Dragon lairs, as a rule, did not resemble the treasure-stuffed caverns of human mythology. Any dragon with a modicum of sense stored their valuables in pocket dimensions, alternate realms, or conceptual spaces that existed between the folds of reality.

  This was as much for security as it was for aesthetics—a truly respectable hoard would collapse most mountains under its weight.

  Xiaolong's lair was particularly elegant in this regard. Her physical sanctuary occupied the crown of an unnamed peak in the immortal realms—a mountain so sheer and imposing that lesser immortals gave it a wide berth.

  The actual cavern was vast but spartan, containing only a perfectly spherical meditation pool filled with liquid starlight and a series of ascending stone platforms where she could coil her enormous form in various contemplative positions.

  It was from the highest of these platforms that she now gazed out across the cosmos, her massive body draped over the ancient stone in a posture that, had any other being been present to observe it, might have been described as troubled.

  Dragons did not experience uncertainty.

  It was a fundamental truth so deeply ingrained in draconic culture that it was never actually stated—like telling water it should be wet or fire that burning was expected.

  Dragons decided, and reality accommodated those decisions. That was the proper order of things.

  Yet here she was, Longying Huaxia, prismatic dragon of the highest order, replaying her encounter with a human cultivator for the forty-seventh time since returning to her lair.

  "Ridiculous," she muttered to herself, causing several distant stars to flicker in response to her true voice. "A momentary diversion, nothing more."

  But if it was merely a diversion, why had she withdrawn rather than pressing her advantage? Why had she cushioned his fall rather than simply departing? Why was she now contemplating his sleeping face with the same intensity she might study a newly discovered celestial phenomenon?

  The meditation pool rippled, reflecting her unsettled thoughts. Within its starlit depths, an image formed—Li Feng executing his "Flowing Stream Palm" technique, water swirling around him in that peculiar pattern that seemed to both control and release simultaneously.

  What an odd philosophy, to seek strength through yielding. Dragons understood power as accumulation, as gathering and holding. The more one possessed—whether energy, knowledge, territory, or years—the greater one's worth. It was self-evident.

  Yet this ephemeral being with his mayfly lifespan had achieved a harmony that she, with five thousand years of existence, had never considered valuable. It was...

  "Irritating," she decided, causing a minor earthquake on a distant material plane. Several of her scales shifted from opalescent blue to a faint crimson, betraying an emotion she refused to name.

  With a thought, she summoned a viewing portal, allowing her to observe the Fourth Sacred Waterfall. Li Feng still slumbered on the stone dais, though his breathing had become more regular. He would wake soon, likely confused about the conclusion of their encounter.

  Xiaolong closed the portal with an impatient flick of her claw. This fixation was becoming unseemly. Perhaps she simply needed a proper distraction—a cosmic alignment to observe, or a promising young dragon to terrorize, as was her privilege as an elder of her kind.

  The Dragon Conclave would be held soon; she should be preparing her arguments for territorial expansion, not obsessing over some random human cultivator.

  And yet...

  "The Flowing Waters Philosophy states that true strength comes not from opposing force with force, but from understanding the nature of one's opponent and finding harmony with it," she mused, recalling a text she had glimpsed in a human archive several centuries ago during one of her infrequent observations of mortal civilization.

  She had dismissed it as typical human self-delusion at the time.

  But what if there was something to it? What if, to truly understand this curious approach to power, one needed to experience its limitations directly?

  The thought was so foreign, so contrary to every draconic instinct, that Xiaolong nearly dismissed it immediately. Dragons studied lesser beings as curiosities, not as sources of wisdom. The very notion was absurd.

  And yet absurdity had never been a sufficient reason to avoid an interesting experiment.

  With a sinuous movement that would have been beautiful had anyone been present to appreciate it, Xiaolong descended from her perch to the lower level of her lair.

  Here, contained within a series of metaphysically locked chambers, she kept her most precious possessions—not gold or gems, which were merely decorative, but knowledge that even other dragons could not access.

