The Monastery of Celestial Reflection sat like a carved ivory crown atop Mount Jiang, piercing the perpetual, gentle mists that shrouded the capital sprawling far below. Its architecture was a cultivator's dream: sweeping roofs of blue-glazed tile curved like resting phoenix wings, pillars of white jade-veined marble, and open-air pavilions where students could meditate on the clouds that drifted past their knees. The air hummed with a quiet, potent energy—the collective breath of a hundred young souls learning to harness the Wheels of Destiny.
In one such pavilion, the hum was less quiet.
"Gen! For the last time, sit down and focus your Qi!"
Madame Su's voice, usually as smooth and calming as a mountain stream, held a sharp edge of worn stone. She was a woman who moved with a fluid, ageless grace, her simple grey robes unable to hide the latent power in her frame. Her dark hair was swept into a severe bun, highlighting eyes that missed nothing.
The source of her ire, Gen Jiang, was currently not in his seat. He was perched on the broad railing of the pavilion, one leg dangling over a thousand-foot drop into the mist. He wasn't looking at the abyss, though. He was grinning at a cluster of students across the room, his sunny, fearless face alight with challenge.
"I'm focusing, Madame! I'm focusing on how Young Master Li's Jingdao form is about as reinforced as wet parchment. I could puff and he'd topple!"
A ripple of nervous laughter and annoyed mutters went through the class of fifteen-year-olds. Young Master Li, a boy with carefully combed hair, flushed a deep red.
"You wouldn't dare! My family's–"
"Your family's what? Going to reinforce your pride for you?" Gen hopped down, landing without a sound—a subtle, effortless display of his own mastery over the First Wheel. His movements were relaxed, almost lazy, but there was a coiled-spring energy in him, a restless light behind his amber eyes. "Come on, Li. A friendly spar. Right here. We'll use Shidao only. Let's see who can manipulate the courtyard fountain into a better dragon shape."
"That is enough, Gen Jiang!" Madame Su snapped. The air in the pavilion thickened, pressing down on everyone's shoulders. It was a gentle application of Shidao—Manipulation—not to attack, but to impose order. "This is a place of learning, not your personal arena. The Wheels are not toys for your amusement."
"But they're the most fun toys we have," Gen said, his smile not fading, though he did finally saunter back towards his cushion. "Why learn the rules of the world if not to play with them?"
Before Madame Su could formulate a response that wasn't a shout, the very quality of the light in the pavilion changed.
The diffuse glow from the cloudy sky didn't brighten, but somehow deepened, becoming more substantial. The gentle hum of ambient energy stilled, then resonated with a new, profound frequency. There was no grand entrance, no blast of wind. One moment he wasn't there, and the next, he was, standing in the center of the pavilion as if he had always been.
Immortal Jiang, Gen's father.
He wore robes of simple, undyed hemp, yet they seemed to hold the sheen of moonlight on deep water. His hair, black streaked with solemn silver, was tied back loosely. His face was austere, carved from the same mountain stone as the monastery, but his eyes… his eyes were like twin voids, not empty, but containing a pressure so vast it felt quiet. He was not a large man, but his presence filled the space, making the grand pavilion feel suddenly small.
All students, including Gen, immediately dropped into deep, respectful bows, foreheads to the polished wood floor. Even Madame Su inclined her head deeply.
"Rise," his voice was a calm, clear tone. It didn't command volume; it commanded reality.
As they rose, Immortal Jiang raised his right hand. Above his palm, light began to weave itself from the very air.
First, a ring of molten gold formed, spinning slowly. It pulsed with a physical, heart-thrumming promise of strength—Jingdao, the Wheel of Reinforcement.
A second ring, silver and mercurial, appeared around it, its spin counter to the first. The air around it shimmered and bent—Shidao, the Wheel of Manipulation.
Then, a third. This one was a band of pure, creative white. From its light, tiny, intricate constructs bloomed and dissolved: a fleeting bird, a perfect geometric shape, a sword—Zhidao, the Wheel of Creation.
A fourth ring, deep violet, spun into being. Where it intersected with the others, the energies didn't clash but combined, creating brief, brilliant sparks of new, unstable colors—Heidao, the Wheel of Combination.
A fifth, a grim band of iron-grey. It seemed to cut the light around it, creating zones of void and clarity—Fendao, the Wheel of Separation.
