Qinling Mountains.
The wind and snow came in haste, dyeing the mountain ranges in ink-wash hues.
There were very few dragon veins Bai Yujun acknowledged. If she recognized one, then it was a true dragon vein—an endorsement from the highest authority, after all. If it was called a dragon vein, the Dragon Character carried the greatest weight.
Bai Yujun climbed a ridge to rest. A distance of thousands of miles vanished in an instant. What was a stone's throw yet a world apart to others was, to Bai, no more than the distance between her fingertips.
Like time itself, it came without trace and went without end; immortal traces were difficult to find.
Goose-feather snow followed her along the way. In truth, finding where the dragon was was simple—just look for wherever the snow fell heaviest.
The snowfall centered on Bai Yujun, growing lighter the farther it spread.
The snow in the mountains was beautiful.
The ancients had gazed upon snowy vistas and left behind countless poems and sighs. They brewed a pot of warm wine, drank with the mountains and snow beyond the window, chanted poetry and composed verses, leaving behind elegance to endure through the ages. Or they wandered homeless and adrift, knowing all too well the cold of snow, lamenting that life was like grass burdened beneath frost.
Bai Yujun could not write poetry; she did not possess that talent. But her skill in painting surpassed all of the primordial wilderness.
Even her rivals and enemies had no choice but to acknowledge it. The immortals took pride in owning paintings by the Dragon Girl.
She chose a boulder whose surface had been worn smooth by wind and rain over the years, like a crouching tiger. Spreading out her paper, she began to paint. As before, the earth