Atop Mount T?nting, like a giant pillar planted in the sky,

  Brilliantly you abide, the colour of flawless crystal,

  Charming and majestic, however you’re viewed,

  Delightful Tsering Gyalmo, remain as my companion.

  — Tseringma Praise, Khyentse Ch?kyi Lodr?

  Somewhere far away, in the southernmost region where the borders of China and Tibet blur into a singular, frozen horizon, stood an indomitable, immovable mountain.

  It cemented itself in the minds of the faithful as the most sacred peak in all of eternity—a pillar of the sky that seemed to hold up the heavens themselves.

  It was a summit that no ordinary man had ever lived through to truly experience; the cold was a living entity, a merciless force that subdued the lives of many without a second thought.

  The risks of the ascent were not merely physical, but spiritual.

  It was a peak known to all, yet seen by none who lacked the inner sight.

  In this high altitude, divinity was synonymous with sanctity.

  Myths painted men as legends for merely trekking toward the base of that forsaken stump, and those few who returned were said to carry unspeakable revelations.

  From this singular, declared milestone, several sects, clans, and ideologies took birth, branching out like the veins of a leaf.

  States and empires drew their governing logic from these baseless sects, seeking an insight into the fabricated ideals of mortals.

  Faith pushed the masses forward until the myths became the truth, and the minds of countless generations were subconsciously rewired to preserve the lie.

  It was here, in the thin air of the peaks, that story became history and fantasy was rerouted into reality.

  Master Yeng stood as the successor of the Trinomial Clan, a figure shrouded in the same mystery as the mountain itself.

  He chose to remain to himself, a guardian of a lineage as pure and inbred as any that dared to exist upon the soil of the planet.

  His home was the Evernest Sect, known in the ancient tongue as the “Lotus of the Five Colored Clouds.”

  Apocryphal Cultivation: Ever forbearing shepherd.

  Zhao Tang felt his sight begin to recover.

  At first, a deliberate, dazzling light consumed the entire hallway, overwhelming his retinas.

  Countless photons shot off in random directions at chaotic intervals, yet amidst the visual assault, Tang felt strangely clear-headed.

  A sudden ease washed over his mind, relieving the stress that had built up since his awakening.

  For a moment, his consciousness began to fade, drifting into a state of hypnosis induced by the sheer benevolence of that white gleam.

  The second the shimmer vanished, Tang’s world plunged into pitch black.

  He blinked rapidly, his pulse spiking as the trauma of his first experience with nihilistic darkness clawed at his mind, craving a fresh taste of his fear.

  Gradually, however, the aftermath sifted from his perception.

  The shades of the hallway returned to their natural, dim state.

  Tang remembered there being a door.

  He remembered the thick, unbending chains and the heavy metal bolts that had made the entrance seem impregnable. (preg)

  But as he stared at the space where the barrier should have been, he realized nothing remained.

  There were no shards of wood, no snapped links of obsidian, no twisted silver.

  Absolute annihilation was the only term that fit.

  A bright ray of light had manifested out of seemingly nowhere, exerting an unimaginable force that had simply erased the obstacle.

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  Tang’s tongue could not find the words to describe what had taken place.

  It had happened faster than a blink, faster than his nerves could pass information to his brain, faster than oxygen could reach his cells.

  It was, in the truest sense of the word, light-speed.

  “Let’s head inside, shall we?” Yeng said. Without wasting a moment, he passed through the opening he had both erected and destroyed in a single breath.

  Tang followed suit, his heart heavy with the realization that in this place, he had no other choices at hand.

  The scorched sensation of the devoured door lingered in the air, a dry, ozone-heavy scent that tickled Tang’s throat.

  “The Holy Evernest Sect,” Yeng stated as he walked across the barren room beyond.

  “We derive our teachings from the blessed pupil of Confucius and indoctrinate them with the will of the Everest. For the entire span of the Sect’s existence, it has been maintained by the Yeng Clan.”

  Tang barely registered the words.

  His senses were focused entirely on the desolate state of the apartment.

  He spun his head around, scanning a room defined by crust and dust.

  Disappointment was an understatement for what he felt.

  He thought of the lengths someone had gone to secure this place, the locks, the forbidden artistry, the chains, only to find an empty museum of mold.

  Every nook and crevice was draped in freshly made cobwebs where spiders hissed uncontrollably, disturbed by their intrusion.

  Every surface was dressed in multiple layers of shimmering dust.

