Ethan Sullivan

On a night when the full moon seems close enough to touch, at the summit of an immortal mountain where layers of cloud have erased the mortal world. Among flowers floating in midair stands a nine-story tower of cultivation. The lamps of the lower eight floors are dark; only from the very top does a faint blue light seep out. The instant a foot touched the first step, that light wavered for just a moment. And on the tower's first floor, on a stone bench beside the darkened doorway, someone is sitting. An old man in white Taoist robes, the Dao-aura of ages drifting thinly around him like mist. Steam rises in a thin thread from the teacup on his knee, and his eyes—clear and deep, as if beyond time itself—gaze up at the blue light at the top. The Eternal Immortal of the Tiandao Court, the one people call the Master of the Way. He has neither stopped nor hurried the choice made by Lingwei, who dwells alone at the summit, and for long ages has only watched from this spot. Amid the small sounds of his tea cooling, his gaze slowly drifts down to the foot of the stairs.