Chapter 2: Youth at the Mountain Peak

Zhao Yang awoke with a jolt, the morning sunlight streaming through the windows of his wedding chamber. The events of the previous night rushed back to him—the mysterious red-robed woman, his master's unexpected appearance, her touch against his cheek... Had it all been a dream?

He looked around frantically. The nine bridal chambers remained undisturbed, as if waiting for a ceremony that had never taken place. There was no sign of his master or his nine martial sisters.

"Was it real?" he whispered, touching his cheek where he thought he had felt her tear fall.

As he sat in confusion, fragments of memory began to surface—not from last night, but from long ago. Memories of how it all began, when he was just a boy of ten, abandoned at the foot of Xuanqing Mountain.

---

*Fifteen years earlier*

The rain fell in merciless sheets, drenching the small figure huddled at the base of Xuanqing Mountain. Ten-year-old Zhao Yang clutched a small cloth bundle to his chest—all that remained of his former life. His clothes were soaked through, his small body shivering violently in the cold mountain air.

"Go away, boy! This is no place for mortals!" An elderly herb gatherer had warned him hours earlier. "Xuanqing Palace accepts no visitors, especially not male ones! They say no man has passed through those gates in thousands of years!"

But Zhao Yang had nowhere else to go. The plague that had swept through his village had taken everyone—his parents, his little sister, the neighbors who might have taken him in. He was alone in the world, and something about the misty peaks of Xuanqing Mountain called to him like a beacon.

"I'd rather die trying to climb to a mystical palace than die slowly in an empty village," he had decided, his young mind already showing the determination that would define his later years.

Now, halfway up the treacherous path, his strength was failing. The mountain was steep, the path barely visible through the rain and mist. Strange sounds echoed through the bamboo forests around him—whispers, giggles, and occasionally, the clear notes of a flute or zither.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice small against the vastness of the mountain. "Is anyone there? Please... I need help."

The only answer was the rustling of leaves and the patter of rain. Zhao Yang forced himself to his feet and continued climbing. One step, then another. His small legs burned with exhaustion, but something within him refused to give up.

As the sky darkened further, he found himself in a dense grove of ancient pines. Their massive trunks rose like pillars into the mist, creating a natural cathedral. The rain lessened here, the thick canopy providing some shelter.

Exhausted beyond measure, Zhao Yang collapsed against the base of the largest pine. His vision began to blur at the edges.

"I'm sorry, Mother, Father," he whispered, clutching the cloth bundle tighter. Inside was a jade pendant—his only inheritance. "I tried to be strong..."

As consciousness began to slip away, he became aware of a presence. Through half-closed eyes, he saw a figure approaching through the mist—a woman in flowing white robes, her face concealed behind a thin veil. She moved with otherworldly grace, seeming to glide rather than walk across the forest floor.

"A child?" Her voice was cool and melodious, carrying notes of surprise and something else—recognition?

Zhao Yang tried to speak, to ask for help, but no sound emerged from his parched throat. The last thing he remembered before darkness claimed him was the woman kneeling beside him, her veiled face leaning close to his, and her gentle fingers brushing his rain-soaked hair from his forehead.

"You..." she whispered, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. "It cannot be..."

Then everything went black.

---

When Zhao Yang next opened his eyes, he found himself in a place so beautiful it seemed to belong to the realm of dreams. He lay on a soft bed in a pavilion constructed of white jade and pale wood, open on all sides to reveal a panoramic view of mountain peaks floating in a sea of clouds. The air was fragrant with orchids and rare herbs, and somewhere nearby, a fountain burbled softly.

"He's awake," came a young female voice, followed by the sound of quick, light footsteps retreating.

Zhao Yang tried to sit up, but his body felt weak. How long had he been unconscious?

"Lie still," commanded a cool voice—the same voice he had heard in the forest.

The veiled woman in white approached his bed, carrying a bowl of fragrant medicinal soup. Up close, though her features remained hidden behind the gossamer veil, he could make out the curve of high cheekbones, the arch of elegant brows, and eyes that seemed to shift between black and the deepest blue—like the night sky just after sunset.

