Days passed quietly in the realm of the immortals—quietly, at least, on the surface. The sky remained clear, the mountains glowed with spiritual aura, the disciples moved in orderly lines, and the elders maintained dignified peace. In truth, nothing threatened the sect from the outside, and harmony reigned over the immortal domain.
But even in a place carved out of purity and discipline, there was always one anomaly.
One persistent, unstoppable, headache-inducing anomaly.
Mo Zhan.
Two full weeks had passed since "the incident"—a vague term people used because no one wanted to describe the details—and by now most of the sect had decided he wasn't dangerous. Annoying? Absolutely. Chaotic? Consistently. But dangerous? Not unless one counted explosive talismans, spontaneous illusions, unexpected pranks, and a creative talent for misusing spiritual tools.
He joked at inappropriate times.
He turned training fields into obstacle courses.
He bickered with Xiao every day, teasing him enough that some disciples started betting who would snap first.
He made Lan Sizui's life a living test of patience.
But beneath all of that, he trained—fiercely, obsessively, almost as if trying to outrun something only he could see. Swordsmanship bored him after five minutes, but talisman arts… those captivated him. Unfortunately, no matter how talented he was, no master wanted to teach him advanced ones. Experience had shown that giving Mo Zhan powerful talismans was like giving a fox the keys to the chicken coop.
So people simply kept their distance. Not because he was wicked—but because they valued their peace.
Han, in contrast, fit seamlessly into the immortal realm. Calm, respectful, diligent, and frighteningly consistent, he climbed to the level of a mid–realm immortal shockingly fast. Zhao's memories guided him, sharpening his intuition and focus in ways he could not explain to anyone.
He won the admiration of the teachers.
He won the trust of the disciples.
He even won Yi'er's friendship, often training with her until sunset.
But beneath his calm façade, he and Mo Zhan were united by one mission: finding the Chosen One—the person marked with a golden sword on their chest. The mark carried ancient resonance, a key they needed, a destiny intertwined with their own. Yet finding someone's chest in a world where modesty was practically sacred?
Nearly impossible.
People in this realm treated exposing skin as scandalous. Even removing one's outer robe indoors was considered borderline indecent. The idea of approaching someone and asking, "Excuse me, may I check your chest for a glowing sword symbol?" would get them exiled on the spot.
Nonetheless, they tried.
Every night, after the sect quieted and the moon rose above the lotus ponds, the two slipped into different dormitories, following the faintest lead, the smallest chance.
Tonight was one of those nights.
The guards on duty dozed lightly, unaware as Han and Mo Zhan slipped like shadows behind the barracks of the outer disciples. The large dormitory loomed ahead—forty or fifty people sleeping inside. Even a one-percent chance was enough reason to search.
Yet at the gate, both hesitated.
"Use one of your ridiculous talismans," Han whispered. "Preferably the kind that ensures they won't wake up."
Mo Zhan responded as if deeply offended.
"I'm not heartless enough to cast something on people who are sleeping peacefully."
Han stared at him blankly.
"Really? So last night, when someone's clothes suddenly shredded in front of the entire northern courtyard—"
Mo Zhan cut in proudly, "He ignored my warning. Not my fault."
After whispered bickering that probably woke more spirits than they silenced, they made their way in.
Mo Zhan used dream-lock talismans—gentle, harmless, but enough to keep disciples asleep.
Han performed the awkward but necessary task of briefly checking collars and chest bindings for any sign of a golden mark.
Half an hour later, they emerged empty-handed, frustrated, and exhausted.
Han groaned into his hands.
"That cursed talking book… If the Chosen One turns out to be a woman, what do we even do?"
Mo Zhan didn't answer immediately. He walked beside him, silent, thoughtful—a rare state for him. Then a spark lit in his eyes, the kind that usually meant trouble.
"Han," he said slowly, "even if we can't remember the Chosen One's identity, we do remember his appearance."
Han froze for a moment before realization struck.
"…You're right. His face is still in our memories."
Long black hair.
Pale skin.
Sharp eyebrows.
Eyes cold like ice crystals.
Broad shoulders, refined features—elegant yet imposing.
Almost definitely male.
Then Mo Zhan halted abruptly, eyes widening.
"Wait. We haven't checked Lan Sizui or Yu Lin."
Han stiffened.
"No. Absolutely not. I'm not going near them."
"Fine," Mo Zhan said cheerfully. "We split up. You take Yu Lin. I'll take Lan Sizui."
Han sighed as if accepting a death sentence.
"…Please don't die."
Mo Zhan saluted dramatically.
"No promises."
Sneaking into Lan Sizui's room required finesse. The window was only half-open, letting in a narrow stream of moonlight. The room itself was clean, organized, almost ascetically quiet. Lan Sizui slept with perfect posture, one hand gently resting near the silver sword beside him, as if even in slumber he maintained discipline.
Mo Zhan's heart thudded harder than it should have.
Not because he feared discovery—though he should have—but because Lan Sizui was someone he could never quite read. Never deceive fully. Never fluster easily.
Still, he forced his nerves aside.
He activated a high-level dream-lock talisman, letting the glowing sigil sink into the air above Lan Sizui like mist. It shimmered, flickered—then settled.
It worked.
Or so he thought.
Smirking, Mo Zhan crept closer.
He gently brushed aside a few strands of Lan Sizui's hair that fell across his forehead.
Then he reached toward the collar of his robe, fingers trembling slightly but determined.
But before he could touch the fabric—
A hand shot up and clamped around his wrist.
Mo Zhan froze.
The moonlight reflected off a pair of icy, fully awake eyes staring straight into his soul.
He forced a small, nervous laugh.
"I—I was… uh… checking on you?"
Lan Sizui sat up with controlled grace, still gripping his wrist.
Mo Zhan tried to retreat, but in one fluid motion, Lan Sizui moved between him and the exit, blocking every escape route.
"Tell me the truth."
His voice was low. Calm. Deadly calm.
His other hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Panic jolted through Mo Zhan.
He tried talismans—nothing activated.
He tried slipping away—failed instantly.
Within seconds, Lan Sizui had him pinned to the floor, one knee pressing lightly but firmly onto his chest, both wrists trapped above his head.
"Why are you doing this?" Lan Sizui asked again, his voice as sharp as winter steel.
Mo Zhan swallowed hard.
"I… I just…"
His mind spun, desperately searching for an excuse.
And then inspiration—or stupidity—struck.
"Ah! Yesterday Yu Lin injured you during training, right? I just wanted to check if you were okay!"
He widened his eyes in an expression of utter innocence.
Too innocent. Comically innocent.
Lan Sizui did not even blink.
His grip tightened.
Mo Zhan winced.
He knew this was it.
No more lies.
No more tricks.
Lan Sizui leaned closer, gaze unblinking, unwavering, almost cutting.
"Mo Zhan," he said quietly, "what are you hiding?"
Mo Zhan opened his mouth—
heart pounding, breath shallow—