Gen stood in the main hall of the palace, dressed in layers of fine, dove-grey silk embroidered with subtle silver thread. He felt stiff and ridiculous, like a weapon wrapped in velvet.
"Stop fidgeting," Madame Su said, her voice gentle as she approached. She reached out and adjusted the high collar of his robe, her fingers quick and precise. "There. Now you look like the Young Master you are, not a street urchin who's won a lottery."
Gen swatted her hands away half-heartedly. "It's scratchy. And pointless. Why does it matter what I wear to meet some old strategist?"
Madame Su's eyes held a warmth he saw only in these private moments. She didn't smile, but the lines around her eyes softened. "It is a sign of respect. For your father. For the Feng family. And for the girl." She brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his shoulder, her touch lingering for a fraction of a second. "You should be honored."
"I'd be honored by a good spar," Gen muttered, but he held still, letting her fuss. A part of him, buried deep, craved this small, maternal attention. She was the closest thing to a mother's touch he could remember. He'd never admit it, but he stood a little straighter under her gaze.
The sound of quiet footsteps on jade tiles announced his father's arrival. Immortal Jiang was dressed as always in simple hemp, a stark contrast to Gen's finery. Yet, his presence commanded the hall, making the silks seem frivolous.
Madame Su immediately stepped back, clasping her hands and bowing her head in a deep, formal gesture. "Immortal. The Young Master is prepared."
"Thank you, Su," he said, his tone carrying a quiet respect that was different from his usual detached authority.
As his father's eyes rested on Madame Su, Gen saw something fleeting—a look of profound gratitude, a shared history in a single glance. For a wild second, Gen wondered if Madame Su's devotion was something more. But before the thought could form, she was already turning, her robes whispering as she walked away, retreating into the shadows of the palace without a backward glance. The moment was over, leaving a faint, unexplained ache in Gen's chest.
"Come," his father said.
They exited not through the main gates, but onto a high, private landing platform at the palace's rear. Waiting for them was a creature of breathtaking majesty.
It was a Six-Winged Sky-Dancer, a milky beast of the phoenix lineage. Its plumage was a cascade of iridescent copper and deep crimson, each of its six wings long and elegant, tipped with feathers like polished knives. Its eyes held the calm, ancient intelligence of a Fourth Wheel cultivator—an Adult beast, a power in its own right. It regarded Immortal Jiang with a slow, respectful blink, then inclined its magnificent head.
"The Sky-Dancer will bear us," his father said, placing a hand on the beast's neck. A silent communication passed between them. The creature was not a servant, but an ally.
They mounted. With a downbeat of six powerful wings that stirred a gale across the platform, they were airborne. The Jiang Capital unfolded beneath them, a breathtaking mosaic of life. They flew over the bustling market squares, the serene canals, and then the sprawling verdant expanse of the Verdant Canopy Forest, where lesser milky beasts—Infants and Juveniles—could be seen moving like shadows under the green roof.
"Tiang Feng's estate is in the Stag's Rest Valley," his father said over the wind. "He prefers stability to heights."
Gen understood. Tiang Feng was the Stag—grounded, patient. His father was the Phoenix—aloof, celestial, a fire in the sky. People said Tiang Feng was the strongest cultivator after the Immortal. Gen knew it wasn't just flattery. The man had mastered Heidow, the Wheel of Combination, to a terrifying degree, weaving complex, layered spells into reality itself.
Out of respect, the Sky-Dancer landed gracefully in a wide courtyard at the edge of the Feng estate, not within its walls. They entered through the main gate, a massive arch of aged oak and iron.
The respect shown to Immortal Jiang here was even more palpable than in his own palace. It was quieter, denser. Guards in forest-green armor knelt, not just bowing. Stewards moved with hushed efficiency. They were escorted through elegant, winding corridors to a grand hall that felt more like a library fused with a war room. Maps were etched into tables, and tactical models of energy flow hung in the air, sustained by subtle Zhidow.
They were seated at a low table of dark polished wood. Time stretched. Gen fought the urge to fidget with his robes again.
Then, a side door opened.
Two figures entered. The boy was Gen's age, with sharp, proud features and eyes that swept the room with calculated intensity. Baili. He walked with a contained arrogance, but when his gaze landed on Immortal Jiang, it transformed into pure, unadulterated reverence. He bowed so deeply it was a hair from being a kowtow. To Gen, he offered only the briefest, coldest nod of acknowledgment—a stone in his path.
Beside him was the girl. Lorel.
Gen's first thought was that she was old. Sixteen to his fifteen felt like a chasm. His second thought, which arrived a heartbeat later and stole the breath from his lungs, was that she was the most beautifully sad thing he'd ever seen.
She wore robes of pale lavender, her dark hair piled in an intricate style that seemed too heavy for her slender neck. Her features were delicate, porcelain-fair, but her eyes—large and the color of twilight—were downcast, fixed on the floor three paces ahead. She moved with a fluid grace that was entirely submissive, like a willow branch in a gentle stream. She curtsied perfectly to Immortal Jiang, then to Gen, never once meeting either of their eyes. A faint, rosy blush colored her cheeks.
Gen stared for a moment too long. His father, from the corner of his eye, gave an almost imperceptible smile.
"She's… tall," Gen muttered under his breath, looking away, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the wood table.
"Young Master Jiang," Baili said, his voice crisp, cutting through the awkward silence. "We are honored by your visit. I trust your journey was pleasant?" His words were for Gen, but his attention remained tethered to Immortal Jiang, hungering for a word, a glance.
"The Sky-Dancer flies well," Gen replied, his own casual tone a contrast to Baili's formality. He turned to Lorel, who had settled silently onto a cushion. "And you… do you like birds?"
Lorel's eyes flickered up, meeting his for a terrified second before darting away. "I… they are… very majestic, Young Master," she whispered, her voice like the rustle of silk.
"They're better than scratchy clothes," Gen said, earning a soft, surprised breath that might have been a laugh from Lorel and a disapproving tighten of Baili's jaw.
The conversation between the youths was a stilted dance. Baili steered it toward cultivation theory, trying to impress the Immortal with his insights on Shidow applications. Gen gave short, bored answers, more interested in the tactical models on the walls. Lorel said nothing unless directly spoken to, and even then, only in whispers.
Through it all, Immortal Jiang was a mountain of serene silence, observing the currents in the room.
The atmosphere shifted before the man even entered. The air in the grand hall seemed to grow denser, more focused, as if all the stray energies were being drawn into a single, strategic point.
All chatter ceased. Baili immediately fell silent and bowed his head. Lorel seemed to shrink further into herself.
Tiang Feng, the Stag of Jiang, the Second Strongest, had arrived.
He didn't look at Gen. He didn't look at Lorel. He didn't even look at Baili.
His flint-gray eyes locked onto Immortal Jiang—and held.
For three heartbeats, no one breathed.
Then Tiang Feng smiled. It was not a friendly smile.
"Jiang," he said. "We have much to discuss."