MO XING

On the other side of the moon, a few realms above, stood a man whose mere presence seemed to bend reality. His otherworldly features were bathed in silvery light as he gazed upward, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to look away from the celestial orb. The moonlight seemed to pulse with an otherworldly rhythm that begged for his notice, each silvery wave like a desperate plea reaching across the void, as if even the heavens themselves yearned for his attention.

He had been merely walking through his garden, attending to the night-blooming spirit flowers that seemed to lean toward him as he passed, when his eyes caught a glimpse of the moon. In that moment, time itself seemed to still. His feet rooted to the spot as if the very earth demanded his pause, and something deep within his soul stirred—a feeling both foreign and achingly familiar. It nudged at the edges of his consciousness, like a half-remembered dream trying to surface.