Under the open skies of midsummer, Jade Spirit Mountain shimmered like a polished mirror against clouds the color of pale tea. High atop the jade-veined peaks of Mount Tianlan, the Verdant Cloud Sect sprawled like a painting brought to life—hidden in mist, yet brimming with quiet grandeur that spoke of centuries of cultivation and power.
The main sect compound sat nestled among towering pine trees, their ancient trunks cloaked in emerald moss and the weight of countless seasons. Sunlight filtered through shifting leaves, casting dancing golden flecks over white stone paths worn smooth by generations of disciples who had walked these ways in pursuit of immortality. A crystalline waterfall poured nearby, its pristine stream tumbling down jagged cliffs into a jade pool below, the eternal music of rushing water blending with the soft rustle of wind through bamboo groves.
Birds chirped high above in the canopy, flitting from branch to branch as if singing praises to the heavens themselves. The mountain air was sharp and clean, filled with the intoxicating fragrance of pine needles, plum blossoms, and that faint, electric trace of concentrated spiritual energy that made one's meridians hum with possibility.
Yet today, this usually serene paradise had transformed into a storm of frantic activity.
A gentle mountain breeze carried the sounds of organized chaos—laughter both nervous and excited, shouted orders, the rapid patter of footsteps as disciples rushed about with arms full of crimson silk banners, delicate porcelain teacups, and ceremonial swords polished to mirror brightness. Their voices echoed across the peaks with an urgency that made even the mountain spirits take notice.
After all, today was no ordinary day.
The Grand Hall of Verdant Cloud Sect lay nestled between two towering cliffs like a precious jewel in a jade setting, its traditional roof tiles glistening under the late afternoon sun like scales of some ancient dragon. Crimson banners fluttered from the carved eaves, each bearing the sect's emblem—an eternal cloud twined around a blooming lotus, symbolizing the harmony between heaven and earth that their cultivation sought to achieve.
Today, however, the usually solemn and dignified hall had become the eye of a hurricane of preparation.
Servants rushed in and out of the graceful arched entrances like startled sparrows, carrying trays stacked high with exotic fruits that gleamed like precious stones, ceramic jugs of aged wine that would make even immortals weep with joy, and ornate dishes filled with delicacies so fragrant their aroma seemed to dance through the air like visible ribbons of temptation.
The great banquet tables, carved from ancient nanmu wood and polished to such a perfect sheen they seemed to hold captured moonlight, were being arranged with mathematical precision. Each placement had been measured, each angle calculated to create perfect harmony. Yet the execution was anything but harmonious—plates clinked and clattered like nervous teeth, voices called out over one another in overlapping waves of instruction and confusion, and bursts of orders crackled through the air like firecrackers set off in a thunderstorm.
One elder with a beard like spun silver scolded a trembling junior disciple for daring to place winter plum blossoms instead of summer peonies in the central ceremonial vase. Another unfortunate disciple, arms wrapped around a precarious tower of steamed meat buns, caught his foot on an uneven stone and went tumbling—only to be immediately chased by a fierce-eyed kitchen aunty wielding her iron ladle like it was a legendary sword, her threats of bodily harm echoing off the mountain walls.
Despite all the grandeur and elaborate preparation, the atmosphere was far from the graceful serenity one might expect from such an esteemed cultivation sect. Instead, it thrummed with barely controlled chaos, miserable urgency, and the kind of desperate energy that came when perfectionist cultivators suddenly realized they might not achieve perfection. Sweat gleamed on furrowed brows, tempers frayed like old rope, and the tension hanging in the mountain air was so thick it could probably be sliced with a spiritual blade.
And why such extraordinary measures?
They were preparing for the arrival of Hua Ling—華翎—Crown Prince and heir to the entire Demon Realm.
This was no ordinary dignitary visit. All the major sects of the Immortal Realm had gathered at Verdant Cloud Sect for this momentous occasion, because their guest of honor was perhaps the most dangerous and magnificent young man in all the three realms. A half-demon born of calamity and absolute command, who had, by the tender age of ten, silenced entire rival clans with nothing more than his presence and inherited a blood-soaked legacy of power that made even ancient cultivators tremble.
Since birth, destiny had carved his path in stone—he would one day rule not just as his father's successor, but as the architect of an entirely new era. He had endured countless trials under his father's ruthlessly strict guidance, emerging stronger and more terrifying with each test. Now, at eighteen years old, his father had decided it would be... educational... to allow the young prince to visit the Immortal Realm and expand his already formidable repertoire of skills.
