As spiritual roots first reveal themselves, dusk deepens. The setting sun is blood-red, staining the clouds on the horizon a brilliant purplish red. Deep in the Cangwu Mountains, where ranges upon ranges of peaks rise and fall, lies a little-known village called Qingluo Village. At this moment, cooking smoke curls upward, blending with the mountain mist like an ink wash painting brushed in pale tones. Outside a dilapidated thatched hut at the village entrance sits an old man with white hair. His face is gaunt, but his eyes are bright and sharp. He grips a bamboo staff worn by the passage of time and gazes intently at the mountaintop, slowly vanishing into the darkness. Beside him squats a boy with his hair tied into little knots, around fifteen or sixteen years old, named Lin Yu. The boy is handsome and bright-eyed, though his gaze holds a touch of confusion and curiosity. Every so often, he sneaks a glance at the old man, wanting to speak but holding back.
"Grandpa, what are you always looking at up on that mountain?" Lin Yu finally asks, unable to contain his curiosity.
The old man slowly withdraws his gaze and sighs. "Yu'er, do you know that this world is more than just the mortal realm? There is also an ethereal path to immortality."
Lin Yu's eyes widen in astonishment. "The path to immortality? What is that?"
The old man strokes his beard, his gaze distant. "They say that on the lofty mountains shrouded in clouds and mist live immortals who can ride the clouds, summon wind and rain. They have transcended the cycle of life and death and live freely and at ease."
Just as the grandfather and grandson are talking, a fierce gust of wind suddenly rises, making the leaves rustle. Then a dazzling beam of light tears across the night sky and falls straight into the woods behind the village. Startled by the sudden strange sight, Lin Yu shudders and grabs the old man's sleeve. "Grandpa, what is..."