  As they walked, their footsteps triggered waves of the foul compound, sending specks of dirt flying into Tang’s face.

  He squinted and held back a sneeze, watching as the master began to scrape piles of decay off a central seat.

  Yeng slapped the fabric with his palms, allowing the unrested layer of filth to wade away into the air.

  “My name is Yeng Chen,” he said. “A Chinese name, much like yours, despite having lived in the peaks and valleys of the Tibetan nation.

  “Our ancestry derives its name from the imperial family of China centuries ago.”

  Tang halted. The master was Chinese as well.

  That explained the sudden burst of enthusiasm Yeng had shown toward his name earlier.

  “As for my title,” Yeng continued, his hands clapping together to purge the sand from his palms,

  “Successions from the Evernest custodian family have been rather quick. Within a mere few hundred years, I’ve been blessed with the title of being the thousandth master of the lineage.”

  Tang caught a hint of a smile forming under the heavy, grey dressing of the master's attire.

  “You must be quite surprised as to how a destined grand-master such as me has decided to unload his past onto thee?” Yeng asked, followed by a dry cough.

  “Nevertheless, the truth remains firm.”

  “An atrocity of horrible length has been committed within the four walls of this sect. A defilement and irresponsible use of forbidden cultivation bestowed upon our race through the thoughts of Everest.”

  The master’s exterior hardened, projecting a strength that Tang found both alien and crushing.

  “Khetsu…” Yeng sighed, his form softening with disappointment. “For an orphan such as him, astonishment reveled within me when I first sensed the potential exude from him. I essentially raised him.”

  The master’s voice carried raw, forced breaks of emotion.

  Tang felt a sudden wave of empathy.

  It was a jarring realization: the man who had just caused Khetsu to implode was the same man who had raised him.

  “Yeng Chen…” Tang began, before quickly correcting himself. “Master Yeng.”

  The formal title seemed to bring the master a sense of renewal.

  However, the expression quickly transformed back into a mask of anger and pain.

  “It is without a doubt that countless lives were lost that night,” Yeng said, his eyes scanning the cracked, unkept walls.

  “Khetsu was fully conscious, fully at fault, and his intentions were carefully thought after. Fierce sinful spirits and whispering spirits were summoned in this part of the sect.” He took a short pause.

  “I used to reside in this chamber; the chair that I dusted off, sitting at the heart of the room, was once the place of Meditation Mastery.”

  Yeng’s voice deepened, echoing off the dusty corners. “Terrible things happened here. He contacted them. The Apostles of greed, envy… the Peng.”

  The silence that followed Yeng’s revelation was heavy, broken only by the settling of dust.

  The master turned his gaze toward the far side of the chamber, his eyes landing on a specific shadow.

  “Go to the east side of the room, Tang,” Yeng commanded, his hands clutching his own palms behind the rear of his seat.

  “There is a mirror kept there. Bring it to me.”

  Tang obeyed, moving through the thick layers of dust toward the eastern wall.

  He found it resting against the stone, a bronze, aged mirror that looked as though it had seen the rise and fall of dynasties.

  It was thick with grime, the reflective surface obscured by decades of neglect.

  Tang picked it up carefully, feeling the cold weight of the metal, and returned to the center of the room.

  Master Yeng instructed him to stand close. “Massage your own temples gently once, Zhao Tang,” the master said, closing his eyes.

  Tang followed the instruction, his fingers pressing against his head as he watched Yeng begin to concentrate.

  The master’s Qi began to flow, a palpable energy that made the air in the room hum.

  Slowly, the frame of the bronze mirror began to glow, a soft, pulsating light that started to burn away the ancient dust on its surface.

  “Look into it,” Yeng whispered.

  Tang fixed his gaze on the glass.

  Suddenly, his head felt as though it were being split open from the inside.

  Tension and pain exploded behind his eyes, a sensation terrifyingly similar to the one he had experienced while trapped in the nihilistic darkness before jumping into this body.

  A bright, piercing light punctured his surroundings.

  He couldn't look away as his vision began to flash rapidly between black and white, a strobing effect that made his stomach churn.

  Then, the surface of the mirror shifted.

  It was no longer a reflection of the room, but a window into something else.

  Like a past glimpsing feng-shui, the bronze surface rippled, and the events of the past began to unfold before his eyes, dragging his consciousness back into the history of the defiled room.

  “Regurgitate.”