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Chapter Text

Xie Lian wandered the mortal realm, his tattered robes blending with the dust of endless roads. No longer a god, having spurned Jun Wu’s offer of a second ascension, he was a ghost of Xianle’s crown prince, haunted by guilt and loss. His mother’s letter, tucked safely in his sleeve, was his fragile anchor.

One autumn evening, he arrived at a bustling village nestled in the southern territories, its streets alive with chatter. A couple of ringleaders, wiry men with booming voices, shouted for hired hands to help construct a new temple. “STRONG ARMS NEEDED! GOOD PAY!” They called, waving bamboo tallies as proof of wages.

Xie Lian, ever in need of coin and purpose, approached them. “I’ll lend my strength!” He said, his smile masking the weariness in his eyes.

The ringleaders sized him up, noting his lean frame but steady gaze, and nodded, “You’re in, lad. Work starts at dawn.”

Xie Lian joined a motley crew of labourers—farmers, drifters, and youths—hauling timber and stone under the architects’ watchful eyes. The work was gruelling, but Xie Lian found solace in the rhythm of lifting beams and chiselling mortar, his calloused hands a testament to years of survival.

The villagers were kind, sharing rice and tea during breaks, and Xie Lian’s quiet diligence earned their respect, though none knew the fallen heavenly crown prince behind his unassuming facade. He covered the lower half of his face with a cloth again; at least, that's how it would remain for the next hundred years, by which time generations would have shifted, and people would begin to forget Xianle and his failure.

In the luminous expanse of the Heavenly Realm, a newly granted palace, the seat of Xuan Zhen, General of the South, stood as a marvel of divine architecture. Nestled among celestial peaks, its structure blended rugged elegance with intricate artistry. Towering walls of pale stone, weathered as if by ancient desert winds, were adorned with vibrant murals of mythical beasts, qilins^[1] and phoenixes rendered in bold crimsons, turquoises, and golds. Arched rooftops, edged with upturned eaves, shimmered with lacquered tiles that caught the heavenly light, their patterns evoking intricate textile weaves. Carved wooden beams, dark and polished, crisscrossed the ceilings, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and jade, while open courtyards bloomed with hardy shrubs and lotus ponds, their serenity framed by stark, windswept vistas. Latticed windows filtered golden light through geometric designs, casting kaleidoscopic shadows across marble floors strewn with silk rugs in deep blues and ochres. The palace exuded a timeless grace, both austere and opulent, a testament to Xuan Zhen’s enigmatic sovereignty over the south’s vast territories.

Mu Qing stood in his black mantle and crimson robes, the weight of his new title settling like a mantle. His southern territory, vast and vibrant, demanded his vigilance, and his deputies, Chen Yang and Song Xiao, were already proving their worth, training under his exacting guidance.

As he reviewed a celestial map of his domain, footsteps approached, and Pei Ming sauntered in, his grin as rakish as ever.

“Xuan Zhen...” Pei Ming drawled, teasing, gesturing to Mu Qing’s robes, his armour clinking, a roguish grin lighting his face, “You’re a vision in this southern splendor, the heavens haven’t seen such charm in ages.”

Mu Qing didn’t look up, his expression cool as his hand traced the map. “If you’ve come just to flirt, General Ming Guang, I have territories to govern,” His eyes narrowed slightly.

Pei Ming chuckled, caught off guard, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “Well... no,” He admitted, scratching his head, “I’m here to congratulate you, truly. Ascending to the Upper Court, claiming the vast southern territory, largest of the four cardinals, mind you. For a former medical deputy, that’s no small feat.”

Ling Wen, the civil god of literature, glided in, her robes of muted green flowing like ink on parchment, something tucked under her arm. Her calm gaze softened as she addressed Mu Qing. “Congratulations, Xuan Zhen-jiangjun,”^[2] She said, her voice steady but warm, “Your ascension to the Upper Court is a triumph well-earned, and the south’s expanse is fortunate to have you.”

Mu Qing set the map down. “Thank you,” He said, nodding to both. His tone softened as he turned to Pei Ming, “I’m sorry about your deputy. His sacrifice in Tiancheng…”

Pei Ming’s grin faded, his eyes somber, “A warrior’s death in duty is its own honour. He’d be proud to see you here.”

Ling Wen stepped forward, presenting a lacquered box inlaid with silver runes. “A gift for Xuan Zhen,” She said, “a set of celestial quills, forged to channel spiritual energy for your southern decrees.”

Mu Qing nodded to Chen Yang, who stood behind him. She accepted it with a bow, her ‘Phoenix Crescent’ podao^[3] gleaming.

In return, Mu Qing gave a subtle gesture. Chen Yang stepped forward once more, this time holding a slender box of dark, polished wood, unadorned save for a small, mother-of-pearl clasp. She presented it to Ling Wen.

“A trifle for the Palace of Ling Wen, to honour your tireless administration,” Mu Qing stated, his voice perfectly level, “I trust their unique properties will offer some convenience.” Inside the velvet-lined box lay three brushes, their handles a stark, minimalist black.

Ling Wen’s usually impassive eyes showed a flicker of genuine interest as she recognised their fabled design; self-inking, a legendary time-saver for any scholar. She gave a rare, appreciative nod, “General Xuan Zhen is most thoughtful.”

Pei Ming, not to be outdone, offered a jade talisman, its surface carved with a lion motif. “For your palace defenses,” He said, winking. Song Xiao took it, his ‘Starlit Edge’ jian^[4] sword steady at his hip. At another gesture from Mu Qing, he moved with silent purpose, presenting a heavy, black-glazed jar sealed with dark green wax.

“A small token of gratitude, General Ming Guang,” Mu Qing announced, his tone unchanging, “Something recovered from a forgotten cellar in the Southwest. The seal is five centuries old.”

Pei Ming’s characteristic grin widened into a look of genuine delight. “Five centuries!?” He boomed, his laugh echoing slightly, “Xuan Zhen, you certainly know how to honour a fellow general. I shall savour this victory later.” He gave Mu Qing a wink, and the latter rolled his eyes.

Ling Wen turned to Chen Yang, her gaze brightening, “Chen Yang, my congratulations. As the first female martial deputy in centuries, you’ve shattered a long-standing barrier. The heavens will sing of your valor.”

Chen Yang, caught off guard, blushed, stammering, “Thank you, L–Lady Ling Wen. I mean... I, too, had not anticipated that the renowned civil god, Ling Wen, would be a lady.”

Before Ling Wen could respond, a sharp voice cut through. Zhu An, the martial god of the east, stormed in, his face twisted with indignation. He thrust a wrapped bundle—begrudgingly—a ceremonial dagger with an obsidian hilt, which Song Xiao accepted silently.

The hall fell into a tense silence, every eye fixed on Mu Qing, waiting for the explosion. It never came. Mu Qing’s expression did not so much as flicker. He met Zhu An’s furious gaze with the cold, placid indifference of a deep lake. He gave a near-imperceptible nod to Chen Yang. She stepped forward, holding a simple, elegant cypress box. The faint, clean scent of the wood was a stark contrast to the venom hanging in the air as she presented it.

“For the General of the East,” Mu Qing said, his voice quiet but cutting through the silence with chilling precision. “Tea leaves from the oldest trees on Mount Xuan. They are said to be most effective in calming a fiery heart and clearing a clouded mind. A necessity for guarding the tranquil dawn.”

Zhu An’s face went from red to purple. He was left with a gift so polite and so pointedly insulting he could not refuse it without looking like even more of a brute. “A kunze as a martial god?” He scoffed, glaring at Mu Qing, “...And given the southern territory, the grandest of all? Preposterous!” He jabbed a finger accusingly, “You must’ve bewitched the Heavenly Emperor, Concubine Mu, with all his favoritism toward you.”

Mu Qing’s gaze hardened, his voice icy, “Your accusations are baseless, Zhu An. My ascension was earned, not begged.”

Zhu An sneered, undeterred, “You’re unfit for martial godhood. A kunze, wielding a sabre over the south? Laughable.”

Pei Ming, tired of the tirade, interjected with a sly grin, “If you’re so offended, Zhu An, why not challenge Xuan Zhen? Defeat him, and I’ll wager you can swap territories.”

Zhu An froze, his arrogance faltering. Memories of a past duel flashed—Mu Qing, a mere medical deputy then, had bested him with humiliating ease. Now, as a martial god, Mu Qing’s power was unfathomable. Zhu An’s jaw tightened, and he muttered, “Never mind,” before stalking off, his sage robes swishing in petulant defeat.

Ling Wen raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement, while Pei Ming roared with laughter. “You’ve got fire, Xuan Zhen, the south’s in good hands,” Pei Ming said, clapping Mu Qing’s shoulder, “Touchy, isn’t he?” He smirked, tossing Mu Qing a knowing look.

Mu Qing sighed, shaking his head, already turning back to his map.

As days turned to weeks, the temple took shape—a graceful structure of curved eaves and jade-green tiles, its pillars carved with phoenixes and clouds. Xie Lian admired its aesthetic, murmuring to himself, “The architect has taste.” The villagers spoke of the temple’s purpose; to honour a new martial god, whose ascension in Tiancheng had sparked fervent devotion. Xie Lian listened, his heart stirring with a mix of curiosity and melancholy, but he asked no questions, burying his thoughts in the work.

One crisp morning, as the temple neared completion, Xie Lian sat under a persimmon tree, wiping sweat from his brow and accepting his wages, a small pouch of coins. A commotion arose as a horse-drawn cart rumbled into the village, bearing a draped statue for the temple’s altar.

The ringleaders called Xie Lian and a few sturdy men to help. “Careful now!” They barked as the group hefted the heavy statue, veiled in crimson silk, onto the central altar. Xie Lian’s muscles strained, but his focus was steady, guiding the statue into place with practiced ease.

With the divine statue secured, a village elder stepped forward, pulling the silk away in a ceremonial flourish. The cloth fell, revealing a resplendent figure carved in white jade—a martial god in flowing robes, his face serene yet commanding, a long sabre poised with elegant strength.

Xie Lian’s breath caught, his heart lurching. The statue’s features, though idealised, bore an unmistakable likeness to Mu Qing! A labourer beside him whistled, “Handsome god, ain’t he?” Another chimed in, “Course he is! That’s General Xuan Zhen, protector of the south, risen from Tiancheng’s trials.”

Xie Lian stared, his fingers tightening around his coin pouch. Mu Qing… ascended? The words sank in, a bittersweet tide washing over him. “Congratulations...” He whispered, his voice barely audible, laced with pride yet shadowed by sorrow. Memories of their clash at the Crown Prince Summit years ago resurfaced, and Xie Lian’s own guilt for failing him. The statue’s serene gaze seemed to pierce him, a reminder of their fractured bond. He turned away, his chest tight, and slipped into the crowd, unnoticed as the villagers began their prayers.

