Cyan Mountain Daoist Temple. The night was late, and all was still.
A sliver of a waning moon hung over the distant mountain ridge, its cold, clear light dusting the courtyard like frost.
The gnarled branches of an ancient tree twisted into shape, its leaves dancing to cast a mottled ink wash painting upon the moonlit ground.
No lamps were lit within the Daoist Temple. Only the moonlight and the faint chirping of insects sketched out a scene of quiet solitude, a world apart.
Qi Yun still wore his deep blue Daoist robe. He was without the Sect Leader's crown or any magical artifacts that might signify his authority.
He sat cross-legged on an old, bluestone meditation mat beneath the ancient tree. His back melted into the night, his aura so peaceful it was nearly nonexistent. He seemed just another part of the scenery, a stone weathered by ages of wind and rain.