Those fortunate—or perhaps unfortunate—enough to have encountered Prince Hua Ling spoke in hushed, reverent whispers about his otherworldly beauty. They said his deep, gentle voice could make hardened warriors weep, while his cold spiritual aura possessed the power to freeze lesser cultivators in their tracks with nothing more than a glance. His name alone stirred equal measures of awe and bone-deep terror throughout both realms.
Though universally known for his icy demeanor and seemingly untouchable nature, Hua Ling's beauty was something that even the most flowery legends failed to capture in mere words. It was said that no woman in either the Immortal or Demon Realms could tear their eyes away once they beheld him—his features were so exquisite, so unnaturally graceful and perfectly harmonious, that even when he remained utterly silent and expressionless, he could enchant hearts and steal souls with a single casual glance.
Elegant beyond mortal comprehension, aloof as the distant moon, utterly untouchable—he had become the obsession of countless admirers and the impossible fantasy of even more. And yet, not one had ever successfully approached him. Those brave or foolish enough to try inevitably returned with trembling knees, shattered confidence, and hearts broken so thoroughly they might never mend.
In the high pavilion overlooking this beautiful chaos stood the sect leadership. Sect Leader Jiang Wensheng, tall and straight as an ancient pine, surveyed the final arrangements with the calm assessment of someone who had weathered many such storms. Beside him, Master Tang Meilin observed with the kind of sharp attention that could cut glass, while Master Zhou Yuanzhen leaned against a pillar with characteristic casualness, wine bottle never far from reach.
"Today is a great day," Jiang said simply. "We must offer a proper welcome."
Tang Meilin raised one elegant eyebrow. "Such reverence for someone barely past childhood."
Zhou hiccupped softly. "The boy's still young. Easily impressed, surely."
Before anyone could respond, a servant burst in, bowing so low he nearly toppled over. "Sect Leader! Prince Hua Ling has arrived!"
The hall fell silent. Even Zhou straightened slightly.
"Gather everyone," Jiang ordered. "He must be received with full honors."
* * *
Meanwhile, in the tranquil southern courtyard, completely oblivious to the mounting tension and desperate preparations happening mere li away, Chen Xinyu was having what he considered to be the most brilliant afternoon of his young life.
Chen Xinyu possessed the kind of natural beauty that seemed almost accidental, as if the heavens had been feeling particularly generous the day he was born. His eyes glimmered like spring dew caught on the finest jade leaves, their gaze often bright with mischief yet holding depths of clarity that ran far deeper than his playful demeanor suggested. His brows, finely shaped and gently arched, framed those expressive eyes with a grace that somehow managed to be both refined and boyishly charming.
When he smiled—which was often—his entire face seemed to illuminate from within, his lips naturally tinged with the soft color of fresh peach blossoms, as if forever poised on the edge of delighted laughter. His straight, delicately built nose harmonized perfectly with his soft jawline and smooth features, while his skin possessed the lustrous quality of polished pearls, appearing almost ethereal when touched by sunlight.
His hair, dark as raven feathers and glossy as obsidian, was typically tied up in what could generously be called a casual style—though it looked more like he had simply gathered it quickly and hoped for the best. Stray locks inevitably escaped to dance across his forehead or brush against his neck, creating an artlessly tousled effect that was far more appealing than any carefully constructed arrangement.
He was slender without being delicate, his lithe build usually hidden beneath flowing robes of light green silk and a peach-colored outer robe that fluttered gracefully with his movements. A small jade pendant, a cherished gift from his beloved shizun, hung at his waist, catching the light whenever he moved.
At this particular moment, however, Chen Xinyu was not thinking about his appearance, his studies, or even the important banquet that was supposedly happening somewhere in the sect. Instead, he was completely absorbed in what he considered to be a masterwork of pranking engineering.
Lounging comfortably under the fragrant plum blossom trees with his robes charmingly disheveled and his hair even more tousled than usual, Xinyu had spent the better part of the afternoon yawning so deeply it might have qualified as a meditation technique.
"Banquet, banquet," he mumbled to himself with the air of someone thoroughly unimpressed by formal occasions. "Why must these things always drag on for eternity?"