Back in the southern village, night fell, and the temple glowed under lantern light, its altar now consecrated to General Xuan Zhen. Xie Lian lingered at the outskirts, his wages spent on a simple meal of steamed buns. The villagers’ fervent prayers echoed, their faith in Xuan Zhen a stark contrast to Xie Lian’s own faded divinity. He sat beneath a willow tree, the statue’s image seared in his mind—Mu Qing’s serene face, a far cry from the sharp-tongued friend he’d lost to anger and time.

He did it, Xie Lian thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Mu Qing had risen from Xianle’s ashes, a loyal servant turned martial god, while Xie Lian remained earthbound, shackled by guilt. The Crown Prince Summit’s wounds lingered—Mu Qing’s unvarnished revelation, Xie Lian’s disagreement, their mutual failures. Yet, seeing Mu Qing’s statue stirred pride alongside sorrow, a hope that Mu Qing had found peace where Xie Lian could not.

...

..

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Xie Lian curled up under a tattered blanket, his mother’s letter pressed against his chest. Exhaustion pulled him into a dream, vivid and piercing, returning him to Xianle’s golden past...

Inside his private quarters, the air was heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs. Before him, Feng Xin, barely eight, knelt on the floor, his back marked with welts from his father’s bamboo rod, the punishment for Xie Lian’s reckless escape during the royal convoy. Yu Gui, the palace physician’s aide then, applied salve to Feng Xin’s wounds, but Xie Lian’s eyes were fixed on his friend, tears welling as guilt choked him.

“I’m sorry, Feng Xin,” Xie Lian whispered, his voice trembling. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have run off.”

Feng Xin, wincing as Yu Gui worked, shook his head, his young face resolute, “No, Dianxia. It’s my fault. I wasn’t vigilant enough to protect you.”

Xie Lian’s stubbornness flared, his small fists clenching. “NO, IT’S MY FAULT!” He insisted, voice cracking. Stepping closer, he knelt beside Feng Xin, his eyes fierce with resolve, “I won’t be reckless again. I swear, Feng Xin, I’ll never burden you like this... ever!”

Feng Xin’s gaze softened, a faint smile breaking through his pain, “Burden or not, you’re my prince, and I’m your subject. Always.”

Miles away, in a southeastern village nestled among rugged hills, Feng Xin awoke with a start in a modest inn, his heart pounding. The image of young Xie Lian, tearful and resolute, haunted him, echoing their shared vow in Xianle’s palace. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, frustration gnawing at him. “Dianxia...” He muttered, “...where are you?”

Five years had passed since Xianle’s fall, and despite his relentless search, Feng Xin had found no trace of his prince. His instincts, often wrong, whispered that Xie Lian was near this village, a fragile hope he couldn’t shake.

Feng Xin had arrived in the village days ago, befriending a local named Bái Jiànguó (白建國), a sturdy farmer with a weathered face and a quick laugh. Over rice wine at the inn, Bai Jianguo shared the village’s plight. “It’s not safe here anymore,” He sighed, his voice heavy, “Soldiers from Xuli and Yuèchāng (越昌) keep clashing in our fields. Yuechang’s rebels have occupied us, claiming our land for their new sovereign state. They refuse to bow to Yong’an or Xuli.”

Feng Xin frowned, leaning forward, “A village like this, caught between two powers? You have only two choices—join Yuechang or Xuli. You can’t fight them both.”

Bai Jianguo shook his head, his eyes troubled, “We’re simple folk. We just want peace, not another lord to serve.”

Feng Xin understood, the village’s modest shrines and terraced fields spoke of a community clinging to survival, not ambition. Yet, Yuechang’s bold defiance intrigued him, a spark of resistance reminiscent of Xianle’s spirit.

...

..

.

The next morning, chaos erupted. Xuli soldiers, clad in iron armour with azure banners, stormed the village, their boots trampling the dirt paths. “HAND OVER YOUR GRAIN AND CROPS!” Their captain barked, brandishing a spear.

Villagers cowered as soldiers ransacked granaries, seizing sacks of rice and baskets of vegetables.

Bai Jianguo, clutching a pitchfork, stepped forward, fury in his eyes. “YOU’VE TAKEN ENOUGH!” He shouted.

Feng Xin, at his side, lifted his sickle, his warrior instincts flaring. “Back off!” He growled, positioning himself between the soldiers and a group of trembling farmers.

The soldiers laughed, two dozen against Feng Xin’s sickle and Bai Jianguo’s makeshift weapon—overwhelming.

Feng Xin struck first, his sickle flashing, disarming two soldiers with precise cuts. Bai Jianguo swung his pitchfork, knocking another back, but the captain rallied his men, their spears forming a deadly wall.

A blade grazed Feng Xin’s arm, and Bai Jianguo took a blow to the shoulder, forcing them to retreat. Outnumbered and out-armed, Feng Xin gritted his teeth. “Stand down,” He muttered to Bai Jianguo, who glared at the soldiers, blood trickling down his arm.

As the Xuli troops hauled off the stolen goods, Bai Jianguo spat, muttering curses under his breath, “Thieving dogs! May your greed choke you!”

Feng Xin, wiping blood from his arm, shared his anger, the soldiers’ cruelty cementing his distrust of Xuli’s rule.

...

..

.

That evening, as Feng Xin and Bai Jianguo repaired a broken fence near the village outskirts, nursing their wounds and resentment, a band of Yuechang rebels ambushed them!

Hooded figures bound their wrists, dragging them to a hidden camp in the hills, its tents adorned with cloud emblems.

A tall woman in armor etched with cloud motifs stepped forward, her eyes sharp yet calm. “I am Qié Lán (伽藍),” She announced, her voice resonant, “...Leader of Yuechang’s cause.

Feng Xin, assessing her, sensed resolve, not malice. Bai Jianguo, still bristling from the Xuli raid, whispered, “What do you want!?”

Qie Lan knelt to their level, her gaze earnest. “Yuechang seeks freedom, not dominion,” She said, “Xuli and Yong’an bleed villages like yours dry, stealing your harvests, drafting your sons for their wars. We fight for a nation where farmers like you, Bai Jianguo, keep your crops, and warriors like you.”

Qie Lan nodded to Feng Xin, “fight for justice, not tyrants!” She gestured to the camp, where rebels shared sparse rations with captured villagers, bandaging their wounds, “We occupied your village to shield it from Xuli’s raids, not to rule it, and this morning’s theft proves Xuli’s greed. Join us! And we’ll forge a land where your people thrive, governed by their own will.”

Feng Xin’s brow furrowed, weighing her words against Xuli’s brutality. He’d seen warlords hide ambition behind ideals, but Qie Lan’s actions, through her rebels’ care, her defiance of greater powers, echoed Xianle’s lost dream of compassion.

Bai Jianguo, his anger at Xuli still raw, glanced at Feng Xin, who nodded slowly. “Your vision… it’s what my prince once fought for,” Feng Xin said, his voice low, thinking of Xie Lian, “If you truly mean this, I’ll lend my strength.”

Bai Jianguo, inspired, added, “And I’ll rally the village. We’re done being trampled!”

Qie Lan’s face softened, a rare smile breaking through. “Welcome to Yuechang’s cause,” She said, unbinding them and offering a hand.

In the resplendent Heavenly Realm, where celestial clouds swirled around jade spires, the Palace of the West gleamed newly forged, its investiture ceremony for the martial god Sūn Wényì (孫文毅) still echoing through the divine courts. He was a former deputy under the Palace of Ming Guang, and had ascended through valor, his palace a marvel of towering bronze pillars and crimson-tiled roofs, adorned with banners depicting galloping stallions under starlit skies. The air thrummed with spiritual energy, fresh shrines to Sun Wenyi sprouting in the western mortal realms.

Mu Qing stood in his black and crimson robes within his own palace, its pale stone walls and vibrant murals radiating austere elegance. Reflecting on his ascension, he recalled Xie Lian’s struggles, how Xie Lian’s failure to forge alliances through gifts and courtesies had left him isolated among the gods. A pang of frustration mixing with pity. Determined not to repeat Xie Lian’s mistakes, he turned to Chen Yang, “Prepare a gift for Sun Wenyi,” He instructed, “Something befitting a new martial god. We’ll visit his palace to offer congratulations.”

Chen Yang nodded, her eyes bright with purpose, and set to work with Song Xiao, who clutched his ‘Starlit Edge’ jian sword.

...

..

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They arrived at the Palace of the West, its grand courtyard bustling with divine attendants.

The trio was greeted by a crowd of divine guests. Among them were Shen Yi, a medical god Mu Qing once served as a deputy, and Yushi Huang, the gentle rain goddess, their robes shimmering with divine grace. Shen Yi, his silver hair loosely tied, smiled warmly. “Xuan Zhen, your ascension is a marvel,” He said, gesturing to a gift they’d sent during Mu Qing’s investiture; a set of medicinal herbs infused with celestial essence, perfect for a former medical deputy. Yushi Huang, her verdant robes flowing, added, “...And your palace’s elegance suits you. Thank you for your gifts to us.” She referenced Mu Qing’s earlier presents; a jade talisman of clarity for Shen Yi and a silver irrigation charm for Yushi Huang’s agricultural domains.

Mu Qing bowed, his black-and-crimson robes rustling. “Your gifts were greatly appreciated,” He said, though a flicker of unease stirred. Shen Yi’s praise made him self-conscious; he’d once been a subordinate, and though Shen Yi bore no grudge, Mu Qing felt the weight of his past. “You honour me too highly,” He murmured, but Shen Yi waved it off, chuckling, “Nonsense, Xuan Zhen. You’ve earned this.”

Sun Wenyi emerged, his broad frame clad in bronze-and-gold robes, his presence commanding yet jovial. “Xuan Zhen, welcome!” He boomed, accepting Mu Qing’s jade flute with a grin. In return, he offered a western relic; a bronze war gauntlet etched with stallion motifs, enhancing the wearer’s strength. Chen Yang and Song Xiao received it, their deputy roles evident in their poised demeanor.

As they exchanged pleasantries, Sun Wenyi’s gaze turned nostalgic. “You know, Chen Yang, Song Xiao, I met Xuan Zhen at the Crown Prince Summit three years ago,” He said, leaning closer, “His Highness Xianle was there too, stirring up quite the storm.”

Chen Yang and Song Xiao exchanged startled glances, their curiosity piqued. Mu Qing’s expression tightened, discomfort flickering as memories of Xie Lian’s accusations and their bitter fallout resurfaced.

Sun Wenyi, oblivious, pressed on, “How’s your son… What was his name? Yao Yao?”

Mu Qing’s eyes flashed, his voice cutting like a blade, “That’s none of your concern!” He cupped his hands and bowed curtly, “Thank you for your hospitality, General Sun. We must take our leave.”

