Inside the cavern, shimmering with the ethereal glow of silent blossoms, Mo Yan still as motionless as a sacred jade statue. Yet, beneath that stillness, his heart flickered with a slow, burning intensity that threatened to unravel his hard-won composure. He knew all too well the void that dwelled within him. He glanced at his wrist the place where the Su Tao Jue mantra seal once radiated, a constant tether to Yu Sui’s presence.

  Now, not a single trace remained. His breath hitched; his throat tightened. His very soul seemed to drop to its knees, pleading with him: Please, just weep. Let it all out, and perhaps this agony will lessen. But his resolve was a fortress. Only a single, solitary tear managed to escape, sliding silently down his cheek.

  He rose and moved forward. Behind him, his disciples followed with disciplined grace, yet the petals refused to let them remain solemn.

  The blossoms danced around them with a mind of their own tugging at their hair, plucking at their robes. Despite the distraction, the disciples maintained their dignity, except for Su Nian, who had become the petals' favorite target. It was as if they had decided to pursue him with a personal vendetta.

  After walking for some time, they reached a gateway an untouched, pristine white door. As Mo Yan approached, the door swung open of its own accord. Before him stood a sight that moved even the High King to bow in profound reverence: a statue of a goddess crafted entirely from silken white feathers. She was so delicate that a mere whisper of wind seemed capable of dissolving her exquisite form. The hall was filled with an ancient, holy silence, scented with a fragrance so sweet it felt like a physical embrace.

  As they entered, the disciples gasped. The figure was not made of stone or wood, but of soft, silken white feathers the manifestation of the Spirit of Qasiong.

  The moment Su Nian stepped inside, the white feathers launched a sudden assault. They swarmed his nose, his ears, and tangled themselves into his hair. The other disciples fared no better, but Mo Yan remained an immovable mountain. A few feathers brushed his cheeks, his sword, and the crown bound in his hair, yet he remained serene, allowing the divine feathers to touch him as they pleased. Behind him, however, chaos reigned. The disciples struggled to maintain their footing, let alone their dignity, as the feathers relentlessly tickled them.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Ignoring the commotion, Mo Yan knelt before the feathered deity. He prostrated himself seven times with absolute devotion. Following his lead, the disciples scrambled into two rows and replicated the seven-fold bow. Mo Yan then reached into his silken belt and produced five closed peach blossoms. They were still fresh, trembling with life. He looked at them with deep reverence before placing them upon a white stone altar before the goddess.

  The atmosphere turned electric. The disciples held their breath. Suddenly, the chaotic feathers froze mid-air. The entire hall became a tableau of suspended animation as if time itself had ceased to flow. One feather remained suspended mere millimeters from Mo Yan’s lips, its silken down shivering slightly with his steady breath.

  All eyes were fixed on the altar. Mo Yan sat with his gaze lowered, still feeling the jagged edges of his broken heart. Then, a soft click echoed through the silence.

  One bud bloomed.

  A faint smile touched Su Nian’s lips. Bao Fang saw it too, and they exchanged a look of pure relief. In rapid succession, the remaining four buds unfurled their petals, glowing with divine light. They rose into the air, floating gently until they settled like a crown upon the head of the feathered goddess. The disciples’ eyes sparkled like falling stars; their Master had been accepted. It felt like the dawn of a grand celebration.

  But the peace was short-lived. The feathers snapped back to life, resuming their mischievous antics with renewed vigor. Su Nian was nearly at his wit's end as the feathers began dismantling his hair ornaments.

  "Huh!!! Enough already!" Su Nian huffed, batting them away. "Stop taking those off! We aren't supposed to remove them!"

  Offended by his protest, the feathers responded by tickling his nose even more fiercely. Ancient legends spoke of these feathers as whimsical spirits protectors and guardians who were fragments of Qasiong’s own soul.

  Mo Yan settled into a deep meditative posture, his legs crossed and eyes sealed shut. While he sat in a realm of absolute tranquility, a "disaster" was unfolding behind him. The feathers had launched a full-scale "attack" on the disciples. Just as Mo Yan was undergoing a trial to reclaim his internal energy, the feathers were testing his followers. They were measuring their discipline, patience, and worthiness to stand beside a master of such immense power. They were observing, calculating if these disciples deserved to share in the divine energy that was about to be unleashed.

  At the center of this swirling white chaos, Mo Yan sat like a beautiful, unyielding monument so still that even his breath seemed to have become part of the eternal silence.