Though he bore the weight of millennia, his face still carried refined features, as if the years had been forced to leave him untouched. He looked not like an old man, but like a young uncle who had chosen to wear the dignity of centuries.
His sharp gaze fell on her, and his lips curled into surprise.
"Oh? Yue'er… what are you doing here? Don't you always say books are nothing but workloads?" His voice carried both rebuke and fondness.
Caught, Xinyue dusted herself off, flicking powder from her robe sleeves with an almost guilty glance. "Shifu, what do you know about the Dragon Melody?"
Mo Xianshu's brows furrowed. For a long breath, silence hung between them, filled only by the faint whisper of the shelves.
"The Dragon Melody?" His voice dipped, cautious. "Why is Yue'er asking this? Have you finally grown interested in the things you once mocked?"
"No, Shifu," Xinyue interrupted quickly, her tone sharp with conviction. "You know I despise the Mirage's rules. But for you—and for my sisters—I've held myself back. I've never rebelled outright."
He exhaled, pressing his fingers against his temple. His sigh was weary, as though he carried the entire Mirage on his back. "Yue'er, you have always rebelled against the Mirage."
"But this is different," she argued, eyes bright. "At the Dragon Festival last night—I heard it. The Dragon Melody."
At once, the weariness on Mo Xianshu's face dissolved, replaced by a depth of alertness that could make the heavens pause. "The Dragon Melody?" His voice was low, deliberate.
Xinyue nodded firmly. "Yes. I heard it with my own ears. And before that, she played the Longing Dance in the market square—flawlessly! Shifu, she was magnificent!" Her eyes shone with admiration.
Mo Xianshu's gaze sharpened. "That was not the Dragon Melody."
Xinyue froze, blinking rapidly. "What do you mean? I've read your stories, seen the notes. When I heard them last night, even the dragons stirred! How can that not be real?"
"That is what we call a replica," he said, his voice like iron.
Her jaw dropped, and she looked at him as though he had grown three heads. "A… replica?"
Instead of answering immediately, he muttered under his breath, "Never reads, yet always questions at the most troublesome times…"
With a flick of his wrist, Mo Xianshu formed a series of hand seals: Heaven-Sundering Palm, Nine-Circle Binding Seal.
The room trembled. Rings of fire and lightning spiraled from his fingers, overlapping in perfect, terrifying harmony. The air vibrated with raw qi, so dense it pressed against Xinyue's lungs.
From the blazing vortex, two small orbs emerged—one red, one blue—hovering like twin hearts. Yet their glow was faint, dulled, like embers buried in ash.
"Look closely, Yue'er," Mo Xianshu said. "If the Dragon Heart does not burn as brightly as day nor gleam like the moon's crown, then it is no true Dragon Melody."
Her eyes widened, her confusion clear. "Why? Why must it glow so brightly?"
"Read more books," he scolded gently, though his sigh carried resignation. "Knowledge is not your enemy."
She pouted, narrowing her eyes with that I won't look expression she always gave when irritated.
Mo Xianshu only sighed deeper, raising the glowing orbs between them. "The Dragon Heart awakens only when the true melody is played. If it were real, this relic would ignite, and the Mirage would no longer remain in exile. Do you understand what that means?"
Her lips parted in shock. "So… the dragons that responded at the festival—they were only shells? Empty bodies without their heart? And the Dragon Heart will only stir for the true song?"
For the first time, the old master's eyes softened, admiration flickering through his ancient weariness.
"Yes, Yue'er. Exactly."
A rare smile ghosted across his lips. "At last, you've proven yourself less rebellious. I… am proud."
The words, gentle yet heavy, fell into Xinyue's heart like stones in a still lake. For once, she had no retort. She only stood there, silent, letting them sink deep into her memory.
And outside, the Mirage seemed to shimmer brighter—as if the heavens themselves acknowledged the weight of their conversation.
___
Zhao Lian strolled into the market square, her hands folded behind her back, humming a tune she had just invented on the spot. She didn't often come here alone—truthfully, she preferred the company of her elder sister Mei. Even when Mei drowned herself in her mountain of books, her quiet presence was a comfort.
But tonight, Mei had refused her with that same stubborn line: "I need to finish at least all of these books. You should study too."
Lian could still picture it—the sight of her sister buried in piles of texts that nearly touched the rafters. It had looked more like preparation for mortal midterm exams than cultivation study. That image, combined with Mei's flat refusal, made Lian's face scrunch into the same half-pout she always wore when things didn't go her way.
And now, walking the square under the night sky, she almost regretted leaving. Almost.
Above her, the heavens glowed with stars scattered like pearls spilled across black silk. The moon hung low, full and round, casting silver light on the busy lanterns strung across the marketplace. The square itself was alive: vendors called out in melodic tones, hawking steaming buns, glossy candied fruits, roasted chestnuts, skewers dripping with spice oil, and silken fabrics that shimmered in the lamplight. The mingling aromas—sweet, savory, sharp with chili—wove together into something intoxicating. Children laughed as they darted through the crowd, their shadows flickering across the cobbled street.
Lian herself balanced a stick of steam buns in one hand and a rice cake in the other, savoring the warmth of both as she wandered.
It was then that chaos struck.
A sharp commotion burst from the far end of the square—a chase. Boots pounded against stone, someone's desperate breath gasping for air. Lian turned just in time for a figure to slam into her.
Her body reeled backward, pain sparking as she landed hard on her backside. Her peach-colored robe flared across the ground like the petals of a crushed blossom. The steam buns slipped from her hand, vanishing into the dust, though with quick reflexes she managed to save the rice cake from suffering the same fate.
"Blind people!" she snapped, her voice ringing sharper than she intended. "Can't they see?"
She huffed, brushing dirt from her sleeves, her lips pressed in annoyance. But before she could rise, a shadow fell over her.
A gloved hand extended down to her, firm yet oddly careful.
"Are you alright?" a deep voice asked, resonant and even, carrying the weight of command without effort.
The first thing she noticed wasn't the man's face—it was his gloves. Thick, dark leather, absorbing the night so completely they almost looked invisible, as if the man's hands had vanished into the void. Only the flicker of lantern light revealed their presence at all.
She lifted her gaze and found herself staring at a tall figure cloaked in shadow, the silver of the moonlight sketching his form into sharp edges. His face was hidden, but his voice lingered, steady and oddly grounding.
Still seated, Lian frowned lightly, though without anger. She accepted his hand briefly only to push herself up, then dusted the last of the grime from her robe. "Be careful next time," she said, her tone casual, without grudge or malice.
"My subordinate must have been careless," the man replied, his words carrying a strange sense of responsibility.
Lian gave a short nod, tilting her chin upward with the air of someone refusing to dwell on the matter. "Yes, that's true. He should be lucky it wasn't an old person. Well, I'm off now."
And just like that, she turned on her heel, rice cake in hand, leaving behind only the swish of her robe and the faint fragrance of peach blossoms.
The man remained where he was, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth—one that held no mockery, only a quiet amusement. In the shifting glow of lantern light, his shadow stretched across the market stones, as though he carried something the night itself could not swallow.