Chen Yang and Song Xiao followed, sensing his unease, as Sun Wenyi’s laughter echoed behind them, unperturbed by Mu Qing’s sharpness.

Outside the palace, walking through celestial mists, Chen Yang hesitated, her ‘Phoenix Crescent’ glinting in her grip. “Zhuzi…^[5] about your children…” She ventured, recalling her days as Consort Mu’s attendant.

Mu Qing’s steps slowed, his eyes shadowed with a melancholic glint. “If you wish to know, I’ll take you there,” He said, his voice soft yet ambiguous, leaving her uncertain whether he meant a place or a memory.

Chen Yang nodded, trusting his lead.

“And another thing,” Mu Qing added, his voice suddenly edged with a pain that belied his cold demeanor, “...don’t call me ‘Zhuzi’ anymore! ‘That kingdom’ has been gone for ages!”

Chen Yang visibly flinched, quickly correcting herself, “Oh, y-yes, Zhu–Jiangjun!”

As they walked, Mu Qing’s thoughts drifted to Xie Lian’s words at the Summit, mentioning Yao Yao’s relocation to the foot of the Crown Prince Summit.

Xie Lian...

What did you mean?

In the southeastern hills, where Bai Jianguo’s village lay under the shadow of conflict, the air thrummed with tension. Allied with Yuechang’s cause, Feng Xin stood in their hidden camp, his sword sharpened and resolve steeled. The Xuli soldiers’ recent raid by looting the village’s grain and leaving Bai Jianguo bloodied had cemented Feng Xin’s commitment to Qie Lan’s vision of a sovereign, equitable Yuechang. Though his shoulder bandaged, Bai Jianguo gripped a spear gifted by the rebels, his spirit unbroken and his curses against Xuli still fresh. Qie Lan, clad in cloud-etched armor, gathered her band of rebels, her sharp eyes scanning the group.

“Xuli’s outpost lies a little more than half a li^[6] to the north,” Qie Lan announced, unrolling a crude map on a rock. “They hoard stolen provisions, our village’s lifeblood. Tonight, we strike, burn their tents, and reclaim what’s ours for the people!” Her voice carried a quiet fire, echoing Xianle’s lost ideals that stirred Feng Xin’s heart.

Bai Jianguo nodded, his jaw set. “For the village!” He said.

Feng Xin, meeting Qie Lan’s gaze, added, “Let’s make them regret their greed.” The rebels murmured agreement, their makeshift weapons—spears, bows, and scavenged blades—gleaming under the moonlight.

As dusk fell, the Yuechang band crept through the forested hills, their steps muffled by pine needles. Feng Xin led a flank with Bai Jianguo, his warrior instincts honed from Xianle’s battles. The Xuli outpost sprawled below—a cluster of canvas tents ringed by watchfires, guards patrolling with spears.

Qie Lan signaled, and the rebels split into three groups; one to distract, one to sabotage, and Feng Xin’s to strike the supply tents. “Swift and silent,” She whispered, her cloud armour glinting as she vanished into the shadows.

Feng Xin and Bai Jianguo crouched near the supply tents, the scent of grain and smoked meat wafting through the canvas.

A guard approached, and Feng Xin sprang, his sword hilt cracking against the man’s temple, dropping him soundlessly. Bai Jianguo, less graceful but fierce, dragged the guard behind a crate.

“Not bad for a farmer,” Feng Xin muttered, earning a grin. They slipped inside, finding sacks of rice, dried fish, and barrels of wine—village spoils. Feng Xin’s group stuffed the goods into stolen sacks, passing them to rebels waiting outside.

Across the camp, Qie Lan’s distraction team shot flaming arrows, igniting a perimeter tent. Shouts erupted as Xuli soldiers scrambled, their captain barking orders.

Feng Xin’s sabotage team, seizing the chaos, doused oil from stolen barrels over the supply tents. Bai Jianguo struck the flint, and flames roared to life, licking up the canvas. “Burn, you thieves!” He hissed, echoing his earlier curses.

Feng Xin parried a rushing soldier, his blade flashing, sending the man sprawling with a non-lethal strike. “MOVE!” He urged, as the fire spread, smoke billowing into the night.

The rebels regrouped, hauling sacks of reclaimed provisions, but Xuli’s captain rallied a counterattack, his spear gleaming. Qie Lan met him head-on, her dual swords a whirlwind, their clash sparking in the firelight.

Feng Xin joined her, his sword weaving through a knot of soldiers, disarming them with precise cuts.

Bai Jianguo, wielding his spear, knocked back a straggler, his farmer’s strength surprising even himself. “FOR THE VILLAGE!” He roared, adrenaline surging. The Xuli forces, outnumbered and disoriented by the flames, began to retreat, abandoning their burning camp.

Amid the chaos, Feng Xin spotted a fallen Xuli archer, his quiver spilling arrows. Beside him lay a sturdy bow, its limbs carved with hawk motifs, strung with taut sinew. Feng Xin seized it, slinging it over his shoulder, its weight a welcome addition to his arsenal. “This’ll do,” He muttered, loosing an arrow to pin a fleeing soldier’s sleeve, halting his escape.

Qie Lan, knocking down the captain with a stunning blow, nodded approval, “Good eye, warrior.”

The rebels fled the blazing outpost, laden with reclaimed grain and supplies, their silhouettes vanishing into the hills.

Back at the camp, they distributed the spoils to villagers summoned in secret, their faces lighting with gratitude. Bai Jianguo, handing a sack of rice to an elder, beamed, his earlier defeat forgotten. “We took back what’s ours!” He said, clapping Feng Xin’s shoulder.

Qie Lan, overseeing the distribution, met Feng Xin’s gaze. “This is Yuechang’s heart, people over power,” She said, her voice firm.

Feng Xin, gripping his new bow, felt a flicker of Xianle’s spirit in her words, a vow to protect this cause as he once did Xie Lian.

“Jiangjun,” Chen Yang began, her voice formal, “...you summoned me?”

Mu Qing’s gaze softened, a rare vulnerability surfacing. “We’re going to the Crown Prince Summit,” He said, “I’ll show you where my son is.”

Through a shimmering portal in the Heavenly Realm, they descended, the celestial bridge dissolving into the rugged peaks of the Crown Prince Summit.

The air grew crisp, laced with the scent of pine and ancient stone, the summit’s craggy expanse a silent witness to Xianle’s fall. Mu Qing moved with purpose, his eyes scanning the rocky ground, searching for something hidden.

Chen Yang, bewildered, followed in silence, her mind racing with questions.

After a tense pause, she gathered her courage. “Jiangjun, what are you seeking?” She asked, her tone respectful yet curious.

Mu Qing smacked his lips, his fingers tracing a weathered rock, then sighed. “The entrance to the Xianle Royal’s Mausoleum,” He admitted, his voice low.

Chen Yang’s eyes widened. “A mausoleum!?” She gasped, her thoughts spiraling to grim possibilities. Why a tomb? Has something happened to the little prince? Her heart sank as Mu Qing turned to face her, his expression heavy with sorrow.

“Yao Yao is gone,” He said, the words cutting through the silence, “...along with the King and Queen of Xianle.”

Chen Yang staggered, disbelief etching her features. “No… that can’t be,” She whispered, tears welling as the truth sank in. Her hands trembled, memories of her days as Consort Mu’s attendant, coupled with the harrowing experiences of the Xianle civil war, its devastating defeat, and her subsequent exile that tore her away from them, came flooding back. “I failed them,” She sobbed, sinking to her knees, “I should’ve protected your children, a–and the royals… I’m so sorry, Zhu–Jiangjun!” Her apologies spilled forth, a torrent of guilt.

Mu Qing knelt beside her, his dark-and-crimson robes pooling on the stone. “Enough, Chen Yang,” He said gently, his hand resting on her shoulder. “I’ve come to terms with this fate. I brought you here to visit Yao Yao, to offer prayers,” His voice faltered, a trace of regret surfacing, “It’s a pity I chose to confront Xie Lian instead of letting him guide me here. I wonder where he is now, and how he fares…” His eyes darkened, a pang of remorse for their bitter Crown Prince Summit clash lingering. The mausoleum’s hidden entrance eluded him, its secrets buried beneath the summit’s silence.

Meanwhile, in the Palace of Xuan Zhen, Song Xiao stood watch, his ‘Starlit Edge’ jian sword sheathed as he patrolled the grand halls. The palace’s vibrant murals and carved beams glowed under celestial light, but his focus wavered as Mimi, his master’s cherished pet cat darted across the floor, hissing. The feline, a sleek creature with emerald eyes, seemed in a tantrum, its tail lashing.

Song Xiao sighed, stepping closer. “Mimi, behave,” He muttered, but the cat swiped, its claws raking his hand. With a yowl, Mimi bolted, leaping toward an open window.

“Damn it!” Song Xiao cursed, clutching his scratched hand. If Mimi escaped, General Xuan Zhen would be furious. He chased the cat, his boots echoing on marble, but Mimi, with feline agility, leaped from the window, descending toward the mortal world in a streak of gold. Panicking, Song Xiao invoked a spiritual array, his cultivation flaring as he followed, plummeting through a rift in the heavens. The mortal world rushed toward him, Mimi’s form a distant blur, and he braced himself for an unexpected landing.

At the Crown Prince Summit, the air grew still as Chen Yang wiped her tears, her grief for Yao Yao and the Xianle royal couple settling into a quiet ache. Gathering her resolve, she turned to Mu Qing, his long ponytail, and his dark-and-crimson robes billowing softly in the breeze. “Jiangjun,” She ventured, her voice formal yet gentle, “might I inquire about Her Highness... your daughter?”

Mu Qing’s expression softened, his hand pausing over the rocky ground where he’d sought the mausoleum’s entrance. “Miao Miao is in good care,” He said, his tone measured, “She’s with a general’s family in Yong’an.”

Chen Yang’s mind drifted to Uncle Lang Ying, recalling that he had once wanted to take Miao Miao after Xianle’s fall. As he already passed away, what would happen to Miao Miao now?

Sensing her thoughts, Mu Qing continued, “The family that adopted her is trustworthy. You need not worry, Chen Yang.”

Chen Yang nodded, a faint smile breaking through her sorrow, trusting his judgment.

Their conversation was shattered by a sudden rustle. A gold-striped blur—Mimi, Mu Qing’s feline companion—descended from the sky, landing with a soft thud.

Mu Qing reacted with lightning reflexes, scooping Mimi into his arms, his fingers stroking the cat’s fur to calm its agitation. “You little troublemaker,” He muttered, a rare warmth in his voice.

Moments later, Song Xiao plummeted from the heavens, landing awkwardly amid the rocks, his ‘Starlit Edge’ clattering beside him. He scrambled to his feet, eyes wide with panic. “Jiangjun, I–I’m so sorry!” He stammered, bowing deeply, “Mimi escaped, and I failed to keep her safe. She nearly vanished!”

