The Peak Head did not answer immediately. He first took the cold silk orchid out of the box and then sealed it in in solid ice.
He stood there, the Cold Silk Orchid sealed away in a box of pure ice that radiated an authority far beyond Han Yu's own craftsmanship. The frost in the warehouse had stabilized, no longer expanding, no longer retreating. It was as if the space itself had come to a quiet agreement with the man standing at its center.
Only now did he fully turn toward Han Yu.
For the first time, Han Yu properly saw his face.
It was not imposing at first glance. In fact, if one did not know who he was, one might even mistake him for a frail old scholar who had lived too long among scrolls and cold lamps. His white beard was trimmed short and neat, his skin pale but unblemished, and his eyes were small, almost narrow, giving him an unassuming look when relaxed.
But Han Yu had learned long ago not to trust appearances.