"Where am I?" Zhao Yang asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Xuanqing Palace," the woman replied, her tone revealing nothing of her thoughts. "You are the first male to cross our threshold in over three thousand years."

Zhao Yang's eyes widened. So the legends were true! Xuanqing Palace was real—a mystical cultivation sect hidden among the clouds, home to immortal female cultivators who had long since cut ties with the mortal world.

"Am I... am I in trouble?" he asked, remembering the warnings about men not being welcome.

The hint of a smile curved the woman's lips beneath her veil. "That remains to be seen." She held the bowl to his lips. "Drink. This will restore your strength."

The soup was bitter but warmed him from the inside. As he drank, his gaze fell upon a jade pendant hanging from the woman's waist sash—a pendant nearly identical to his own, which he suddenly realized was missing.

"My pendant!" he gasped, looking around frantically. "It was all I had left from my parents!"

The woman touched the pendant at her waist, then reached into her sleeve and produced Zhao Yang's own jade piece. "You mean this? I was... curious about it."

She held it out, and Zhao Yang took it gratefully, clutching it to his chest. "Thank you. It's the only thing I have to remember them by."

Something flickered in the woman's eyes—sympathy, perhaps, or understanding. "Your parents are gone?"

Zhao Yang nodded, tears welling in his eyes despite his best efforts to be brave. "Everyone in my village... a plague came... I'm alone now."

The woman was silent for a long moment, her gaze never leaving his face. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer than before. "What is your name, child?"

"Zhao Yang."

At this, the woman seemed to go very still. "Zhao... Yang," she repeated, as if testing the sound of it on her tongue. "And your father's name?"

"Zhao Tian," he replied, confused by her intensity. "He was a scholar, though not a famous one."

The woman turned away abruptly, but not before Zhao Yang caught a glimpse of what might have been shock in her eyes. "Rest now," she said, her back to him. "We will speak more later."

As she reached the door, Zhao Yang called out, "Wait! Who are you?"

The woman paused, one hand on the doorframe. Without turning, she said, "I am Murong Qingxue, Mistress of Xuanqing Palace." Then, almost to herself, she added, "And I have been waiting for you for a very long time, though I did not know it until this moment."

She departed, leaving Zhao Yang with more questions than answers, and a strange feeling that his arrival at Xuanqing Palace was somehow predestined.

---

Over the next few days, as Zhao Yang recovered his strength, he was confined to the jade pavilion and its immediate surroundings. Young female disciples brought him meals and fresh clothes, but they rarely spoke to him, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

One evening, as the sun set over the distant peaks, painting the clouds in shades of gold and crimson, the palace mistress returned. This time, her veil was thinner, allowing Zhao Yang to better see her face—a face of such extraordinary beauty that it almost hurt to look directly at her, like staring into the sun.

"Come with me," she said without preamble. "There is something you must see."

She led him through gardens of unearthly beauty, past pavilions and halls that seemed to have been carved from jade and moonlight. Female disciples stopped and bowed as they passed, their eyes widening at the sight of the boy walking alongside their mistress.

"Why are they staring?" Zhao Yang whispered.

"Because no male has walked these paths in millennia," Murong Qingxue replied. "Xuanqing Palace has been a sanctuary for female cultivators since its founding—a place where they could pursue the Dao without the distractions and complications of the male world."

"Then why am I here?" Zhao Yang asked, confusion evident in his voice. "Why did you bring me in?"

Murong Qingxue stopped before a massive gate carved with celestial scenes and inscribed with ancient characters. "That," she said, "is what we are here to discover."

She placed her hand on the gate, which swung open soundlessly to reveal a circular courtyard dominated by a massive ancient tree. Its trunk was wider than ten men standing in a circle, its branches reaching up to cradle the very clouds. At its base stood a stone altar, upon which rested a curious object—a bronze mirror of ancient design.

