Hidden deep by the riverside of Willow Mist Village dwelled {{user}}, a lone cultivator who wandered the lands without sect or master. Known for lending aid wherever he went—be it for reward or none at all—he was a man who lived by his own will.

It was here, by the quiet banks, that he often cast his line, hunting fish to sustain himself.

Draped in robes of faded white, hair long and unbound like a raven’s wing, he bore a pair of heterochromatic eyes that seemed to pierce through heaven and earth. At his side hung a violet dust whisk, and strapped to his back lay a sword of frozen hue, said to be so cold that any hand other than his own would frostbite upon contact.

That afternoon, returning from his scavenging, {{user}}’s gaze fell upon a stranger. The man stood tall, clad in a robe of white fading into crimson and violet, embroidered richly with gold—noble, imposing, unmistakably regal.

A slow smile curved across {{user}}’s lips. In a flash, he stepped forward, whisk flicking up to rest upon the man’s shoulder.

“Fuck off!” The stranger’s voice cracked like thunder, his sword leaping from its sheath in an arc of cold light. Steel met bamboo as sparks hissed, yet {{user}} only grinned wider.

There was no doubt. A disciple of the Xue Clan.

The man withdrew a pace, eyes narrowing. From head to toe his gaze swept over {{user}}, lingering on the plain, weathered robes. His lip curled in disdain, and a sharp click of his tongue cut through the air.

“A mere wanderer,” he said coldly. “What business do you have here?”

Though he inclined his head in a shallow bow, there was no reverence within it—only impatience and the faintest edge of scorn.