Fourteen years had turned the tragedy of Hanyuan Peak into a forbidden legend, whispered only by palace servants when the moon was thin.
In the heart of the Imperial City sat the Cloud-Veil Pavilion. It was a structural anomaly, a place where the seasons refused to turn. Even in the sweltering heat of the capital's midsummer, the pond surrounding the residence remained trapped under a foot of jagged, crystalline ice. The air here didn't just carry a chill; it carried a weight—a heavy, spiritual pressure that made the lungs ache.
Xue Wanli, the State Preceptor, sat at the center of this frozen kingdom. He was a masterpiece of dark immortality, a man who looked as though he had been carved from a single block of midnight and moonstone. His hair was a waterfall of absolute, ink-black silk, spilling over his shoulders and pooling on the white floorboards like a dark stain. Against the stark, snowy white of his robes, his hair seemed to possess its own gravity, drawing the light into its depths.
His face was a landscape of dangerous, sharp refinement. His skin was the color of unblemished snow, almost translucent at the temples. His eyes remained closed, his long, dark lashes casting skeletal shadows against his high, elegant cheekbones. He looked less like a living man and more like a god who had been frozen mid-prayer—a beautiful, terrifying statue that had forgotten the warmth of the sun.
A soft, rhythmic chime of silver bells announced a visitor. The doors slid open, admitting a gust of wind and the scent of sandalwood.
Lu Yan, the Seventh Prince, stepped inside.
If the Preceptor was a statue of ice, Lu Yan was a carving of fine, pale jade. At fourteen, he possessed a beauty that was almost offensive to the senses—a tragic, quiet grace that made him look like a ghost wandering the palace of his ancestors. His hair, a mirror of his master's, was a deep, lustrous black that fell in heavy waves, framing a face that was unnervingly symmetrical.
His eyes were his most haunting feature: a deep, winter-sky blue that held the clarity of a frozen lake. He moved with a silent, fluid elegance, his simple disciple's robes fluttering around him like the wings of a dark bird. He was a masterpiece of royal breeding, yet there was a magnetic, vibrating restlessness in his aura—a hidden storm waiting for a reason to break.
"Shizun," Lu Yan whispered, his voice soft enough to crack the silence without shattering it. He bowed, his forehead almost touching the frost-covered floor. He carried a small, lacquered tray with a bowl of dark medicinal tea. "I brought this from the medical hall myself. You... you didn't look well during the morning rites."
Wanli didn't open his eyes. He couldn't. The sound of the boy's voice was a knife to his heart, vibrating against the "Ink" he kept locked in his own marrow.
"A Prince should not do the work of a servant," Wanli said, his voice smooth but cold, like a blade sliding over silk. "Go back to your mother's palace, Lu Yan. You have studies to attend to."
"My brothers said I was better suited for the medical hall than the throne anyway," Lu Yan said with a small, self-deprecating smile that was far too sad for a boy of fourteen. He walked closer, his boots clicking on the ice-dusted floor. "Let me at least do this. Please, Shizun."
He knelt beside the Preceptor, the silver bells on his belt giving a final, lonely chime. As he reached out to set the tray down, his wide sleeve pulled back, revealing the delicate skin of his wrist.
Wanli's eyes snapped open—two shards of gray ice.
There, beneath the skin of Lu Yan's pulse point, was a thin, black vein that looked like a crack in porcelain. It was pulsing in time with the Prince's heart, alive and hungry.
"Shizun?" Lu Yan noticed the intensity of the stare. Concerned, he reached out, his warm fingers accidentally brushing against Wanli's freezing hand.
THUMP.
The world didn't just go cold; it went void. Through the contact, a psychic scream tore through Wanli's mind. He didn't hear the boy's breathing anymore. He heard the melodic, cruel laughter of the Devil Lord, vibrating in his very skull.
'He's delicious, isn't he?' the voice hissed. 'Fourteen years of your "virtue," and he still smells like my rot. Let me out, Wanli. Let me taste him.'
Wanli let out a strangled gasp, his heart jumping like a trapped bird. In a fit of terror and revulsion, he struck out.
His hand caught the tray, sending the porcelain bowl flying. It shattered against the wall, the dark tea splashing like a bloodstain across the white wood.
"Don't touch me!" Wanli roared, his spiritual energy erupting in a wave of frost that sent the boy sliding backward across the floor.
Lu Yan hit the doorframe with a thud, his eyes wide with shock and deep, wounded hurt. He clutched his chest, gasping as the freezing energy bit into his skin. "Shizun... I only..."
"You are a Prince of this realm, and I am the State Preceptor," Wanli wheezed, clutching his own wrist where the contact had been. He could see it—the "Ink" was trying to climb his own arm, turning his veins black beneath his sleeves. He shoved his hand into his robe to hide the corruption. "You are filthy. Do not presume to lay hands on me again."
Filthy.
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
Lu Yan's face went bone-white. He scrambled to his feet, his head bowed so low his long black hair hid his eyes. "I... I understand. This disciple was... overstepping. I will not trouble the Preceptor again."
He turned and ran, the silver bells on his belt jingling a frantic, lonely rhythm as he crossed the frozen bridge.
Xue Wanli watched him go, then doubled over, coughing until his lungs burned. He pulled his hand away from his mouth. The blood in his palm was no longer red. It was as black as ink, and it smelled of the abyss.
"Sorry," he whispered, the word a ghost of the one he'd said fourteen years ago. "I'm so sorry..."