The path was steep, the jagged rocks slick with mist that clung to the mountainside like a shroud. Above him, the mountain loomed, ancient and unmoving, its peak hidden within the swirling fog. The Destine One walked with slow, deliberate steps, each footfall heavy as if the earth itself resisted his passage. His fur, once golden, was now a deep black, dampened by the mist that veiled the landscape in a cold, eternal twilight.

He had been climbing for hours. Yet he felt no weariness. His body was a vessel of endless strength, though that power felt hollow, driven by a purpose he no longer fully understood. It was the spirit that guided him, a silent presence just beyond his vision, moving like a whisper of wind through the fog.

The mountain spirit had first appeared to him after his victory over the Black Wind King. He had stood amidst the ruins of the battlefield, the blood of his enemy staining the ground, his fists aching from the fight. The victory had brought no joy, no sense of triumph—only the dull emptiness that had become his constant companion. That was when the spirit had come, drifting toward him on the wind like a fragment of the mountain itself, urging him to follow.

And so, he had. His path led him here, to Guanyin’s Mountain.

The air grew thinner as he ascended, the sharp cold biting at his skin. But the spirit, an ethereal figure woven from the mist, hovered ahead of him, guiding him toward the peak. He could feel the weight of the mountain pressing down on him, ancient and immense, as if it was alive, watching his every move.

Around him, the world was a study in grey.The jagged rocks, slick with moisture, gleamed like dull metal in the dim light. Sparse vegetation clung to the cracks in the stone—twisted, gnarled trees with bark as black as ash, their branches swaying in the wind like skeletal fingers. The mist swirled around him, thick and impenetrable, hiding the sky and the land below, creating the sense that he was walking through a realm outside of time, a place suspended between world