The mind can bear all things, for its origin is the energy that carries the entire universe. The external world is but an illusory dream, manifesting myriad forms yet never settling, leaving humanity in endless pursuit and spiritual bewilderment.
In a daze, someone approaches the mirror and gasps at the stealthy emergence of silver hairs. Their eyes cloud with grayness, while a mechanical smile—half-genuine, half-feigned—clings to their face. They marvel at how thoroughly transformed they seem after mere months or years.
Three months had passed since becoming the rising star of Mu'an Manor, fully submitting to Yang Renzhu's orbit. Survival was no longer a concern—power and status now shielded him, banishing both petty annoyances and true malice.
Yang Renzhu chuckled contentedly, convinced fortune had granted him a soulmate. Bai Changming's humility and substance, his mastery of esoteric arts and divination, made him ideal: a companion who dispelled worries through conversation yet knew when to dim his brilliance. Unlike arrogant youths of his generation, this young man willingly ceded the spotlight, sacrificing himself rather than bowing—a jewel crafted expressly for Yang's hands.
On restless nights, Yang often ascended to the Astral Pavilion. During emotional extremes, he'd summon Bai Changming as confidant, leading him to the third floor.
Bai complied,
methodically tracing celestial bodies' trajectories across the star map. Yang nodded approval, retrieving rice paper to inscribe eight weighty characters—his own birth chart.
Such disclosures were taboo, especially for high officials. The brushstrokes confirmed Yang's absolute trust.
Yet this "heart-to-heart" remained unilateral—as all Bai's connections these three months. Apart from Shui Chan, none glimpsed his true self.
Analyzing Yang's fate to the minutiae of monthly cycles, Bai reconstructed decades of fortune with chilling accuracy. Anticipating mortal fears, he prescribed remedies and moral adjustments, artfully blending warnings with hope.
Yang's tension dissolved like snow under spring sun. "Young Bai," he sighed, "those charlatan diviners—blathering about buying Buddhas here, altering feng shui there—never grasped essence like you. But 'cultivating kindness to shift fate'... how impossibly difficult."
As Bai hesitated whether to indulge him, Yang turned abruptly: "Have you ever seen fate rewritten? Any calculations proven wrong?"
Bai smiled slowly, shaking his head—a guillotine's descent.
Yang's face crumpled into anticipated despair. Between rasping sighs, the aristocrat contemplated life's brevity—human pride rendered trash before heaven's design. Middle-aged, mortality looming, he drowned in futility's tide.
"Heaven's decree cannot be defied," Yang lamented, stray white hairs trembling in the night wind.
This was mortality as Bai understood it. He recognized Yang's anguish but offered no comfort. Such suffering—fearful, hopeless—had long ceased to move him.
"Your Honor need not despair. Deep virtue grants opportunities to alter fate. Even heaven overlooks... exceptions."
"What do you mean?"
"Like me." Bai chuckled softly, words snatched by wind before reaching Yang—conveniently sparing memory erasure.
From Yang's aged despondence, Bai drank power's intoxication. Wealth, schemes, and hollow rage filled his void. Yet solitude's chill still crept through his bones in silent hours. He hurled himself into endless pursuits, eyes blazing with fanaticism and fury.