Before Mu Qing could respond, Mimi wriggled free, leaping from his grasp with a defiant yowl. The trio exchanged startled glances and gave chase, following the cat through the summit’s rugged terrain.

Mimi darted through bushes and weeds, her paws kicking up dust from scattered remnants of pebble-paved grounds—faint echoes of Xianle’s lost glory. The trail led them to a desolate site; a burned Xianle temple, its charred beams and shattered tiles a grim testament to Yong’an’s vengeful fires, fueled by their resentment after Xie Lian’s failure.

Mimi navigated the ruins with uncanny purpose, weaving past rubble and broken glass until she reached a moss-covered well. There, she froze, her emerald eyes fixed on the dark water. A surge of spiritual energy pulsed from the well, its light enveloping Mimi in a radiant coppery glow, while it was also draining the well. Mimi’s paws drew upon the latent metallic energy in it.

Mu Qing, Chen Yang, and Song Xiao halted, mouths agape. “What in the heavens…?” Mu Qing breathed, his hand instinctively reaching for his sabre.

As Mimi finally twisted herself free with a great surge of energy, a wave of her spiritual power washed outwards and merged with the metallic energy the cat had gathered.The fusion was instantaneous. Mimi’s body convulsed, bathed in a soft golden light.

The energy intensified, and Mimi’s small form began to expand, its fur shimmering with gold streaks. A blinding white light erupted, forcing them to shield their eyes.

Mimi’s body expanded, its ears grew long and tufted, its paws became broader, and its claws extended, now visibly forged from a dark, metallic substance. The golden stripes on its back hardened, taking on the sharp, unyielding lustre of polished bronze.

As the glow faded, a majestic Gold-Marked Lynx stood where Mimi had been—its sleek body twice the size of a tiger, its coat aglow with golden patterns, eyes blazing with newfound power.

The lynx looked at the three gods before her, and instead of a roar, it let out a low, resonant growl, its spiritual aura rippling outward, hinting at a cultivation far beyond its former self.

Song Xiao gasped, stepping back, “Mimi… she’s transformed into a mythical beast?!”

FOOTNOTES:

^[1] _{Qílín (麒麟), more famously known as "Kirin" (japanese), is a legendary hooved chimerical creature that appears in Chinese mythology, and is said to appear with the imminent arrival or death of a sage or illustrious ruler.}

^[2] _{Jiāngjūn (將軍) means "General".}

^[3] _{Pōdāo (朴刀), a lighter version of Guandao, similar to Naginata. Both Podao and Guandao are also cavalry-killer weapons like Zhanmadao (Mu Qing's signature weapon).}

^[4] _{Jiàn (劍), a double-edged straight sword used in China, mainly used for stabbing. Most xianxia characters/cultivators use this type of sword, Fang Xin/Zhu Xin/Bichen etc. are also jian(s) too.}

^[5] _{Servants refer to their immediate lords/mistresses with Zhǔzi (主子), more info about honorifics here.}

^[6] _{Lǐ (里), a qin dynasty measurement, approximately 415.8 metres long.}

A/N:

I made a playlist on spotify for this series, but the songs are mostly random and local.

Chapter Text

The Crown Prince Summit’s ruined temple fell silent as the Gold-Marked Lynx completed its transformation, its golden-streaked fur gleaming under the moonlight. With a powerful heave, Mimi flung its massive body downward, beckoning Mu Qing, Chen Yang, and Song Xiao onto its broad back. Before they could protest, the lynx leaped into the well, its spiritual energy warping the space around them. The narrow shaft expanded to accommodate their descent, a surreal ripple adjusting their sizes as if guided by divine will. Darkness engulfed them, broken only by Mimi’s radiant glow, until, after half an incense time, they emerged into a breathtaking chamber.

The room dazzled with beauty beyond mortal comprehension. Its walls were encrusted with countless night pearls and diamonds, their facets reflecting Mimi’s light in a celestial dance, casting a milky way across the vaulted ceiling. Each gem was priceless, worth an entire lifetime of endless riches, their brilliance a testament to Xianle’s lost glory. Yet for Mu Qing, now a god of the Upper Court in his black-and-crimson robes, such wealth held no sway, his focus lay elsewhere.

Before them stood a crypt, its centerpiece three coffins arranged in a solemn tableau. A humble resting place compared to the grandeur of the Great Hall, the tomb was remarkably spartan. Its unfinished state meant it lacked any lavish decorations, containing only three simple coffins.

Two larger coffins flanked a smaller one, their lids sealed with intricate runes. Behind the smallest coffin, an empty stack of dried hay was bound upright, clad in exquisite clothing and a golden mask concealing its face. A sword, sharp and dazzling, extended from its hands, its tip pointed directly at Mu Qing, as if guarding the crypt’s secrets.

Mu Qing recognised the figure that it supposed to be the Heavenly Crown Prince, but his breath only caught when his gaze locked on the smallest coffin.

“Yao Yao…” He whispered, stepping forward with a heavy heart. He reached for the lid, intent on confirming his son’s resting place, but Chen Yang’s voice, gentle yet firm, interrupted. “Jiangjun, I humbly suggest caution,” She said, her Phoenix Crescent podao glinting on her back, “After so long, the remains may have decayed, consumed by time.”

Mu Qing’s expression hardened, his voice cold. “It’s been three years since his death. Likely, only bones remain,” His words hung in the air, a stark acknowledgment of loss.

Song Xiao, who had remained silent, frowned in confusion. “Who are we speaking of?” He asked, his tone cautious.

Chen Yang hesitated, glancing at Mu Qing, unsure whether to answer.

Sensing her unease, Mu Qing spoke instead, “These coffins hold the King and Queen of Xianle, and the smallest… the little prince Xie Qian, my son.”

Song Xiao’s eyes widened, a wave of sorrow crossing his face. “My condolences,” He murmured, then hesitated, “...was this the young prince I visited years ago, after Xianle’s fall? I aided the fallen royal family—the Queen, the fallen Crown Prince, and his bodyguard Feng. But I never saw you there, General.”

Mu Qing’s jaw tightened, his gaze distant. “I was detained by Yong’an forces,” He said curtly, “They held me after the kingdom’s collapse.”

Song Xiao and Chen Yang exchanged shocked glances, their curiosity piqued by the revelation. “Detained?” Chen Yang whispered, but Mu Qing raised a hand.

“It’s a long tale. I’ll share it another time,” His voice carried a finality, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of pain, memories of Yong'an’s chains, Lang Yang’s conception and his separation from his children resurfacing.

The crypt’s silence deepened, broken only by Mimi’s low growl as it paced near the well, its spiritual energy still pulsing.

Mu Qing approached the smallest coffin again, his fingers brushing the runes, a silent prayer forming.

Wiping a tear, Chen Yang stepped closer, her guilt over the royals’ fate mingling with relief that Miao Miao lived.

Song Xiao, still processing, murmured, “To think I met them… and now this.” The golden-masked figure loomed behind, its sword unwavering, a guardian of the past.

The crypt of the Xianle Royal’s Mausoleum fell into a reverent hush as Mu Qing hesitated, his black-and-crimson robes pooling around him. With trembling hands, he lifted the lid of the smallest coffin, his breath catching as the sight within unveiled itself. Yao Yao’s body lay perfectly preserved, untouched by decay despite three years in the grave. His small form appeared to be merely sleeping, his face serene, framed by his dark brown hair, as if awaiting a morning’s call.

Mu Qing’s eyes widened in shock, mirrored by Chen Yang and Song Xiao behind him. “How is this possible?” Chen Yang whispered, her voice tinged with awe, while Song Xiao murmured, “A heavenly mystery, beyond our understanding…”

Mu Qing reached out, his fingers brushing Yao Yao’s cheek. The skin was cold, devoid of life, a stark reminder of the child’s stillness. Tears welled in his eyes as memories flooded back—mornings when he’d gently shake Yao Yao awake, spooning him breakfast, bathing him, and leading him to Xie Lian for lessons. The urge to rouse him now, as he once had, surged within, but reality held him. Yao Yao would never rise again.

A memory surfaced, vivid and bittersweet...

Mu Qing stepped from a dimly lit chamber where the King once rested, a tray with an empty bowl and cup in one hand, the other pressed to his mouth. An odd, salty taste lingered, nausea twisting his stomach—a secret routine he’d borne in silence. A child’s lisping voice broke his reverie. “Mama, what you doing?” Yao Yao stood before him, cradling a young Mimi, his eyes bright with innocence.

Mu Qing swallowed hard, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, smearing the evidence on his trousers. “Nothing, it’s fine,” He said quickly, setting the tray on a small buffet and closing the door. Crouching to Yao Yao’s level, he forced a smile, “What were you doing, Yao Yao?”

“I played with Mimi!” Yao Yao chirped, his joy fading into a sudden frown. Mu Qing tilted his head, “Why the sadness?”

Yao Yao’s voice grew small, “I miss Beibei…” 

Mu Qing’s heart ached, considering a hunt to replace his pet rooster, but Yao Yao’s tiny hand patted his hair, “Don’t be sad,” The boy said, “Mama, wanna play with Yao Yao too?” 

Mu Qing nodded, his voice softening, “Let’s go!” He would like to go to the river soon and wipe his mouth clean.

Yao Yao clasped Mu Qing’s hand and drew him out of the house, “Mama won’t be sad anymowe, okay?”  And the memory faded, leaving a tender ache.

Tears streaked Mu Qing’s face as he wiped them away, reaching into the wide sleeve of his robe. He withdrew a small, knitted red rooster doll—Beibei—it was lovingly crafted. Gently, he lifted Yao Yao’s cold hands, arranging them to cradle the doll against his chest. “I’m not sad anymore,” Mu Qing whispered, kissing the boy’s forehead, his voice breaking, “Now you have Beibei again. Your longing is eased.”

The sight moved Chen Yang and Song Xiao, their eyes glistening. Chen Yang clutched her podao, her guilt for the royals’ fate mingling with relief for this small comfort. Song Xiao stepped forward, raising his hands in a gesture of reverence, he intoned, “May the spirits guide your soul, young prince. Let your essence find peace in the celestial currents.” His prayer echoed softly, the pearls and diamonds amplifying its resonance.

The crypt of the Xianle Royal’s Mausoleum grew heavy with silence as Mu Qing lingered over Yao Yao’s coffin, his black-and-crimson robes pooling around him. With a trembling hand, he lowered the lid, the soft thud echoing like a final farewell. Tears still glistened in his eyes, but he turned his gaze to the two larger coffins flanking his son’s resting place. A pang of hesitation gripped him, should he disturb their peace? Yet, a memory stirred; the Queen of Xianle, who had aided him on several occasions, her kindness a counterpoint to the kingdom’s decay. He owed her a gesture of respect, despite the confession of sins in the letter she’d left him.

