"Some say the night belongs to the silent. Others claim it hides only the innocent. But I know better… and tonight, the shadows will remember my name...."
Night had fallen over Huīxiě Lín Mí Yǐng, draping the world in mist and silver moonlight. Each bamboo stalk swayed gently in the breeze, their slender leaves whispering like secrets carried across time. Shadows stretched long and thin, pooling across the dewy earth, while the pale moon reflected on droplets of water like scattered pearls. Every surface shimmered as if the forest itself had donned a ceremonial gown, awaiting a guest both deadly and divine.
The air was cool, scented faintly of moss and damp earth, carrying with it the soft rustle of hidden insects and distant rivers. Occasionally, a nightingale called from unseen branches, its trill lilting and sorrowful, blending with the quiet as though the forest held its breath in reverence.
A figure emerged from the mist. Each step was deliberate, graceful, a predator gliding over dewy terrain. Bare feet pressed softly against the earth, leaving no mark. His skin shimmered pale as jade beneath the moonlight, flawless, as though sculpted from the essence of night itself. Long black hair streaked faintly with silver cascaded down his back, brushing the mist like liquid shadow. One eye remained hidden beneath a pristine white blindfold, while his robe, flowing white edged with black, billowed around him, sleeves fluttering like banners in a phantom wind.
A black dragon mark coiled along his right arm, tail intertwining with a crimson spider lily. The petals glimmered under the moonlight, alive with silent menace, reflecting the dangerous elegance etched into his form. At his temple rested a crystal, faintly catching the moon's rays, scattering light like a captured shard of soul, hinting at both curiosity and cruelty within.
Lòu Lóng Wēi (楼龙威 / Fallen Dragon's Might) moved with purpose, a silent predator cloaked in playful malice. Every feature spoke of lethal elegance: a sharp, V-shaped face with high cheekbones, a narrow jaw, lips deep red and perfectly sculpted, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and long, lithe legs peeking beneath the hem of his robe, hinting at both strength and subtle vulnerability. Each motion—from the tilt of his head to the curl of his fingers—was a paradox of threat and amusement, predator and muse.
"They will pay… no matter what," he murmured, voice soft yet edged with undeniable sharpness, as if the night itself had lent its steel to his words.
A nightingale landed on a bamboo branch above him, tilting its head curiously. Its delicate call carried over the forest, haunting and soft, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though the creature recognized him—not as man, but as something older, wiser, and more dangerous than the forest itself. Long Wei's lips curved into a small, cruel smile beneath the blindfold.
"I never lie to my insects," he whispered, lifting his hand slightly. Humans were nothing but ants beneath his gaze, scurrying blindly, unaware of the predator observing from the shadows. His attention, though veiled, pressed heavily upon the forest, a silent, intoxicating weight.
The nightingale hopped to his outstretched hand, claws barely grazing his palm. Its wings twitched nervously, uncertain whether to trust or flee. Lóng Wēi turned the bird over with meticulous care, crystal at his temple scattering moonlight into delicate sparks. A low, almost childish chuckle escaped him, soft and dangerous.
"This will be… entertaining."
He plucked a single feather, tracing it along his long black nails, each motion deliberate and teasing, testing the limits of his tiny companion's patience.
"Ceremony… or insect's dwelling?" he murmured quietly, the feather trembling slightly between his fingers while the bird shifted in silent protest. Even in triviality, Long Wei treated choice as a game of power, a subtle cruelty wrapped in elegance.
He let the feather drift to the ground. Eyes glinting beneath the blindfold, dangerous light flickered within them—a teasing, predatory fire.
"Decisions, choices… how tiresome, yet exquisite," he murmured, voice smooth as silk brushing over steel. Shadows around him shifted almost of their own accord, bending toward his presence, drawn to the play of predator and prey about to unfold.
From a distant grove, the faint melody of guqin and bamboo flute floated across the mist, haunting, mournful, ritualistic. Long Wei's grin sharpened, dangerous yet musical, like a blade catching candlelight.
"Insects may await their demise… but I cannot wait to play."
He moved forward, robe flowing like liquid shadow, steps precise, each measured and poised. The black dragon mark along his arm pulsed faintly, coiling like a living thing, spider lily petals glowing in response. The nightingale, now calm, nestled against him, sensing both the danger and delight wrapped into his presence.
Lóng Wēi paused atop a gentle rise, gazing down the forest path. Mist curled around his feet, bamboo shadows stretched like fingers, the forest bowing subtly to his rhythm. Every leaf, every dew drop, every whispering sound became part of his orchestration—a dance of mischief, elegance, and malice.
He lifted a finger, letting it brush against the nightingale's soft down. Eyes narrowing beneath the blindfold, he seemed to read its pulse, the forest's rhythm, the very heartbeat of the night. A flicker of thought—each movement, a step toward revenge; each gesture, a playful challenge to fate.
The distant music drew closer, mingling with rustling bamboo and unseen waters. Long Wei's grin widened, playful and terrifying. He breathed slowly, deliberately, feeling anticipation thrumming through his chest.
Tonight would mark the first flames of shadow. Every insect, every human ignorant of the predator among them, would shiver—or thrill—in the orchestration of his amusement.
He stepped lightly over the dew, tilting his head toward the faint glow of lanterns that marked the ritual's edge. The crystal at his temple caught the moonlight, sending shards across the mist. The dragon mark shifted with his arm, coiling tighter as if sensing what was to come.
The nightingale nestled against his temple. Lóng Wēi leaned forward, forehead brushing the bird's soft down in an almost intimate gesture, speaking without words of control, curiosity, and danger. Shadows stretched, leaning toward him, first whispers of his dark flame spreading silently.
The night held its breath. And rightly so—something unknown now roamed, unchained, and Lóng Wēi was its storm.
"And so it Begins...