The barrier closed behind Zhiyan like a curtain of water being drawn shut, separating the two worlds completely.
The golden ripples faded one ring at a time, the glowing patterns gradually dimming behind him.
Ahead of Zhiyan lay another space.
Its colors were entirely different from what he had expected.
It was pure white.
White surged toward him from every direction-from beneath his feet, above his head, and to his left and right-enveloping him in a boundless space so pure it was almost sacred.
He stood on a thin, translucent film of light that resembled the surface of water. Tiny ripples spread wherever he stepped, as though he were walking on water without sinking.
Something slowly, continuously shifted-cloudlike patterns, as though someone had traced the outlines of countless clouds across the sky, stroke by stroke, with the finest brush.
Those cloudlike patterns flickered constantly, brightening and then dimming, each alternation like a long, ancient cycle of breathing.
Zhiyan looked away from the cloud patterns and toward the center of the space.
Someone stood there.
Their clothes were dark, as striking and distinct against the white background as a drop of ink in a glass of clear water.
The robe's high collar concealed their neck, its wide sleeves concealed their arms, and its long hem trailed over the film of light beneath their feet, making a faint rustling sound whenever they moved.
Their hair was long and black, cascading from their head to their waist like a black waterfall.
Their skin was pale, almost translucent.
Their eyes watched Zhiyan.
Those eyes were very dark, without a ripple of emotion in them.
They stood with their arms folded across their chest, their posture casual and natural.
Zhiyan's gaze met theirs in the white air.
Then he spoke.
"Lord Tengen?"
Without moving their