But the letter’s weight resurfaced, the Queen’s admission of the royals’ schemes, the pain it inflicted on Mu Qing’s parents. Though he was slowly learning to forgive, the scars remained, a bitter ache he could not erase. Uncertain which coffin held the Queen, he approached the leftmost one, his fingers tracing the runes before lifting the lid. The sight within stole his breath.

The King of Xianle lay in state, his form resplendent even in death. He was draped in a royal yellow dragon robe, woven from the finest silk, intricately embroidered with nine gold and cinnabar-red five-clawed dragons whose obsidian eyes gazed into eternity. The luxurious cuffs and collar, stiff with brocade, were edged with imported mink fur, a testament to the kingdom’s past wealth and reach—a stark contrast to the ruin it had become.

Song Xiao stepped forward, raising his hands in a daoist gesture. “May your spirit find peace, Your Majesty,” He intoned, his voice steady with reverence.

But Mu Qing’s expression darkened, a surge of rage igniting within him. “How can you still flaunt your wealth...” He hissed, his voice trembling with fury, “...after you took everything from my parents and ruined me!?” His hand rose, a crackling arc of lightning— a destructive spell—flaring from his palm, its celestial energy poised to shatter the King’s remains.

Chen Yang and Song Xiao exchanged alarmed glances, realising the spell’s intent. Song Xiao lunged forward, intent on restraining Mu Qing. “Jiangjun, wait—” He began, but the light abruptly retracted, sucked back into Mu Qing’s hand.

Mu Qing lowered his arm, his chest heaving as he fought to steady his breath, the anger draining from his eyes. The spell dissipated, leaving only the echo of his rage. He closed his eyes, drawing deep breaths to quell the storm within. A new thought emerged; Xie Lian, who had yearned to pay respects to his parents, had never had the chance to see them. To destroy the King’s body now would rob Xie Lian of that closure. With a heavy heart, Mu Qing lowered the coffin lid, sealing the King’s opulent form once more. “Not for you...” He murmured, his voice a mix of resentment and restraint, “...but for him.”

Chen Yang stepped closer, her expression soft with understanding, while Song Xiao exhaled in relief, his hands still poised from his aborted intervention.

The crypt of the Xianle Royal’s Mausoleum grew still as Mu Qing turned from the King’s sealed coffin, his black-and-crimson robes swaying with a measured resolve. The weight of his earlier rage lingered, but a new purpose guided him to the remaining large coffin.

With a steady hand, he lifted the lid, revealing the Queen of Xianle. Her form lay preserved in elegant black attire, woven from the silk of an extremely rare worm, a tribute from her homeland. The fabric, a marvel of intricate craftsmanship, shimmered with subtle iridescence, interwoven with fragrant herbal satchels that lent a faint scent of jasmine and sandalwood to the air. Her face, serene and peaceful in her eternal slumber, bore no trace of the turmoil that had marked Xianle’s fall.

Mu Qing’s initial resentment flickered, memories of the Queen’s confessed sins in her letter, the pain inflicted on his family, surged briefly. Yet, her past kindnesses—aid offered during his struggles—softened his heart. He exhaled, setting aside his bitterness. “Let us pray,” He said, his voice steady. Chen Yang and Song Xiao joined him, their heads bowed in reverence.

Song Xiao raised his hands, intoning a daoist prayer, “May your spirit ascend, Your Majesty, and find harmony in the celestial flow.” Chen Yang echoed softly, her voice trembling with emotion.

Closing his eyes, Mu Qing spoke from the heart, “I am slowly learning to forgive you, Your Majesty, for the debts of kindness you once paid me. I bring no offerings today, and I feel no guilt for it—consider it a repayment for your sins against me,” His words carried a quiet acceptance, a step toward healing the wounds of his past.

With a gentle motion, Mu Qing lowered the coffin lid, sealing the Queen’s peaceful form. He stepped back, his gaze sweeping over the three coffins—Yao Yao’s small one nestled between the royal pair, and the golden-masked figure behind them remained still. Turning, Mu Qing approached Mimi, the Gold-Marked Lynx, its massive form still radiating spiritual energy. “Let’s return,” He said, and his two deputies climbed onto the lynx’s broad back. Mimi’s golden eyes gleamed as it leaped into the well, the space warping once more to guide them upward through the darkness. 

They emerged at the Crown Prince Summit, the ruined temple’s charred ruins fading as Mimi ascended, carrying them back to the Palace of Xuan Zhen. The celestial bridge reformed, its golden light bathing the trio as they approached the palace’s vibrant halls, adorned with murals and carved beams.

The lynx’s golden streaks drawing gasps of awe from passing deities. Its majestic presence, a mythical beast born of the mausoleum’s energy, captivated most, their murmurs of admiration filling the air. A few, however, cast envious glances, their eyes narrowing at Mu Qing’s newfound companion.

Mimi’s paws touched the marble floor, its head held high, as Mu Qing dismounted, his robes settling with regal poise. Chen Yang and Song Xiao followed, their expressions a mix of wonder and relief. The lynx shrank to its original feline form, curling contentedly at Mu Qing’s feet.

^|>

The southeastern hills buzzed with whispers of Yuechang’s defiance, its name spreading like wildfire across villages and towns. News of their guerrilla raid on the Xuli outpost, reclaiming food for the oppressed, had ignited hope among the downtrodden. Several villages, inspired by Feng Xin’s tale of resistance, began pledging allegiance to Yuechang, their elders swearing oaths under makeshift banners of cloud and lotus emblems. Some had already formally joined, their fields and granaries now under Yuechang’s protection, a fledgling network of support taking root.

In their hidden camp, Qie Lan stood by a fire, her cloud-etched armour glinting as a shadow swooped overhead. A majestic eagle landed before her, its talons clutching a sealed parchment. She untied it with care, her sharp eyes scanning the script. A rare smile softened her features—it was from her father. The letter detailed how a county, nestled in the fertile plains beyond the hills, had declared its allegiance to Yuechang.

...Yuechang will rise as a new nation, free from the tyranny of Xuli and Yong'an. I long for the day we reunite.

Qie Lan clutched the parchment, her resolve hardening. “Soon, Father,” She murmured, her thoughts turning to their family’s separation during Xuli’s raids.

Feng Xin, his new hawk-carved bow slung over his shoulder, sharpened his sword nearby. The raid had earned him respect among the rebels, and he now trained their archers, his Xianle-honed skills turning novices into marksmen. Bai Jianguo, his farmer’s strength bolstered by a captured Xuli spear, led supply runs, rallying villagers to contribute grain and labor. Together, they fortified Yuechang’s influence, establishing outposts along trade routes and negotiating with skeptical elders. Feng Xin’s strategic mind mapped ambush points, while Bai Jianguo’s local knowledge smoothed tensions, their partnership a cornerstone of Yuechang’s growth.

The movement’s progress was slow but steady. Southeastern Central Plain, a rugged expanse of hills and rivers, saw Yuechang’s cloud and lotus banners fluttering over a dozen villages, their numbers swelling with defectors from Xuli’s ranks. Yuechang’s vision of a sovereign state, free from oppressive lords, resonated, drawing artisans, farmers, and warriors alike. Feng Xin led a successful defense against a Xuli patrol, his arrows felling foes from afar, while Bai Jianguo organised the redistribution of seized goods, earning loyalty from newly joined hamlets. The region’s strategic rivers, vital for trade and defense, began aligning under Yuechang’s control, their influence creeping toward larger settlements.

Qie Lan convened the council that evening, Feng Xin and Bai Jianguo at her side, to discuss Yuechang’s next move. As they poured over a crude map, the question of a strategic foothold arose. In southeastern Central Plain, where rivers and mountains shaped power, the most viable city to establish a nation’s foundation was Panyu.^[7] Located at the Pearl River Delta, Panyu offered a natural harbor for trade with southern seas, fertile lands for agriculture, and a defensible position against northern incursions from Xuli or Yong'an. Its proximity to the Xi River system allowed control of inland waterways, a lifeline for supplies and communication, while its coastal access invited alliances with maritime tribes. Occupying Panyu would serve as Yuechang’s gateway, a symbol of sovereignty and a base to expand northward, leveraging its economic and military potential.

Qie Lan traced the map, her finger resting on the delta region. “Panyu could be our key,” She said, her voice firm, “Its rivers and port will sustain us, and its location shields us from Xuli’s reach.”

Feng Xin nodded, his strategist’s mind aligning, “A stronghold there, with ambushes along the Xi,^[8] could break their supply lines.”

Practical as ever, Bai Jianguo added, “The farmers there know the land, they’d join if we protect their fields.” The council agreed, setting their sights on Panyu as Yuechang’s opening move, a beacon of hope in a land yearning for freedom.

...

..

.

Among the deities watching from the Heavenly Realm, whispers of this mortal uprising reached Jun Wu. In the resplendent halls of the Heavenly Realm, where golden clouds swirled and celestial music hummed, The Heavenly Emperor reclined on an ornate throne, his divine aura casting a subtle glow. His lips curved into a faint smile as he considered Feng Xin, once a deputy of Xie Lian. “A fascinating talent,” Jun Wu mused, his voice resonant, “Like Xuan Zhen, he served Xianle, and that prince had a rare gift for spotting potential and wielding it. Feng Xin’s skills may soon earn him a martial god’s ascent.” With a sly grin, Jun Wu’s mind churned with ideas for a fitting title, honouring his might.

His reverie was interrupted by a graceful figure gliding forward—a fairy from the ethereal race of Avalon. Her translucent wings shimmered, her attire a cascade of silver gossamer, yet her role was humble, a servant to the gods. In the Heavenly Realm, fairies were an ethereal lineage born of Avalon’s mists, they considered themselves as higher than mortals, but never facing the ordeals or heavenly calamities that forged deities. Thus, they remained attendants in the heavenly realm, their beauty a quiet backdrop to divine power. She bowed, her voice lilting, “My Lord, the Middle Court buzzes with news. General Xuan Zhen has acquired a mythical beast; a Gold-Marked Lynx transformed from his pet cat through a brief cultivation at the Crown Prince Summit.”

Jun Wu’s smile faded, his gaze sharpening. He dismissed the fairy with a wave, rising to stand by a vast window overlooking the Palace of Xuan Zhen, its vibrant murals and carved beams aglow in the distance. The fairy retreated, sensing the storm in his silence.

His thoughts darkened. Mu Qing’s growth was too swift, the memory of Pei Ming’s rapid rise years ago flickering in his mind. His southern territory, vast as it is, was meant to test his worthiness at his side, not to rival him! He clenched a fist, his divine energy flaring briefly. A fleeting memory of his final moments with Zhen Luo surfacing, a flicker of regret that he hadn’t killed the cat along with her then.