Finally, a sixth ring manifested. It was not a color, but the absence of color, a perfect, serene black. Yet, it did not consume the other Wheels. Instead, it cradled them. The gold, silver, white, violet, and grey rings slowed, then stabilized, their chaotic spins locking into a complex, harmonious, and terrifyingly still orrery above his palm. This was Xuedao, the Wheel of Mastery. The wheel that made him the Immortal.
He said nothing. He simply let the six Wheels of Destiny orbit in silent, impossible harmony. The lesson was not in words, but in being. This was the pinnacle. This was the quiet at the center of all power.
As quickly as they appeared, the Wheels dissolved into motes of light that faded back into the world. The profound pressure lifted a fraction.
Immortal Jiang's gaze swept the room, lingering on no one, yet missing nothing. His eyes passed over Gen, who was staring with fierce, hungry fascination. With a slight nod to Madame Su, the Immortal turned and walked from the pavilion. He didn't vanish; he just descended the steps, his form swallowed by the mountain mists as simply as he had come.
The silence held for three full breaths after he was gone.
Then, Madame Su let out a long, controlled exhale. She turned, and her full focus landed on Gen like a collapsing roof.
"You." The word was a dagger of ice. "You see that—the living testament to discipline, understanding, and serene power—and you still have the audacity to treat these sacred arts as a… a street performance? To challenge your peers to petty feats of ego?"
Gen's confident smirk had returned, but it was tighter now. "I was just—"
"I know what you were doing," she cut him off. "You seek to prove your worth by diminishing others. Your father's worth is proven by his mastery of all. There is a universe of difference. For your disruption, you will not join the evening meditation. You will cleanse the Hall of Whispering Pines. Every board. Every window. With a cloth and a bucket. No Wheels."
Gen's jaw tightened. A punishment fit for a servant, not a cultivator. Not the son of the Immortal. A few snickers came from Li's direction. Gen's amber eyes flashed, but he swallowed the retort. He gave a stiff, shallow bow. "Yes, Madame Su."
---
The Hall of Whispering Pines was vast and empty, its darkness broken only by the cool, blue moonlight streaming through tall, latticed windows. The scent of old wood, lemon balm polish, and damp stone filled the air. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic swish of Gen's cloth on the floor and the distant, mournful cry of a night-flying spirit hawk.
The restless energy that fueled him by day had burnt down to a sullen ember. He scrubbed with mechanical intensity, his mind replaying the orbiting Wheels over his father's palm. The beauty of it. The finality of it. That was the goal. The only goal.
He finished the last section of floor near the great western window and tossed the cloth into the bucket with a splash. He stood, stretching the kinks from his back, and walked to the window, leaning on the sill.
Night had fully claimed the Jiang Capital. Below, the city was a breathtaking carpet of shimmering lanterns—warm gold, cool blue, and the soft white glow of Milky Stones used in street lamps. It looked peaceful. Perfect. A world his father's quiet power kept in gentle, unbreakable order.
But Gen's gaze was drawn upward, past the city lights, past the highest watchtowers of the mountain, into the vast, velvet expanse of the night sky. Stars like scattered diamond dust. And there, dominating the heavens, was the Blue Moon. It was immense, cerulean, and marbled with silver veins, casting a soft, spectral light that made the world seem like a dream.
Legends said the Immortals of old could walk among the stars. That they could ascend past the confines of the Milky Way, stand upon the very surface of the Blue Moon, and touch the fabric of destiny itself. His father could probably do it. He just… chose not to.
A fierce, burning ambition coiled in Gen's chest, hotter and purer than his daytime arrogance.
"One day," he whispered to the moon, his breath fogging the cold glass. "I won't just master the Wheels. I'll go further. I'll climb so high that all of this," he glanced down at the peaceful, sleeping capital, "will look like a map. I'll stand where only the legends have stood. I'll see it all."
The Blue Moon stared back, silent and eternal, a promise hanging in the cold, quiet sky. It was a young man's promise, born of boundless confidence and a soul that could not yet conceive of a ceiling, let alone the crushing weight of one falling from the heavens.
What Gen didn't see: in the highest tower of the monastery, his father stood at a window too. Immortal Jiang watched his son's silhouette against the Blue Moon, his expression carved from the same stone as the mountain. In his palm, unbidden, the six Wheels materialized—then flickered. One of them. The sixth. Xuedao, the Wheel of Mastery. It dimmed for half a heartbeat before stabilizing. Immortal Jiang's eyes narrowed. Above him, the Blue Moon said nothing. But the silence itself had changed.