The plaza of Qingyun Peak was paved with dark green stone slabs, each polished by time to a cold sheen, with dew clinging to the edges, sending a bone-chilling breeze when the wind blew.

The clouds hung low, like a heavy gray cloth draped overhead, even the welcoming pine at the peak drooped, its needles hanging down unwilling to lift.

The plaza was crowded with over a hundred servant disciples, all huddled with shoulders hunched, their toes instinctively inching backward.

Some clutched their clothes, knuckles white; others hung their heads, staring at their worn shoe tips, not daring to breathe deeply.