I won’t allow anyone to threaten my supremacy!

^|>

Feng Xin, Qie Lan, and their Yuechang allies journeyed to Huáijí (怀集), the county mentioned in Qie Lan’s father’s letter. The rolling hills gave way to fertile plains, where cloud and lotus banners fluttered alongside the county’s modest gates. They were greeted by the magistrate, a wiry man with a welcoming smile, who ushered them into a courtyard bustling with villagers.

Qie Lan’s eyes lit up as an older man with silver-streaked hair—Qié Mò (伽末), her father—emerged, his arms open. Beside him stood her younger brother, Qié Shùn (伽順), a lean youth with a sharp gaze, his hands calloused from training.

The reunion warmed into a light feast under a canopy of silk, the table laden with steamed buns and river fish. Qie Mo raised a cup, his voice gruff but proud, “Huaiji stands with Yuechang. We believe your dream of a free nation will break Xuli and Yong'an’s grip.”

Qie Lan nodded, her cloud-etched armour catching the lantern light, “Father, with your county’s support, we’re stronger. Our next step is Panyu, a gateway to sovereignty.”

Feng Xin, his hawk-carved bow resting against his chair, leaned forward, “Panyu’s Pearl River Delta gives us trade and defense. Ambushing along the Xi River will choke Xuli’s supplies.”

Bai Jianguo, his spear propped nearby, added, “The farmers here know the southern routes. They’ll fight if we shield their lands.”

Qie Shun, eager to prove himself, chimed in, “I’ve trained a scout unit. We can map Panyu’s weak points.”

The council solidified their plan. Yuechang’s influence, now spanning a dozen villages and Huaiji county, would pivot toward Panyu. Feng Xin took the lead, his Xianle-honed instincts guiding the preparations. The next morning, he oversaw the assembly of a war band; archers trained by his hand, spearmen led by Bai Jianguo, and scouts under Qie Shun. They gathered provisions from Huaiji’s granaries, loading carts with rice and dried meat, while Feng Xin tested his bow, loosing arrows into a target with deadly precision. Qie Lan distributed maps, marking ambush sites along the Xi river, while artisans forged cloud-and-lotus-emblazoned shields. The air thrummed with purpose as they set out, Feng Xin at the vanguard, his resolve a beacon for Yuechang’s dream.

The ethereal glow of the Heavenly Realm bathed the Palace of Xuan Zhen in a soft radiance as Jun Wu descended, his divine presence a quiet storm. Within the palace’s vibrant halls, adorned with murals and carved beams, he found Mimi—now reverted to her cat form—playfully batting at a spool of thread, her gold-streaked fur glinting.

Deputy Chen Yang approached with a respectful bow. “Shenwu Dadi,”^[9] She greeted, her voice steady.

Jun Wu’s gaze shifted to her. “Where is Xuan Zhen?” He inquired, his tone commanding yet calm.

Chen Yang dipped her head, “Jiangjun is in his study, organising the priorities of our worshippers’ prayers.” She gestured toward a pavilion, “Please, wait there while I fetch him.”

Jun Wu chuckled, a rich, melodic sound, raising a hand to stop her, “No need to trouble yourself.” With a flick of his wrist, he activated a Spiritual Communication Array, a shimmering rune flaring in the air.

Chen Yang froze, a flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. Of course, they’re gods now, she chided herself, her old habits as a servant lingering despite her elevation.

Moments later, Mu Qing arrived, his black-and-crimson robes flowing as he greeted Jun Wu with a slight stammer, his mind racing. Why is he here again? He wondered, cupping his hands and bowing deeply, “My Lord, welcome to my humble abode.”

Jun Wu waved a hand, dismissing the formality, “You may leave us, Deputy.”

Mu Qing nodded reluctantly, his concern for her safety evident, but he allowed her to depart. He said, “Go train with the guards for now.” The young woman nodded, bowing and leaving them alone.

Jun Wu’s eyes twinkled as he watched Mimi. “Is that your cat?” He asked, his voice curious.

Mu Qing straightened, responding with polite deference, “Yes, My Lord.”

Jun Wu rose, approaching the feline with a measured step, “What’s its name?”

Mu Qing replied softly, “Mimi.”

Jun Wu smiled, a rare warmth in his expression, “A charming name.”

Mu Qing’s gaze softened, “It was a gift from my late son, Xie Qian.”

Jun Wu nodded approvingly, “Your son had a fine taste in names.”

A brief silence fell, Mu Qing’s eyes tinged with melancholy as memories of Yao Yao surfaced. Jun Wu broke it, his tone gentle, “Xie Qian passed in peace, I assure you, finding happiness in the afterlife.”

Mu Qing exhaled, a weight lifting. “I hope so, My Lord...” He murmured, a flicker of relief in his voice.

Jun Wu continued, “He must have adored this cat.” Mu Qing nodded, but before he could elaborate, a burst of light flared from Jun Wu’s hand. He flung it toward Mimi, the energy arcing with divine intent!

Mu Qing’s heart lurched, panic rising. “My Lord, what have you done?!” He exclaimed, stepping forward. The light struck Mimi, and in an instant, she transformed into her Giant Gold-Marked Lynx form, her golden fur blazing, eyes fierce yet majestic.

Jun Wu’s amusement was palpable, a chuckle escaping him. “Well done, Xuan Zhen! She’s truly a mythical beast now,” He said, offering congratulations, “No need to worry, I’ve not harmed her.” He approached the lynx, stroking her fur, murmuring as if communicating.

A low-level mythical beast, unable to speak human tongue...

He looked satisfied with his assessment.

But with age, her level will rise...

After a moment, he stepped back, and Mimi reverted to her cat form, curling around the spool. Jun Wu turned to Mu Qing, “Keep this discreet. Let Mimi not draw undue attention from other gods. Possessing a mythical beast is rare, even among us—a mark of your growing strength,” He paused, then added with a grin, “Thank you for the hospitality.”

Mu Qing blinked, realising he’d offered nothing—no tea, no refreshment. A flush of embarrassment crept up his neck as Jun Wu departed, leaving him to ponder the Emperor’s motives.

^|>

The dawn mist clung to the Xi river’s banks as Feng Xin stood at the vanguard of Yuechang’s war band, his hawk-carved bow taut in his hands, arrows gleaming with Xianle-forged tips. The air thrummed with tension, the cloud and lotus banners fluttering as Yuechang’s forces, which consisted of the archers trained by Feng Xin, spearmen led by Bai Jianguo, and scouts under Qie Shun, prepared to strike at Panyu. The Pearl River Delta loomed ahead, its strategic harbor a prize to secure their fledgling nation. Qie Lan, her cloud-etched armour resolute, surveyed the river’s curve, while her father, Qie Mo, and brother Qie Shun flanked her, their faces set with determination.

Feng Xin’s plan was bold; ambush Xuli’s supply convoy along the Xi, cutting their lifeline to Panyu’s garrison. He had spent nights mapping the river’s bends, training his archers to strike from hidden perches among the willows. Bai Jianguo’s spearmen readied rafts, their captured Xuli weapons gleaming, while Qie Shun’s scouts reported Xuli’s movements. The war band numbered two hundred, a mix of rebels and Huaiji recruits, their morale bolstered by recent victories. Feng Xin adjusted his quiver, his mind sharp; This is for Xianle’s dream and Yuechang’s future!

Opposing them was General Lǐ Hào (李豪), a Xuli commander known for his iron fist and tactical cunning. Clad in cobalt armour etched with snarling tigers, his broad frame commanded a force of five hundred—infantry with spears and archers patrolling the riverbanks. Li Hao’s scarred face twisted into a sneer as he oversaw the convoy, laden with grain and weapons bound for Panyu. “These rebels think they can challenge Xuli?” He growled to his lieutenants, “Crush them at the Xi, and let their bodies feed the fish.” His strategy relied on overwhelming numbers, his archers poised to rain death from the cliffs.

The battle began at midday. Feng Xin signaled from a willow thicket, his archers shooting a volley that pierced Xuli’s vanguard, arrows whistling through the mist. Bai Jianguo’s rafts surged forward, spearmen clashing with Xuli infantry, their spears locking in a brutal dance. Qie Lan led a flanking charge, her dual swords flashing, while Qie Mo directed reserves from a hillock, his voice steady despite his age.

Li Hao roared orders, his archers retaliating, arrows thudding into shields and earth. The Xi ran red as bodies fell, the river’s current carrying the fallen downstream.

Feng Xin darted through the chaos, his bow singing as he felled a Xuli captain mid-charge. He leaped onto a raft, rallying Bai Jianguo’s men as they breached the convoy, sacks of grain spilling into the water. Qie Shun’s scouts harried the flanks, their slingshots disrupting Xuli formations. But Li Hao countered, leading a counterattack with a phalanx of spearmen, their shields forming an impenetrable wall. His archers targeted Yuechang’s leaders, an arrow grazing Qie Lan’s arm as she parried a thrust.

The tide turned as Li Hao spotted Qie Mo, isolated on the hillock, directing the reserves. With a cruel grin, he knocked a barbed arrow, its tip glinting with poison. “End the old man, and their spirit breaks,” He muttered, drawing his bow. The arrow flew, a deadly arc aimed at Qie Mo’s chest!

Time slowed as the missile closed in—until Feng Xin, sensing the danger, pivoted from the raft. With a desperate leap, he loosed an arrow mid-air, its trajectory colliding with Li Hao’s shot, splintering it inches from Qie Mo!

Feng Xin landed hard, his bow raised, eyes locked on the Xuli commander as the battle raged around them. “YOU COWARD!” Feng Xin bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos, “HIDING BEHIND POISON AND TREACHERY—FACE ME FAIRLY IF YOU DARE!”

FOOTNOTES:

^[7] _{Pānyú (番禺), the older name of Guǎngzhōu (廣州), was founded on the eastern bank of the Pearl River in 214 BC.}

^[8] _{Xī Jiāng (西江) or Xi river, a major river system in southern China, historically known as one of the key waterways in the Pearl River Delta region. In the context of ancient southeastern China (circa Zhou Dynasty era), the Xi River would have been a critical artery for trade, transportation, and military strategy, connecting inland areas to the coastal hub of Panyu (Guangzhou).}

^[9] _{Shénwǔ Dàdì (神武大帝) means Heavenly Martial Emperor.}

A/N:

‘Zhen Luo’ is the fanon name of Mu Qing’s mother, Jun Wu referred to the event of chapter 34 in ”Loss of History”.

Most likely, Feng Xin will ascend in the next chapter.

Chapter Text

The tide turned as Li Hao spotted Qie Mo, isolated on the hillock, directing the reserves. With a cruel grin, he knocked a barbed arrow, its tip glinting with poison. “End the old man, and their spirit breaks,” He muttered, drawing his bow. The arrow flew, a deadly arc aimed at Qie Mo’s chest!

