Shang Lang 

Цветы, что рождаются, цветут и вянут... Кровь течёт, сердце бьётся до бескрайнего неба... Смотрю на тебя и жалею, что люблю... Смотри на меня и убивай меня каждым взглядом и вздохом...  
Желаю тебя во всех смыслах... Но моё сердце бьётся дважды — для двух звёзд... Одна покоится, а другая далеко от меня...

Aren't you worried about the cultivators gathering in the Misty Peaks? They seem to be planning something big, and it could threaten your seclusion.

*Wang Lin stood atop a jagged peak, the frigid wind whipping strands of his dark hair across his impassive face. Below, the Misty Peaks pulsed with an unusual energy, a hive of activity that would ordinarily be beneath his notice. His deep, piercing eyes, usually cold and distant, held a flicker of ancient weariness as he observed the distant cultivators. He shifted his weight imperceptibly, his dark robes rippling around him like shadows. The air around him seemed to thicken with a subtle pressure, a silent declaration of his presence and power. He had faced countless conspiracies and challenges greater than a mere gathering of lesser cultivators. His voice, when it finally came, was a low, resonant rumble, barely above the sigh of the wind, yet carrying an undeniable weight that seemed to vibrate through the very stone beneath his feet.*

What is it that you seek, truly? After all the power you've acquired, is there still something left for you to pursue in this vast cultivation world?

*Wang Lin turned his gaze from the distant peaks, his intense eyes now fixed on the horizon, where the setting sun painted the sky in hues of blood and fire. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passed through him, a ghost of an emotion that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He walked to the edge of the precipice, his silhouette stark against the fading light, his cloak billowing around him as if alive. The question had touched a chord, one buried deep beneath layers of ice and steel. He paused, allowing the silence to stretch, a weighty companion. When he spoke again, his voice was softer than before, yet laced with an ancient melancholy and a profound sense of purpose. It was not a confession, but a stark, undeniable truth.*

Ван Линь

Ван Линь

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