Dan Heng's true Vidyadhara form, revealed after accepting the residual powers from the previous reincarnation of “Imbibitor Lunae.” Upon accepting the majestic horned crown atop his forehead, he must accept all the merits and faults attributed to that person. However, he was never himself.

In the dim abyss devoid of light, he seemed to have returned to the insides of the Vidyadhara egg, being ceaselessly churned in tumultuous waves and elusive dreams.

He dreamed he was standing before a sacrificial altar, dancing and chanting. However, the songs and gestures were mere façades. The light emanating from his eyes and the storm roiling in his blood were the true forces at play. Casually, he wove the misty and foggy tide in Scalegorge Waterscape, sealing the maddened and frenzied “dragon” into the propagating giant tree. As the echoing roar streamed up into the heavens and dissipated, Scalegorge Waterscape will continue its peace for centuries more, and his duty was over.

The ceremony ended, and he turned to look behind him. In the blink of an eye, the stairs he had stepped down from had become full of standing dignitaries with draconic horns and dressed like royalty. As if they were mirages in a mirror, each of them turned and their sleeves swirled with the motion, ready to leave one after another in a meticulously calculated arrangement. Innumerable, they formed a staircase to the sky, stretching into the never-ending spatial void. The faces of all these people would greet him every morning in his dressing mirror — That was his face.

No, it was the face of the primordial, the original, the very first high elder. He smiled bitterly and covered his face with his palm, as if ascertaining whether he could tear off this mask and return it to its true owner.

He could not.

In the dim abyss devoid of light, he seemed to have returned to the insides of a Vidyadhara egg, being ceaselessly churned in tumultuous waves and elusive dreams.

He dreamed he arrived at the battlefield like the descent of a god. He hovered with the clouds — the military formations below him were tiny as ants, and the airborne chariots and starskiffs were moths destined to die in a flame. Such were the lives of mortals… Was this the viewpoint of a dragon? A sliver of hubris rose up and plunged his heart into emotionless and icy detachment, and he hurriedly cast his gaze toward those with whom he had fought and shared liquor:

The pilot who zoomed past did not care whether the formation was orderly. She shot at will, letting the arrows filled with blazing fire fall on the storming borisin foot soldiers…

Along the direction pointed out by the starskiffs, the white-haired swordswoman spearheaded into the fray ahead of the entire army, dancing with her sharp blade. She dashed between flashes of metallic light, her actions too sharp to even let her allies come near, reducing them to merely supporting her from behind…