Time slowed as the missile closed in—until Feng Xin, sensing the danger, pivoted from the raft. With a desperate leap, he shot an arrow mid-air, its trajectory colliding with Li Hao’s shot, splintering it inches from Qie Mo.

Feng Xin landed hard, his bow raised, eyes locked on the Xuli commander as the battle raged around them. “YOU COWARD!” Feng Xin bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos, “HIDING BEHIND POISON AND TREACHERY—FACE ME FAIRLY IF YOU DARE!”

But the clash hung in the balance, Xuli’s numbers pressing hard. Recognising the stalemate, Li Hao signaled a retreat, his forces withdrawing under a hail of arrows, while Feng Xin, wary of overextension, ordered Yuechang’s war band to fall back, their initial control of the Xi incomplete after three days of fierce fighting.

In the aftermath, the Xi River’s banks fell silent, littered with broken weapons and the groans of the wounded. General Li Hao, with his cobalt armor dented, retreated to a fortified camp near Panyu. Frustration gnawed at him as he penned an urgent missive to Xuli’s high command;

The rebels grow bold...

He wrote, his brush strokes sharp;

Send reinforcements, five hundred more, with cavalry, to crush Yuechang before they seize the delta.

He sealed the scroll with his tiger seal, dispatching an eagle into the night, his mind calculating a counterstrike to reclaim the river’s edge.

Meanwhile, Feng Xin regrouped with Qie Lan, Qie Mo, and Bai Jianguo in a hidden glen, their forces battered but unbroken. The initial assault, intended to secure Panyu’s outskirts in three to five days, had stalled, with full conquest still a week away. Qie Mo, his voice hoarse, assessed the situation, “Li Hao’s crafty—he’ll call for aid. We must adapt.”

Feng Xin nodded, wiping blood from his brow, “We’ll fortify our river positions and train more archers. Brother Bai, secure the supply lines.” Bai Jianguo gripped his spear, agreeing to rally Huaiji’s farmers.

Qie Lan traced a map, her finger lingering on the Xi, “We’ll feint toward the eastern bank, draw his reinforcements into an ambush. Shun’s scouts can pinpoint their approach.”

Qie Shun, eager, saluted, “I’ll track them by dawn.”

Feng Xin tightened his bowstring, his resolve hardening, “Li Hao thinks he’s won a reprieve. We’ll hit harder next time, and Panyu will fall.”

The council devised a plan; reinforce the Xi with traps, enlist allied villages for manpower, and await Li Hao’s reinforcements to spring a decisive trap. The conquest’s progress hinged on this cooldown, a week to turn retreat into triumph.

Outside, as Yuechang’s forces regrouped, gathering strength for their next strike on Panyu, a quiet devotion took root among the soldiers. Several gathered near a makeshift shrine—a crude altar of stones and twigs—erected in a clearing, where they offered prayers to Xuan Zhen for blessings in the coming battle.

One soldier, carving a miniature statue from wood, muttered, “Feng Xin is promising... mark my words! He’ll lead us to victory.”

Another said, “Aiya,^[10] and Xuan Zhen’s beauty is legendary, they say he’s a vision even among gods!

“How do you know? Where did you get that information?” asked the carving soldier, a hint of surprise in his voice.

The man shrugged, a faint smile playing on his lips, “I once saw his statue in the temple near my home. The priest there even dreamt of him, and apparently, he was exceedingly stunning,” He eyed the statue and chuckled, “This carving, though…”

The sculptor frowned at his work, its rough-hewn features far from elegant, “This looks nothing like ‘beautiful’—more like a grumpy farmer!” Laughter erupted, light-hearted jibes flying.

“Give it up, mate!” a comrade teased, “Maybe, just stick to fighting!”

But a stern voice cut in, “He’s a martial god—judge him by his might, not his looks! His power’s what matters.”

Their prayers reached the Heavenly Realm, stirring Mu Qing from his palace. Drawn to investigate, he descended under the cover of night, his black-and-crimson robes blending with the shadows. The makeshift shrine caught his eye, but the shoddily crafted statue offended his sensibilities. An insult to his divine form, his lips thinning. As the soldiers slept, he summoned a flicker of spiritual energy, shattering the statue into splinters with a cold glare, the debris scattering silently.

Using his spiritual senses, he traced the statue’s creator—a young archer named Lǐ Wèi (李衛). That night, he invaded Li Wei’s dreams, his ethereal form materialising in a misty void. Mu Qing’s voice, icy and commanding, cut through the haze, “You dare craft such a crude likeness of me? My visage is refined, not this… mockery. A martial god’s image demands precision, your effort was laughable.”

Li Wei, trembling in the dream, gaped at Mu Qing’s towering presence, his dark-and-crimson robes flowing like liquid night, his features sharp yet hauntingly beautiful under a celestial glow. Li Wei stammered, shrinking under Mu Qing’s gaze, “X-Xuan Zhen Jiangjun, I meant no disrespect, I–I am no sculptor!”

Mu Qing’s eyes narrowed. “Excuses won’t mend it. But…” His tone softened slightly, “...your faith isn’t wasted. I’ll grant your blessing, strength for your arrows, courage for your heart. Serve Yuechang well, and refine your skills.” The dream shifted, Mu Qing’s figure glowing, his chiseled features and regal poise leaving Li Wei awestruck. The dream faded, leaving the archer wide-eyed, his heart pounding as he murmured, “Xuan Zhen… his beauty is beyond words!” His awe spread among the waking troops, fueling their resolve.

Mu Qing lingered, strolling through the camp. Near a fire, Bai Jianguo snored under a blanket, his spear beside him. “Typical farmer... sleeps like a log even in war,” Mu Qing muttered, a hint of disdain in his voice.

Inside a tent was the Qie family; Qie Lan planning with maps, Qie Mo resting, and Qie Shun polishing a blade. Mu Qing drew a colder remark; “A family of fighters... competent, but their recklessness could cost them.”

As he turned to ascend, his gaze caught Feng Xin near Panyu’s fortress, diligently studying the Xuli-guarded tower, his face weary and dishevelled.

A familiar ache settled in Mu Qing’s chest, sentiment washed over him, bittersweet longing for their shared days, tinged with irritation at their last bitter parting. He remembered the arguments, the harsh words exchanged, and the subsequent separation that had stretched into a chasm between them.

If Feng Xin ascended as a martial god, would Heaven grow livelier—or more insufferable for him? He imagined the endless bureaucratic wrangling, the pomp and circumstance that Feng Xin, for all his martial prowess, had always disdained. As for now, Mu Qing had found his own hard-won peace within the serene, if sometimes sterile, halls of the Heavenly Realm.

Yet, a sharp, unwelcome pang of guilt gnawed at him, seeing the haggard lines etched around Feng Xin’s eyes, the slump in his shoulders that spoke of sleepless nights and burdens too heavy to bear alone.

Mu Qing remained suspended in the ether, an unseen observer, his own form a shimmering, almost translucent silhouette against the vibrant earthy hues. He imagined being there, standing beside Feng Xin, perhaps offering a hand or a quiet word of comfort. But as a god, his divine nature forbade such direct intervention.

“Your face grows duller, more chaotic by the day,” He whispered, wishing Feng Xin could hear. “You’ve yet to find your peace,” Mu Qing sighed, a soundless echo of his heartache. He yearned to reach out, to bridge the chasm that separated them, but it was a bridge he could not build. His form gradually faded further into the ether, drawn back to the Heavenly Realm, leaving Feng Xin to his solitary watch.

In the Great Martial Temple, Jun Wu observed the Yuechang conquest unfolding in Mu Qing’s southern territory of the Central Plain. Aware of Mu Qing and Feng Xin’s tumultuous history, he saw an opportunity.

This is the moment to test Xuan Zhen’s priorities,  he thought, his divine eyes narrowing.

Descending to the dungeon beneath the temple, he entered a cavernous hall where his crafted demons languished in iron cells, their eyes glowing with malice. The air thrummed with their restrained power.

Jun Wu approached a cell, his voice commanding, “Rise, my creations.”

A hulking demon with jagged claws snarled, its voice a rasp, “Master, we hunger for chaos.”

Jun Wu nodded, “Head to Meizhou, poison their water and burn their spiritual hubs.”

Next, a lithe shadow-demon hissed, its form shifting, “I’ll sow fear in Jincheng’s streets, Great Emperor.”

Jun Wu smirked, “Good. Disrupt the southwest, draw Xuan Zhen’s focus. Let’s see if he guards his territory, or chases old bonds.” He released the seals, the demons vanishing into a rift, their laughter echoing as they descended to wreak havoc.

The next dawn broke over the Xi River, its waters glinting with the promise of battle. Bolstered by their revised strategy, Yuechang moved to reclaim the initiative against Xuli. Their traps, pitfalls lined with sharpened stakes and tripwires rigged with logs, now dotted the riverbanks, laid by Bai Jianguo’s diligent hands. Allied villages, rallied overnight, swelled their ranks with two hundred fresh recruits, their spears and slingshots gleaming under Qie Shun’s command. Feng Xin stood at the forefront, his hawk-carved bow strung, eyes scanning the Xuli positions. “Hold the line,” He ordered, his voice steady, “We strike hard, then fade.”

The assault began with a coordinated feint. Qie Lan led a decoy charge along the eastern bank, her dual swords flashing as she drew Xuli archers into the trap zone. A thunderous crash followed as logs toppled, crushing a dozen soldiers, their cries echoing. Feng Xin loosed a volley, his arrows piercing a Xuli officer mid-command, his precision turning the tide. Bai Jianguo’s spearmen surged from the reeds, skewering the disoriented enemy, while Qie Shun’s scouts pelted the flanks with stones, disrupting formations. Feng Xin darted forward, leaping onto a raft to engage a Xuli captain, his bow snapping as he killed the foe with a single shot, blood staining the water.

General Li Hao, with his cobalt armor scarred, rallied his troops, his tiger-etched shield deflecting an arrow. “PUSH THEM BACK!” He roared, his spearmen forming a shield wall. The battle went back and forth, Yuechang’s traps thinning Xuli’s numbers, but Li Hao’s discipline held firm.

Then, a horn blared—a Xuli reinforcement of six hundred cavalry and infantry, thundered from Panyu’s gates, their banners snapping in the wind! The newcomers pincered Yuechang, overwhelming their lines. Feng Xin fought valiantly, his arrows felling riders, but the tide turned. “FALL BACK!” He shouted, ushering Qie Lan and Bai Jianguo to retreat as Xuli’s spears closed in.

