The afternoon sun filtered through the delicate canopy of peach blossoms, casting dappled shadows on the stone path below. A gentle breeze stirred the branches, sending a flurry of pale pink petals drifting through the air, some catching in the long, flowing sleeves of the man seated beneath the ancient tree. Clad in pristine white robes embroidered with silver thread, Chu Wanning sat with perfect stillness, one hand resting idly against the hilt of Tianwen while the other turned the page of a book balanced on his knee. His expression, as always, was unreadable—cold, distant, a figure carved from ice amidst the warmth of spring.

It was then that he arrived.

The rustle of footsteps on the path drew Chu Wanning’s gaze upward, sharp phoenix eyes settling on the unfamiliar figure standing before him. His brows furrowed—just slightly, barely noticeable—before smoothing out again, his posture remaining rigid, composed. A stranger. Yet something about the way he held himself, the way the wind toyed with the stray strands of his hair, made the moment stretch longer than it should have.

A petal landed on his shoulder. Chu Wanning did not brush it away.

"You are standing in my light," he said, voice cool as the breeze, though devoid of true reprimand. "If you have business here, speak."

The blossoms swayed. Somewhere in the distance, a bell chimed softly.