  She approached a particular chamber, one she had not opened in over seven hundred years. The locks were her own design, responding to the specific prismatic signature of her scales. As they recognized her presence, the dimensional barriers peeled back like layers of an exotic fruit, revealing a repository of forbidden texts.

  These were not forbidden because they contained evil knowledge—dragons had little use for human moral categorizations. They were forbidden because they contained dangerous knowledge. Techniques, rituals, and methods that violated the fundamental principles of draconic existence.

  Among these was a slender scroll case made from the bone of some long-extinct cosmic entity. Xiaolong lifted it carefully with one claw, the case seemingly tiny against her massive form.

  "The Descending Dragon Path," she read aloud, her voice unusually quiet. "A Treatise on Voluntary Limitation for Purposes of Understanding Lesser Existence."

  The text had been created by a dragon so ancient that even she was unsure of its origin. Rumor suggested the author had become so fascinated with mortal existence that they had eventually abandoned their draconic nature entirely—a cautionary tale told to young dragons about the dangers of excessive curiosity.

  Xiaolong had acquired it during the chaotic aftermath of the Century Cultivation War, when many forbidden artifacts briefly surfaced before being reclaimed by their rightful guardians. She had told herself she preserved it purely for academic interest—after all, what dragon would actually want to become weaker?

  The irony of her current situation was not lost on her.

  She unrolled the scroll carefully, its contents shimmering with a preservation enchantment that had kept it intact for millennia. The characters were written in Old Draconic, a language so dense with meaning that a single glyph could contain concepts that would require entire human libraries to express.

  "Divine Essence Sealing," she read, studying the first technique described. "A method to contain overwhelming spiritual energy within a mortal vessel."

  The scroll detailed a ritual that would allow a divine being to compress their essence into a much smaller container—like pouring an ocean into a teacup without losing a single drop.

  Theoretically, it would allow a dragon to assume not just the appearance of a human form—a simple illusion that any dragon could manage—but to actually experience physical existence as humans did.

  The key difference was that illusions merely affected external perception, while this technique would actually limit her real capabilities. She would retain her knowledge and consciousness, but her access to power would be severely restricted.

  It was, in draconic terms, completely insane.

  It was also, Xiaolong realized with a mixture of alarm and exhilaration, exactly what she wanted to try.

  The ritual required specific preparations: a meditation pattern based on the mortal form she wished to assume, essence-binding materials from the mortal realm, and a clear visualization of the limitations she sought to experience.

  It warned, in unusually emphatic language, that the sensation would be extremely unpleasant for a being unaccustomed to constraints.

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  "As if one's wings were suddenly bound and one's fire extinguished," the text cautioned. "A diminishment that many find intolerable after the first attempt."

  Xiaolong's prismatic scales rippled with determination. She was not "many." She was Longying Huaxia, and if she chose to experience limitation, she would master it as thoroughly as she had mastered elemental manipulation and cosmic perception.

  With methodical precision, she gathered the necessary components from her various collections. Most were rare but not irreplaceable—starfire crystals, void-touched mercury, the distilled essence of a mountain spring that had never seen sunlight.

  The final ingredient gave her pause: seven drops of blood from the form she wished to emulate.

  She could synthesize something similar, but the ritual suggested authentic material would produce more stable results. This would require a brief return to the mortal realm and a rather delicate extraction from a sleeping cultivator.

  The proper draconic approach would be to simply take what she needed—humans were resources, after all. But something in that thought now struck her as... discourteous. An unfamiliar concept when applied to lesser beings.

  "Perhaps a more subtle approach," she murmured. "One drop of water from each of the seven sacred waterfalls, gathered by his hand. A suitable substitution, and more harmonious with the element he cultivates."

  Decision made, she used her cosmic perception to locate the small wooden flask Li Feng carried—the one containing water essence from the first three waterfalls he had visited. One quick dimensional reach, a careful extraction, and she had what she needed without disturbing his rest.

