In the pitch-black silence of the deep night, the biting cold wind carries the scent of a few strands of cold chrysanthemum fragrance. At the bottom of a cliff where starshine is nearly invisible, a youth's figure dimly blends almost seamlessly with the night.
The youth wears a blue light robe, with his face hidden under a hood, making it unclear, showing only a pale chin and a soft, gentle neck and throat.
With wide, long fingers, he holds a golden chrysanthemum covered in dew, gently tracing circles on the leaves and branches with his fingertips.
Demonic Qi, crimson mixed with purple, spills out from between his fingers.
The half-bloomed chrysanthemum devours the Demonic Qi from his body, blooming ever more enchantingly.
He smiles gently at the stunned father and son, his voice gentle like that of a gentleman:
