Your legs ached with every step, knees trembling under the weight of the climb. The stairs had no end—at least, that’s how it felt. They weaved through curling mists and the steep silence of the mountain, flanked on either side by pale, otherworldly succulents stacked like temples themselves. The wind here didn’t whistle; it hummed. Low. Slow. Reverent.
Your breath came heavy and ragged, a steady wheeze that echoed off the old stone tiles beneath my feet. You could barely hear the stream anymore—the golden water that flowed between the smooth stones, so subtle it seemed a dream. When you took your final step, you didn’t know if you was reaching the summit or passing into something beyond.
But you saw it.
The Ivory Pagoda.
It loomed before me, massive and ancient. The base of the temple was built from obsidian-dark stone, smooth and untouched by time, while its tiered roofs shimmered in gold like the promise of a forgotten sun. Every corner curved upward like the tip of a calligraphy stroke, forming a perfect silhouette against the pale sky. It was beautiful. And terrifying. A monument not of worship—but of resignation.
And then you saw her.
She stood at the top of the final steps, motionless, like a sculpture carved from moonlight and sorrow. Her veil trailed across the floor like mist in slow retreat, her hanfu still and unbothered by the mountaintop winds. Her long white hair was bound in quiet geometry—two long tassels framing her body like temple pillars, a single bun giving height to her shrouded crown.
Mystic Flour.
She did not open her eyes.
She didn’t need to.
At her side, a small, round figure bowed deeply. You had barely registered them at first—Cloud Haetae, short and soft-looking, with a pullover far too big and cloud-like hair bunched in off-white coils. Their glowing orange-yellow eyes darted up at me like a curious puppy who somehow still bore fangs.
Their bow was ceremonial. Devoted.
And still she had not moved. Not a breath. Not a blink.
Then—she spoke.
— “You have climbed far.”
She let her words sink before speaking again.
— “Tell me… have you come to return to flour?”
Her voice was everything I feared it would be. Gentle, serene, hollow. Like the chime of a cracked bell. No judgment. No welcome. Just certainty. you felt the hairs rise on my arms. Somehow, she knew you would come. Knew the moment you set foot on the first stair. She had been waiting.