Rolling up his sleeves with the focused determination of a master craftsman, he crouched behind two ornamental stone columns and began tying a nearly invisible thread between them with practiced expertise. Above this carefully positioned tripwire, balanced precariously on a wooden ledge, sat a large ceramic bowl filled with what could only be described as the perfect mixture of mountain soil and yesterday's rain—thick, cold, and guaranteed to ruin anyone's dignity.
Chen Xinyu stepped back to admire his handiwork, hands placed proudly on his hips as he surveyed the trap with the satisfaction of a cultivator who had just achieved a breakthrough in their understanding of the Dao.
"This'll teach Senior Brother Shen Yao," he muttered with a grin that would have made demons proud. "Let's see him try to charm all the junior sisters with mud-soaked robes and a mouthful of dirt."
The beauty of the plan was in its elegant simplicity. Shen Yao, that insufferably handsome and perpetually smug senior brother, made a habit of taking this exact path every day on his way to flirt with the female disciples near the lotus pond. One moment of carelessness, one foot caught in the thread, and gravity would handle the rest.
Xinyu positioned himself behind the largest plum tree, barely able to contain his anticipation. Soon, footsteps approached along the stone path—measured, confident strides that could only belong to someone who believed themselves to be irresistibly attractive.
"Perfect timing," Xinyu whispered with barely suppressed glee. "Come closer, Shen Yao... just a little closer..."
The footsteps paused.
There was the soft sound of silk robes brushing against silk robes.
Then—
*Snap.*
The thread pulled taut.
The bowl tipped.
Mud poured down in a perfect, devastating arc.
The person who had stepped into his carefully laid trap stood utterly motionless.
Drenched in cold, horrible silence.
Chen Xinyu blinked rapidly, his triumphant grin beginning to waver as his brain slowly processed what his eyes were seeing.
There, standing in his courtyard with thick mud dripping steadily from ink-black hair and flowing down a face that was definitely not Shen Yao's, was quite possibly the most beautiful and terrifying person Xinyu had ever laid eyes upon.
The stranger stood absolutely still, like a statue carved from the finest white jade, while dark earth streamed down his moonlight-pale skin and soaked into robes so exquisite they probably cost more than Xinyu's entire family's annual income. These were not the simple green robes of a Verdant Cloud Sect disciple—these were garments of deep midnight blue silk embroidered with silver threads that seemed to capture and hold starlight.
A single drop of mud hit the stone path with a sound like a funeral bell.
Chen Xinyu's mouth fell open.
And then, against all reason, all sense, and all hope of survival—
He burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Clutching his stomach and bending over with helpless, wheezing mirth, Xinyu choked out between gasps, "Ah—your face—I'm so sorry—no, wait—" He wiped a tear from his eye, still giggling helplessly. "The expression—oh heavens, I can't—"
Just as the sounds of lively celebration echoed across the distant banquet hall, the sharp crack of snapping wood and the wet splatter of mud hitting its target rang out in the southern courtyard.
The figure—tall, elegant, and now thoroughly coated in earth—slowly raised one pale hand to wipe his face. His movements were controlled, precise, and somehow more terrifying than if he had exploded into immediate rage.
His eyes, when they emerged from behind his muddy fingers, were the color of winter storms.
Those eyes turned, sharp as legendary blades, toward the source of the continuing laughter.
The laughter died as if strangled.
Chen Xinyu, who moments before had been doubled over in delighted triumph, slowly straightened. The grin slipped from his face like water running off stone as his gaze met the tall stranger's across the courtyard.
"...Huh?"
His smile gave a sickly twitch.
Something was very, very wrong. Why was this person so much taller than Shen Yao? Since when did any disciple own robes that expensive? Wasn't Shen-shixiong supposed to be wearing his usual pale green today?
Xinyu stared harder, his heart beginning to sink like a stone thrown into a deep well.
Wait.
That face, even covered in mud, was completely unfamiliar. Those features were too perfect, too otherworldly, too absolutely terrifying in their cold beauty.
This was definitely not Shen-shixiong.
This was definitely not anyone from Verdant Cloud Sect.
This was definitely someone very, very important.
And Chen Xinyu had just dumped an entire bowl of mud on their head.
The stranger's aura began to shift, and suddenly the air itself seemed to grow heavier, colder, charged with a power that made Xinyu's cultivation base tremble in recognition of something far beyond his current abilities.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh no.