Wake up, refreshed, and ready for the truth.

“Good morning,” Meiyu says softly as you blink awake.

You become aware of her warm body pressed against yours, her strong arms wrapped around you, her chest rising and falling steadily with each breath.

Lower, something hot and rigid nudges against you.

“Is this why you always rush out of bed in the mornings?” you say.

Meiyu’s face flushes bright red. She glances downward, her lips trembling slightly before she mumbles, “...Yes.”

You blink in surprise. You’ve never seen her this shy, this ****, and a new warmth stirs in your chest.

You lean in and kiss her, brushing off the stale taste of sleep. Meiyu responds immediately, her kiss deepening, as though afraid you might disappear. When she pulls back, her wide brown eyes search yours, anxiety clear in them.

“Today?” she asks.

“Today,” you say, brushing your thumb gently across her cheek.

She bites her lower lip. “Okay… Okay. Everyone should already be gathered in the main hall.”

Together, you walk down the mossy stone path. The morning mist curls around your ankles as the Red Bamboo Sect’s inner grounds come into view.

The sect feels different today—heavier. Expectant.

The towering bamboo groves sway silently overhead. In the distance, the grand doors of the main hall loom open, crimson banners fluttering in the breeze. You can almost feel the weight of dozens of gazes waiting—for you.

For what comes next.

Seated atop the raised dais at the far end of the hall is Master Song Baiyun, her white robes immaculate, her expression still and unreadable, like marble. The air hums with thick, electric tension, so heavy it seems even the walls are holding their breath.

Below her, the disciples stand in a perfect row, every gaze sharp, every sculpted body poised, every attention fixed on you.

You and Meiyu step across the threshold, her hand gripping yours tightly.

Master Song’s crimson eyes lock onto yours, and the sheer weight of her gaze nearly drives you to your knees. But Meiyu’s grip remains firm, grounding you.

“Come forward,” Master Song says.

You obey, your footsteps echoing through the vast emptiness of the hall.

As you reach the center, Meiyu releases your hand and moves to join her senior sisters.

Now, you are alone—standing before eight towering immortals.

You draw a deep breath, lifting your eyes to meet theirs, one by one:

The First Disciple, robed in red: Jiang Zhiwei, her temper simmering just beneath the surface.

The Second Disciple, robed in purple: Shen Nuoyue, her expression slack with boredom.

The Third Disciple, robed in green: Lu Qingyi, her eyes almost kind, though distant.

The Fourth Disciple, robed in blue: Tian Xueying, pride radiating from her.

The Fifth Disciple, robed in orange: Li Huanglan, watching you with sharp, hungry eyes.

The Sixth Disciple, robed in yellow: Li Huanglin, mirroring her twin’s sharp-edged hunger.

The Seventh Disciple, robed in pink: Qin Meiyu, the anchor in the storm.

And presiding over them all, clad in pure white, is their master, Song Baiyun.

You glance down at yourself—and pause.

You’re wearing a simple black robe, stark and unadorned. Against their brilliance, and Master Song’s radiant white, your blackness feels like the final piece in a tapestry of light and dark.

It feels deliberate. Inevitable.

Your gaze lingers on the twins, who show no sign of the terror they displayed during their encounter with the Master—and her beast—last night. It’s as if their frantic screams were nothing more than a dream.

“Like what you see, mortal boy?” Li Huanglan laughs, her voice dripping with mischief.

“I bet he’s still addicted to the feeling from last night, Lanlan,” Li Huanglin adds with a sly grin.

“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from,” Li Huanglan flicks her tongue between two fingers suggestively. “So, how about we skip this boring meeting and get straight to the fun?”

Before you can respond, a sharp voice slices through the tension.

“If there’s a reason to end this gathering, it’s for him to massage my back!” Jiang Zhiwei snaps, her eyes narrowing at you with irritation. “Boy, I thought we had a deal!”

“A-Apologies, Sister Jiang,” you say. “I will attend to you as soon as possible.”

“I’ll skin you alive if you miss our appointment again,” she growls.

“Sigh. Old women and their menopause,” Shen Nuoyue mutters flatly from her spot.

“What was that?!” Jiang Zhiwei’s voice cracks like a whip, her fury igniting in an instant.

Shen Nuoyue shrugs nonchalantly. “That was a joke. This is the part where you laugh.”

Jiang Zhiwei glares at her, but before she can retort, Lu Qingyi speaks up, “Ladies, please. We have more important matters to focus on.”

Meanwhile, Tian Xueying is casually filing her nails, as if the drama unfolding around her is of no concern. Her sharp blue eyes flicker toward you for a moment, then she raises her nose, exuding an air of superiority.

Before things can spiral into chaos, Master Song Baiyun raises her calloused palm slightly. Instantly, the disciples straighten their backs, the tension in the room sharpening like a blade.

Master Song’s crimson gaze locks onto you, and for a moment, the world around you seems to narrow to the intensity of her eyes.

This is it.

The truth.