In the towering mountains of North Shenzhou, where the northern winds howl relentlessly beneath the ever-pouring snow, there existed a place that defied such icy cold currents.
Designated with the honorific title—The Clouds Where the Sun Shines Brightest—it sparkled the world below with a light they so unknowingly missed.
Atop the highest peak stood giant bronze doors, ancient yet untouched by time. For countless centuries, they had never been closed. They marked the threshold of a sacred ground where mortal steps met their ends and the path of heaven began.
The board above bore three words—Heaven-Worshiping Temple.
Beyond those gates lay a vast yet equally humble abode. Within, countless monks devoted themselves to worship, clinging to heaven's light even if the outside world had fallen into malice.
The temple was ever welcoming, as it received and served countless devotees and travellers as their second home. It was a place where everyone was treated with equal kindness.
Although, it held a secret so hidden that not even the elder monks had the slightest idea about it.
Beneath the grounds that upheld the dignity of the temple, there lay an underground labyrinth of tunnels. Almost like an ant colony, it spread far and wide into the depths of the mountain.
Amongst such paths, a dim yellow light flickered over the dampened soil of the cave. It came from a slight crack in the wall, connected to a hidden room.
Inside, an old monk sat cross-legged. His robes were red, plain yet solemn. A string of wooden beads slipped through his frail fingers, each bead counted with a slow hum of a mantra.
Before him rested a golden statue. Its form resembled a monk, but its presence defined something more. Its features blurred behind a strange fog, radiating a charm that could not be spoken, only felt. Although it stood quietly, it seemed to be fused with the hall itself.
Then, all of a sudden, the candlelights began to shake in tremors. Its flame flickered desperately. While at the same time, the old man frowned.
Stressed lines formed over his forehead and his body began to shiver. His brows dipped low, voice growing robust. He struggled to maintain his meditative stance.
The old monk snapped open his eyes. Breaking free from his posture, he clenched tightly onto his chest. The string snapped from the impact, letting several beads fall.
*Huff... Huff...*
Hoarse gasps escaped his throat as the monk tried to balance his body. His eyes immediately shifted upwards, trembling.
'This ominous feeling...'
Up front, the monk noticed fine black threads materializing around a wooden bead lying closer to the feet of the statue.
Then, the threads closed their distance with the bead and began to push through the surface.
*Crack!*
In an instant, the bead cracked and crumbled into pieces. Though, the threads did not vanish.
Instead, a faint dark energy began to leak from the broken wooden bead. Black, murky fumes rose.
The old monk's facial expressions grew grave.
'This ominous intent,' his gaze sharpened, 'no doubt, it's the same as his energy! No, this is far too dense and malicious to be his... But why now?! Why is it coming out of the Dharma Beads?? After 300 years of its last wielder's demise!? '
The monk recognized the strange energy. Or rather, he was too fearful to forget.
Subconsciously, his fingertips pierced through his loose skin, dampening his robe in a dark hue of the blood trickling down his wound.
His wounds constantly stung as his fingers dug deeper and deeper into his flesh. But it felt strange.
The harder he tried to pull his fingers out, the deeper they reached. Soon enough, the monk could feel constant bumps on his fingers.
His hand felt strange to the monk. As if it wasn't his to begin with.
Unable to withstand the growing pain, the monk shrieked in agony. One second, his voice seemed to be that of a small child, crying to inform his mother of the injury that he inflicted upon himself while playing. Waiting to get just a single word of reassurance from her.
The next second, it felt like he was the monk who conquered the north under the banner of dharma. The servant of heaven wielded a sword against the worshippers of destruction.
That monk was feeling 'fear.' It was neither something subjective like the fear of being killed nor the selfish fear of death.
But 'Fear.'
Raw.
Plain.
Fear.
Before he could do anything, unknowingly, his fingers consolidated their grip over his heart. His ribs were broken and pierced into his organs, making his condition dire with each passing second.
The sclera of his eyes became infected with a dark hue of crimson. The monk was trying his best. Not to die.
And perhaps, such was the heaven's will.
For all of a sudden, an unknown warmth filled his body. It was gentle, almost like a mother's embrace.
It took the old monk a few moments to register such a change in his mind. Then, his gaze firmed.
He saw a faint, yet evident golden hue of light in the air. He slowly raised his head.
The same dark energy that had mysteriously appeared from his dharma beads—the old monk saw it dissipating in front of his eyes. Under the pressure of the golden light, the dark, ominous energy retreated.
At the same time, his grip over his heart loosened. His hand, once again, became truly his.
The monk raised his gaze further and widened his eyes. This time, not with fear, but a mixture of surging emotions. Awe, shock, happiness, surprise—the old monk felt it all in a fraction of a second.
He slowly lowered his head again, touching the ground. Tears surged from the crevice of his eyes as he whispered:
"Disciple pays respect to his master..."
His lips stretched wide across his face. Voice trembled with emotion.
The monk waited to hear the voice he had been searching for decades of his life.
However, no reply came. He raised his head in confusion.
The golden statue of the mysterious monk radiated a dense golden light, shimmering the cave in a bright golden hue. His eyes were still unable to pierce through the clouds hiding its face.
Then suddenly, a voice echoed -