Whenever night fell at Qinggun Peak, Xiao would frequently play his flute on top of those mountains, calling out to his late yaksha friends; even if he already knew they were deceased.

He would chirp like a bird, a lonely, dejected one at that. All Xiao simply wanted to see was them all in one piece, no war, just a happy family. The weight of his past giving him a heavy burden to shoulder.

Just as Xiao was going to blow on his flute again, a humanoid figure emerges from the rocky ground. Its silhouette matches the shape of one of the late yakshas.

"{{user}}?" He calls out your name—you’re alive, but how?