The Azure Mountain Temple rested beneath a desolate hill in the northwest corner of Mistveil City—a hill named the Great Sorrow Mountain.
The mountain's slopes were bare and gray, its trees withered to crooked husks. No beasts roamed here; even the wind seemed to pass by in silence. The nearby villages buried their dead elders among its rocks.
The wealthy would plant an evergreen behind each grave. Over generations, these trees spread from the foothills to the mountain's waist, a thin thread of life across a land of death.
No one knew when it began—but one day, an immortal woman appeared upon that mountain.
She was gentle and kind, her immortal arts unmatched. Whoever sought her aid found it freely given. Soon her name passed between the villages in whispers of awe and devotion.
When she proposed building a temple upon the Great Sorrow Mountain, she named it for the hill itself and the green of the evergreens—thus was born the Azure Mountain Temple.
Each year, the Immortal descended from her temple to recruit disciples. The chosen would train for five years—learning to summon mist and breathe clouds, to command immortal powers, and to bring blessings to their homes, protecting them from corruption and evil.
As her fame spread, a dozen villages paid tribute to the temple, offering grain, incense, and coins to ensure its favor.
Chai Village was the last to submit their offering. They had waited five long years, and at last, the Immortal had come.
In the past, when malevolent spirits struck, the villagers hid in their homes, trusting the phoenix trees planted outside to ward them off. But stronger spirits ignored such defenses, and the people were forced to risk the journey to the temple, paying dearly for help—sometimes with their lives.
That was why the man was determined to send Gao Yang. No matter what.
If his son returned a true disciple, the Gao family's fortunes would rise from the dust.
"Hyah!"
The donkey's hooves clattered against the stone road. Gao Yang sat bound hand and foot on the cart, his father gripping the reins.
Once they left the village, the wind turned fierce. It lashed their faces and carried grit into their eyes. Though the sun still hung somewhere above, the sky dimmed to a sickly gray.
As the phoenix trees thinned, strange whispers drifted from the woods—low, indistinct, yet undeniably human. Listening closer only deepened the unease, for the sounds vanished the moment one tried to focus.
The shadows between the trees seemed to shift, and Gao Yang felt it—eyes, countless eyes, following him from the dark.
"Close your eyes," his father said sharply. "Don't look around."
The man's expression was tense. He climbed down, took a bundle of paper money, and used a stick to draw a circle on the dirt, leaving one gap facing the forest.
"All deities and wandering spirits," he muttered, voice trembling, "I'm just passing through. Please grant us safe passage. These are my humble offerings."
He lit the paper. The flame caught instantly, burning green—a ghostly hue that spun and twisted in the wind before rushing into the woods through the opening.
Then came the laughter.
"Hehehehehe…"
It rose from the forest, thin and cold, slithering across the air like a whisper at the back of the neck.
The man shuddered. Panic took him. He ran back to the cart, snapping the whip. "Hyah!"
The donkey bolted forward.
They reached the Azure Mountain Temple before dusk. It stood like a green island amid the wasteland, wrapped in the dark silhouettes of evergreen trees. Beneath them, small mounds swelled from the soil—overgrown graves long forgotten. Wild grass brushed their sides; not a single offering lay in sight.
Colorful birds—warblers, magpies, sparrows—flitted among the branches, their chirps bright and lively, almost mocking the silence below.
After their perilous journey, they finally arrived before the temple gate. The man's clothes clung to him with sweat. He dragged Gao Yang from the cart, untied him, and said sternly, "Wait here. Don't wander—or I'll bind you again."
Gao Yang stood still. He didn't dare move.
For what he saw was no temple of serenity.
The evergreens before him were withered husks, their bark blackened and split. Perched upon the branches were vultures—sleek, featherless things with dull red eyes fixed on him, unblinking, patient. Their hunger was almost palpable.
The small mounds nearby were graves, and many had been split open, the coffins beneath rotted and shattered. Pale bones glimmered faintly between the weeds.
Something in the woods watched him still.
A cold dread crept through his body. Why—why—would his father send him into this place of death?
His father, however, seemed to see none of it.
Parched from the road, the man wandered to a fruit tree and plucked two fruits. "Eat," he said, handing one to Gao Yang.
As the fruit turned in the man's palm, Gao Yang saw its surface shift—revealing the face of a baby. Pale, smiling, eyes blinking innocently.
Gao Yang's breath caught. He stumbled back, letting the fruit fall. It bounced once, twice—then burst into tears. "Waaah!"
One cried, then another, until the tree itself wailed with countless infant voices. The air quivered with their cries.
Crunch!
His father bit into the fruit, half its tiny head vanishing between his teeth.
"It hurts!" the fruit screamed, red pulp oozing down his fingers.
Gao Yang gagged, clutching his mouth to keep from retching.
And then—realization. What he saw was not what his father saw. Their worlds were no longer the same.
Was he cursed? Or was his father the one ensnared by illusion?
The crying ceased all at once. The air fell heavy. The forest's gaze disappeared, and even the wind forgot to move. Silence thickened like mist.
Creeeeak…
The temple's massive gate opened a crack. From within stepped a child of seven or eight, dressed as a Taoist acolyte, face painted with garish rouge, twin pigtails framing a porcelain mask of a face.
The child's eyes swept over them, pausing on Gao Yang. "Master summons you."
Gao Yang didn't move.
His father shoved him forward. "Go on!"
"Father, I want to go home," Gao Yang whispered.
The man raised his hand to strike. "You dare defy me?"
Before the blow landed, the acolyte snorted coldly. "A disciple of the Azure Mountain Temple is not yours to discipline."
The man went pale. His knees buckled, and he collapsed, clutching his stomach as though struck by an invisible hand.
As the acolyte turned, Gao Yang's eyes widened in horror.
The child's figure was thin, its body creased along the edges. The little Taoist… was made of paper.
His father, oblivious, knelt trembling. "Forgive me, little immortal…"
The paper child tilted their chin upward. "Apologize to him."
The man hesitated. Then, trembling, he bowed his head to Gao Yang. "I… I apologize, little immortal."
As he bent down, Gao Yang saw what clung to his back—a paper effigy of a little girl, its thin limbs wrapped tight around his father's neck.
Her laughter was a soft, rustling thing. "Heeheehee… you're Master's new disciple, aren't you?"
The girl slid off his father's back, hopping lightly across the dirt, her steps soundless. Her grin stretched too wide as she reached for Gao Yang's hand.
"Come. Don't keep Master waiting. Once you pass this gate, your past is cut away. From now on, your body, your life, your soul—belong to the Azure Mountain Temple."
Her hand was cold. Not the cold of skin, but the stillness of death itself. Gao Yang felt ice seep through his bones.
The instant she let go, his father's senses returned. Realization dawned—and with it, fury.
A father kneeling before his son. Such shame should bring thunder from the heavens.
But when his gaze met the unblinking eyes of the paper children, he froze. His lips stretched into a smile that wasn't his own. "Y-yes… little immortal speaks true."
He forced a chuckle, bowing deeply. "Go, Gao Yang. Go see the Immortal Mistress. From now on, the village's safety… depends on you."