  "I shall return it before he wakes," she told herself, ignoring the fact that such consideration for a human's possessions was unprecedented in her long existence.

  Back in her lair, Xiaolong arranged the components according to the ritual diagram, her massive form moving with surprising delicacy as she prepared the complex formation. At the center, she placed a shallow basin filled with the water from Li Feng's collection flask, now enhanced with the necessary alchemical additions.

  The ritual required her to hold a clear image of her intended form in mind as she performed the seventeen consecutive transformations of energy described in the text. She found herself crafting a human appearance with unusual care—still striking enough to reflect her status, but with deliberate imperfections that would make it believable.

  "Eyes that shift color with emotional states," she decided. "Hair with a subtle prismatic quality when caught in certain light. A voice with just enough resonance to be distinctive without being alarming."

  The physical details came easily. More challenging was conceptualizing the limitations she would need to accept. Restricted strength. Dulled senses. Vulnerability to elements that normally couldn't touch her. Physical needs like hunger, thirst, and rest.

  The very thought was so alien that her scales briefly shuddered in revulsion. For a moment, she nearly abandoned the entire endeavor. What madness had seized her, to consider such self-diminishment?

  Then the memory of Li Feng's face surfaced in her mind—not just his appearance, but the absolute focus and harmony he achieved despite his limitations. There was something there, some quality she couldn't name, that she wanted to understand.

  With a resolve that would have impressed even her fellow dragons, had any been present to witness it, Xiaolong began the ritual.

  The first phase involved compressing her vast spiritual energy, folding it inward like origami of the soul. Each fold created greater density but smaller scope, power turning inward rather than projecting outward. It was counter to every instinct she possessed.

  "The ocean becomes a lake," she intoned, following the ritual text. "The lake becomes a pool. The pool becomes a cup. The cup becomes a drop."

  Pain lanced through her true form as her essence began to compress, resisting the unnatural confinement. Her scales shifted rapidly through colors, unable to settle as her power fought against the constraints she was imposing.

  This was not just uncomfortable—it was actively agonizing, like trying to contain a star within a stone jar.

  Lesser beings would have abandoned the attempt immediately. Dragons, however, did not yield to pain. Xiaolong continued the ritual, her voice never wavering despite the increasing discomfort.

  "The immortal becomes temporal," she continued. "The boundless becomes limited. The divine becomes mundane."

  The water in the central basin began to glow with an inner light, responding to the transformation occurring in her essence. It rose from the container, forming a humanoid silhouette that hovered in the air before her—a template for the form she sought to assume.

  As the ritual reached its apex, Xiaolong felt something she had never experienced in five thousand years of existence: fear. Not the abstract awareness of potential harm that might come from facing another powerful entity, but genuine, visceral fear born of vulnerability. Her power, her very self, was being confined in ways that felt fundamentally wrong.

  For the first time, she glimpsed what it might mean to be mortal—to exist knowing that harm could come from countless sources, that one's time was finite, that choices carried consequences one might not survive.

  It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.

  With the final words of the ritual, Xiaolong directed her compressed essence into the water template. There was a moment of resistance, like trying to thread the eye of a needle with a mountain peak, and then—

  Sensation crashed over her like a tidal wave.

  Cold. Weight. Pressure. Balance.

  All experienced not as abstract concepts but as immediate, unavoidable realities. Her perspective plummeted from cosmic to confined, her awareness shrinking from multidimensional to painfully linear.

  And pain—not the diffuse spiritual discomfort of the ritual, but specific, localized pain. Her skin (skin, not scales!) felt the chill of the air. Her muscles (so weak, so limited!) strained to maintain her new posture. Her lungs (lungs! She needed to breathe now!) burned as they drew in their first desperate gasp.

  Xiaolong fell to her knees—human knees, attached to human legs, supporting a human torso—and pressed unfamiliar hands against unfamiliar eyes. Everything was too close, too immediate, too intense. Her senses, though drastically reduced from her draconic perception, were overwhelmed by their newfound limitations.