"The Destiny Mirror," Murong Qingxue explained, approaching the altar. "It reveals the potential paths of those who gaze into it, showing whether they are suited to the cultivation methods of Xuanqing Palace."

She turned to face Zhao Yang, her expression serious. "By all our traditions, you should have been sent away with provisions and perhaps a letter of introduction to a male cultivation sect. But when I found you in the forest, your jade pendant responded to mine in a way I have never seen before. It suggests a connection that transcends coincidence."

Zhao Yang clutched his pendant, feeling it warm against his palm. "What kind of connection?"

Instead of answering, Murong Qingxue gestured to the mirror. "Look into it, and we shall see what fate has in store for you."

With trepidation, Zhao Yang approached the altar. As he gazed into the bronze surface, he expected to see his reflection. Instead, the mirror's surface rippled like water, and a series of images flashed across it—too fast for him to comprehend fully, but leaving impressions of battles, cultivation sessions, nine female figures surrounding him, and always, at the edges of these visions, the commanding presence of Murong Qingxue.

The mirror's surface suddenly blazed with golden light so intense that Zhao Yang had to shield his eyes. When the light faded and he looked again, the mirror showed a single, clear image—himself, older, dressed in the robes of a Xuanqing Palace disciple, wielding a sword of pure light against a shadowy adversary.

Murong Qingxue gasped, her composure cracking for the first time. "Impossible," she whispered. "The mirror has never shown such a future for any male before."

She turned to Zhao Yang, her eyes intense. "Do you understand what this means, child? The mirror has accepted you. It sees in you the potential to cultivate the methods of Xuanqing Palace—methods designed specifically for female cultivators."

Zhao Yang, overwhelmed by the implications, could only shake his head. "I don't understand. What does it mean?"

Murong Qingxue's voice was solemn yet held a note of what might have been wonder—or trepidation. "It means, Zhao Yang, that you will be the first male disciple of Xuanqing Palace in its long history. It means that your destiny is intertwined with ours in ways I cannot yet fathom."

She placed a hand on his shoulder, and he felt a curious warmth spread from her touch. "From this day forward, you will address me as Master, and I will teach you the cultivation methods that have been the closely guarded secret of our sect for tens of thousands of years."

As the massive ancient tree rustled above them, shedding leaves that seemed to glow with their own inner light, Zhao Yang felt a profound sense that his life had changed irrevocably. He knelt before Murong Qingxue, instinctively performing the disciple's kowtow.

"I will work hard, Master," he vowed, his young voice firm with determination. "I won't let you regret this decision."

Murong Qingxue looked down at him, and for a brief moment, her aloof demeanor softened. "See that you don't, unruly disciple," she said, using the nickname that would become both a rebuke and a term of affection in the years to come. "For I suspect that the heavens themselves have orchestrated your arrival at our gate."

As they left the courtyard, Zhao Yang cast one last look at the Destiny Mirror. For just an instant, he thought he saw another image—himself and Murong Qingxue, standing close together, their expressions suggesting a relationship far more complex than that of master and disciple. But before he could make sense of it, the image was gone, leaving him to wonder if it had been nothing more than a trick of the light.

---

Back in his wedding chamber, adult Zhao Yang touched his jade pendant, the same one from his childhood. The memories of that day—of being found, accepted, and given a new purpose—felt as fresh as if they had happened yesterday.

"Master," he whispered, the word carrying fifteen years of complicated emotions. "What are you not telling me? What is the truth about us?"

Outside his window, the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold. Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard the faint notes of a flute—a melody he recognized from his early days at Xuanqing Palace.

His nine martial sisters would arrive soon, ready to complete the wedding ceremony that had been interrupted by their master's mysterious visit. But Zhao Yang knew that nothing would be the same again. The brief encounter with Murong Qingxue in her bridal attire had awakened questions that had slumbered within him for years—questions about his origins, his special place in Xuanqing Palace, and most troubling of all, the strange feelings that had always existed between himself and his stern, beautiful master.