High above the clouds, where mountains pierced the heavens, lay Ci Lang—an empire cloaked in silence, veiled by endless snow and ice. It was the age of the Ching dynasty, a time when the wealthy feasted while the poor withered in hunger.

Zi Chi was the empire’s lone emperor, wrapped in gold and opulence but surrounded by no one. The palace echoed with silence, not voices. Yet the gods had gifted him something more enduring than fortune—art.

Every corridor of the golden halls bloomed with his creations. Portraits and paintings adorned every nook, every hidden corner, a silent testament to a soul who spoke through brushstrokes.

But like all artists, his inner flame began to flicker. The world no longer stirred him. Not the fragile flowers blooming through snow, nor the pearls and silks tossed at his feet could ignite wonder in his heart. Beauty surrounded him—yet none of it could reach him.