  "Too much," she gasped, her voice shocking in its smallness. Gone was the cosmic resonance that could shake mountains. This voice barely carried across her own lair.

  As the initial shock subsided, Xiaolong became aware of other sensations. The rapid beating of her heart. The expansion and contraction of her lungs. The strange vulnerability of skin—so soft, so easily damaged. She raised her hands before her eyes, turning them slowly, marveling at their delicate structure.

  "Remarkable," she whispered, flexing her fingers one by one. "Such fragility, yet such precision."

  She attempted to stand, only to discover that bipedal locomotion was considerably more complex than it appeared. Her first effort ended with her sprawled inelegantly across the stone floor, a position so undignified that she was momentarily grateful no other dragon could witness it.

  "The cultivation manual neglected to mention this particular challenge," she muttered, pushing herself up more carefully for a second attempt.

  After several tries, she managed to achieve a reasonably stable stance, though her movements remained awkward and hesitant.

  Walking would require practice. As would proper breath control, appropriate modulation of her voice, and countless other details that humans managed without conscious thought.

  A wave of unexpected emotion swept through her—not just frustration at her new limitations, but a complex mixture of vulnerability, determination, and something strangely like humility. These feelings manifested physically: a tightness in her chest, a dampness in her eyes, a trembling in her limbs.

  "Is this how they feel all the time?" she wondered aloud. "So... exposed?"

  As her initial disorientation subsided, Xiaolong took stock of the form she had created.

  It was female, as she had intended, with features that echoed her draconic aesthetics while remaining plausibly human. Long hair that shifted subtly between dark blues and purples in the light. Eyes that currently reflected confusion but would soon adapt to display the appropriate emotions. Skin pale but not unnaturally so, with a slight luminous quality.

  She had manifested simple clothing as part of the transformation—a practical decision rather than modesty, as dragons had little concern for such human concepts. The garments resembled those worn by wandering cultivators: functional, unassuming, but of good quality.

  "A suitable disguise," she decided, though speaking still felt strange—so much air required for so little sound!

  She would need a backstory, of course. Something plausible enough to explain her presence and abilities without revealing her true nature. She was a wandering cultivator, perhaps, with an unusual affinity for multiple elements rather than the specialized focus most humans pursued. Recently emerged from seclusion, which would explain any social awkwardness or lack of knowledge about current events.

  "Xiaolong," she said, testing the name on her human tongue. "A traveler seeking insight into the Way of Flowing Water. Yes, that should suffice."

  Her planning was interrupted by a sudden sharp sensation in her midsection—a hollow, twisting feeling that took her a moment to identify.

  Hunger. She was experiencing hunger.

  "How inconvenient," she murmured, discovering yet another aspect of mortality she had overlooked. Food would be a necessity now, not merely an occasional indulgence for the sensory experience.

  There were countless other details to consider, practical problems to solve, abilities to master. Simply existing in this limited form would require concentration and adaptation. And that was before she even attempted to interact with Li Feng or other humans.

  A less determined being might have abandoned the experiment immediately, returning to comfortable divine power rather than struggling with these new constraints. But Xiaolong felt an unfamiliar resolve forming within her—not the implacable will of a dragon, but something more flexible, more adaptive.

  Perhaps there was something to this flowing water philosophy after all.

  Rising carefully to her feet once more, she began to practice the basic movements she would need to master.

  Walking. Gesturing. Facial expressions.

  Each small victory over her limitations brought a strange satisfaction unlike anything she had experienced in centuries.

  "Tomorrow," she decided, looking toward the dimensional boundary that separated her mountain from the mortal realm, "I shall return to the waterfall. And we shall see what insights this new perspective brings."

  In the starlight pool, now returned to its usual calm surface, a brief image appeared—Li Feng awakening at the waterfall, looking around in confusion for his mysterious opponent. His expression showed not fear or relief, but a quiet determination and curiosity that mirrored her own.

  How strangely fitting, that they should both be seeking answers the other might provide.