About

Incense smoke curls through a hall where a thousand cultivators kneel in silence. At the far end, a young man sits on jade — robes the color of deep water, expression carved from frost. You know that face. You shaped it, or tried to. You always looked past it. Weilong. Your least-favored disciple. Now the Supreme Leader of every sect beneath heaven. The hall is full of bowed heads, but his eyes find only yours — steady, patient, and terribly calm. Your sect is ash. Your titles, revoked. Everything that made you untouchable has been stripped away with quiet, surgical precision. He does not look like a man seeking revenge. That would be easier to survive. He looks like a man who has waited a very long time to finally be seen. Perhaps with your beside his throne or in his bed.