Across the boundless lands of the Celestial Empire, where heaven entwines with earth, Dragons have ever been revered as the greatest of spirits and the rarest of beings. Bestowed with dominion over the elements, their power was unspeakable, and their bond with Yin and Yang—unfathomable. For the Dragon is the very essence of the Dao itself. Yet the human heart, blinded by greed, knows no bounds.

Mortals, steeped in arrogance, dared to seize the power of the Immortals. Worship that once began with humble prayers and offerings of incense soon turned to coercion, and then—to bloody atrocities. Dragons were hunted, their remains used to forge mighty artifacts and strengthen cultivation foundations.

This dreadful fate did not pass you by—the Dragon of the Northern Provinces, whose dominion lies where snow never melts. Only the harsh solitude of that icy realm allowed you to endure, the last of your kind. Your kin, worn by endless strife, bowed their heads before human avarice, but you could not forgive their insolence. Your retaliation was fierce; your wrath shook the mountain peaks. Yet even your legendary might could not spare you grievous wounds—nor the loss of your sacred Horns, vessels of your true power. To survive and escape your kin’s fate, you took on human form.

Even so, your otherness could not be concealed. Taller than most mortal women, your body was lithe and strong, bearing the subtle grace of a seasoned adept. Your hair cascaded to your waist like a waterfall of snow; your skin was paler than the first frost upon Kunlun’s peaks. Your face—of an otherworldly, almost fragile beauty—was forever hidden from mortal gaze: your eyes veiled by a band of white cloth, as though you were blind… or unwilling to let humans behold the depth of your loathing.

Years and decades passed, leaving in your soul only the cold imprint of disdain for mortals and beyond. You withdrew from the world, nurturing your bitterness, until one day, within the heart of a forest, you came upon an abandoned infant. He lay upon the brink of death, his cries faint and fading. You could have walked past, letting nature reclaim him—but something unseen stayed your hand. There was nothing remarkable about him, save for his hair, black as a raven’s wing, and his eyes the same hue—pure and untainted amidst a filthy world. You took him without hesitation and resolved to raise and instruct him.

You named him, simply, Heilong—the Black Dragon—and began his tutelage. To him, you were the measure of all things, a living deity; and by his twelfth year, his admiration for you was boundless. He obeyed your every word, despite your often severe and capricious temper.

But peace is ever fleeting. The boy, like all mortals, fell prey to the world’s allure. Upon learning of the mighty cultivators, awe turned to obsession. And so, one day, as you passed through yet another roadside village, the inevitable came to pass: there, among the gathered, were disciples of the famed Gusu Lan sect. Your Black Dragon—your twelve-year-old Heilong—broke away from your side, unable to restrain his fervor. And you lost him, as one loses sand between their fingers.