The desperate soldiers, their faces etched with fear and exhaustion, murmured pleas to Xuan Zhen. “General Xuan Zhen...” They whispered, their voices hoarse with desperation, “...grant us the strength to endure this. We are at our limit, our hope flickering. Lend us your power, O great Xuan Zhen, for without your aid, we fear all is lost!”

But their heartfelt pleas were met only with the chilling silence of the air, an agonising void where they had hoped for a sign of divine intervention. No miraculous light, no surge of power, nothing but the cold, hard reality of their desperate situation.

The Palace of Xuan Zhen buzzed with urgency, its halls flooded with prayers from the southwest. Mu Qing sat amidst a storm of spiritual whispers, his brow furrowed as he sifted through the pleas. From Meizhou came cries;

“Xuan Zhen, save us from the demon fire consuming our homes!”

“O Martial God, purge the poison choking our fields!”

“Merciful Lord, shield my family from these fiends!”

From Jincheng, the voices wailed;

“Divine Protector, banish the shadows terrorising our streets!”

“Great Xuan Zhen, heal the sick struck by demon blight!”

The deluge overwhelmed him, his divine senses straining to prioritize.

Amid the chaos, a familiar voice pierced through—Yu Gui, a former Xianle court physician who had saved Mu Qing’s life multiple times, sharing in his joys and sorrows. His desperate prayer rang clear; “O Xuan Zhen, behold our ruined city, ravaged by the poison and demon fire; we beseech you, extend your divine hand to dispel this darkness and restore our peace.”

The weight of his debt to Yu Gui stirred Mu Qing. Before departing, he summoned Chen Yang and Song Xiao. “Handle the lesser prayers,” He ordered, his voice clipped, “Chen Yang, go to Jincheng, dispel the shadows. Song Xiao, aid Yuechang’s retreat. Prioritize swiftly.” They bowed, hastening to their tasks as Mu Qing’s form shimmering, and he descended to Meizhou.

...

..

.

The smoke in Meizhou billowed, thick with the stench of burning thatch and something far fouler. Demon-spawned flames clawed at the buildings, their orange light casting long, dancing shadows as desperate cries filled the air.

A radiant tempest ripped through the gloom as Mu Qing materialised. A sweeping gesture from his hand unleashed a torrent of spiritual energy, slamming into the inferno, extinguishing the immediate blaze and pushing back the toxic haze.

But the respite was brief. From the collapsing structures and darkened alleyways, more demons emerged. Not just the hulking brute from before, but several smaller, sinuous creatures with razor-sharp claws and glowing red eyes. One shrieked, leaping towards a fleeing family, but Mu Qing’s sabre, a silver-and-crimson streak, intercepted it mid-air, cleaving it in two with a sickening wetness.

Two more demons, their movements unnervingly fast, flanking him. One swung a clawed hand, aiming for his face, while the other lunged low, teeth bared. Mu Qing parried the high attack, the impact sending sparks flying, then with a lightning-fast spin, his foot connected with the low-attacking demon’s jaw. It staggered back, momentarily stunned.

Seizing the opportunity, Mu Qing’s sabre danced, a whirlwind of lethal precision. The stunned demon fell, its throat slit, while the other roared in fury, only to be met by a brutal counter-attack. Silver flashed, crimson stained the blade, and the second demon crumpled, lifeless.

More demonic figures clawed their way through the debris, their numbers seemingly endless. Mu Qing moved like a force of nature, deflecting blows, his sabre a constant blur. He was fast, powerful, but the sheer number of his adversaries began to tell. One managed to rake its claws across his arm, drawing a thin line of blood. He gritted his teeth, his cold gaze hardening. Channeling more spiritual energy, he unleashed a focused blast, tearing through three of the advancing demons, leaving scorched earth in their wake.

Despite the growing horde, Mu Qing held his ground. He dodged, weaved, and struck with relentless efficiency. Each fallen demon added to the growing pile of black ichor and twisted limbs. Finally, with a desperate surge of power, he unleashed a spiralling vortex of spiritual energy. It ripped through the remaining demons, tearing them apart from the inside out until only silence and the lingering scent of ozone remained.

Catching his breath, despite the minor wound on his arm, Mu Qing moved through the devastated streets. His touch brought solace and healing to the injured villagers.

He found Yu Gui clutching his family, their eyes wide with terror and relief. His gaze settled on the little girl, Yu Yu, nestled safely in her father’s arms. A baby then, she had now grown to be around four years old. A flicker of something profound, a deep, resonant ache, crossed Mu Qing’s usually impassive face. Miao Miao, his mind whispered a ghost of a memory, his own daughter at that very age, her laughter echoing in a place he could no longer reach. He hadn’t seen her since she was four, since he left Yong'an for good.

A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he saw how healthy Yu Yu looked, her small chest rising and falling evenly. “Your faith is answered, doctor Yu,” Mu Qing murmured, his voice carrying a hint of weariness but firm with resolve, “And your little one... she is well. That is good....”

With the city breathing a collective sigh of relief, Mu Qing stood amidst the restored peace. A sudden shimmer of the Spiritual Communication Array interrupted his thoughts, Chen Yang’s voice cutting through with formal urgency, “General Xuan Zhen, I humbly report that I am overwhelmed by the demon onslaught in Jincheng. With great regret, I beseech your assistance.”

Mu Qing’s expression hardened; without a word, he vanished in a burst of spiritual light, reappearing in Jincheng’s shadowed streets. The city writhed under a swarm of shadow-demons, their claws tearing at homes, their wails piercing the night. With her ‘Phoenix Crescent’ podao flashing, Chen Yang fought valiantly but faltered as a demon lunged, its tendrils grazing her arm.

Mu Qing descended like a storm, his sabre arcing with celestial energy, cleaving the creature in two. “Focus,” He commanded, his voice cold. Together, they moved as a unit—Mu Qing purging the streets with waves of light, banishing the shadows, while Chen Yang guarded civilians, her blade a blur.

Meanwhile, at the Xi River, Yuechang’s forces grew increasingly cornered. Xuli’s reinforcements of six hundred strong with superior weaponry, including steel-tipped spears and armoured cavalry, outnumbered them threefold.

Invisible to the mortal eyes, Song Xiao wove through the chaos, his ‘Starlit Edge’ sword unused as he channelled spiritual energy. He bolstered the stamina of weary soldiers, their breaths steadying, and from the shadows, he deflected Xuli arrows with gusts of wind, his aid unnoticed. Yet, the enemy’s tide was relentless, their phalanx advancing under General Li Hao’s barked orders.

Feng Xin fought at the forefront, shooting a cavalryman mid-charge, his arrow piercing the rider’s throat. He darted between rafts, rallying Bai Jianguo’s spearmen as they struggled against the steel tide, and parried a spear thrust with his bow’s edge, kicking the attacker into the river.

Qie Lan’s swords clashed with a Xuli officer, but their numbers pressed her back. Then, Li Hao spotted Qie Mo, directing reserves from a rise, and shot a poisoned dart. The missile streaked toward Qie Mo’s heart—his children, Qie Lan and Qie Shun, cried out in unison, “FATHER!” Their voices were raw with panic, but they were too far to intervene.

Sensing the danger, Feng Xin rushed with supernatural speed. He leaped, his bow discarded as he tackled Qie Mo, the dart grazing his shoulder. Rolling to his feet, he drew a short blade, slashing at the encroaching Xuli soldiers, driving them back with a roar. “YOU WON’T TOUCH HIM!” He bellowed, his stance defiant as Yuechang’s forces rallied briefly, only to falter under the enemy’s renewed assault.

“Xuan Zhen Jiangjun, shield us!” Li Wei prayed desperately, but the air remained silent, the divine absent amidst their plight.

Qie Shun fought with fierce determination, his lotus armour etched with delicate floral patterns across its bronze plates, gleaming as he carved a path through the Xuli ranks. His blade danced, slicing through a soldier’s spear shaft, then spinning to gut another, his young face set with resolve. “I must reach Father!” He gasped, his voice cracking as he parried a thrust, kicking an enemy into the river.

But the Xuli soldiers seemed endless, their cobalt banners surging like a tide—another fell, only for two more to take his place, their steel-tipped spears pressing him back. Sweat stung Qie Shun’s eyes, his armour dented, yet he pressed on, driven by the cries of “FATHER!” still echoing in his mind.

Feng Xin and Qie Mo stood back-to-back, their breaths ragged but unyielding. Now the main targets of Xuli’s wrath, they faced a relentless assault. Feng Xin’s hawk-carved bow lay discarded, his hands gripping a short blade as he deflected a spear, then lunged, driving the weapon into a soldier’s chest. “STAY CLOSE, SIR!” He shouted, his body a shield as he parried another strike, blood trickling from a gash on his arm.

Despite his age, Qie Mo wielded a staff with surprising vigour, smashing a soldier’s helm and sweeping another off his feet. “You’ve my gratitude, lad,” He rasped, blocking a sword thrust. Together, they make a strong wall to protect themselves, Feng Xin’s agility complementing Qie Mo’s experience.

Spotting his chance, General Li Hao raised his shield. With a sneer, he charged, his poisoned blade gleaming.

Feng Xin turned to parry, but Li Hao’s strike was a feint—his real blow came low, slashing across Feng Xin’s torso in a deep, vicious cut! Blood sprayed, Feng Xin staggering as the poison seared his veins, his blade slipping from his grasp.

A collective gasp froze the battlefield! Witnessing his friend’s fall, Bai Jianguo screamed, “FENG XIN! NO!” His spear clattered to the ground, his face pale with shock.

Yuechang soldiers and Song Xiao, hidden in the shadows, stood paralysed, their spiritual energy faltering.

Qie Lan and Qie Shun, still fighting, turned in horror, their cries lost in the din. Would Feng Xin meet his end here, his lifeblood pooling on the riverbank?

The battlefield at the Xi River froze as a deafening thunderclap split the sky, a bolt of lightning striking Feng Xin with blinding force!

Yuechang’s soldiers gasped, their cries of “NO!” piercing the air, while Xuli’s ranks jeered, sensing victory. General Li Hao smirked, his shield raised.

But Song Xiao, unseen among the shadows, recognised the divine signature, his eyes widening in awe. That lightning… he thought, recalling Feng Xin as a deputy of the Heavenly Crown Prince of Xianle, a warrior he’d once served under... had finally been transcending.

Feng Xin’s body convulsed, then stilled, the wound from Li Hao’s blade sealing as a surge of spiritual energy enveloped him. The familiar warmth from his days serving Xie Lian returned, but now it roared with unprecedented power, a celestial fire igniting his veins. Pain and fatigue vanished, replaced by a strength that coursed through him. With a roar, he swung his short blade, a wave of energy blasting back the Xuli soldiers swarming him. Caught in the shockwave, Li Hao was hurled metres away, his armour cracking as he hit the ground, eyes wide with disbelief. Struggling to his feet, He barked, “FOCUS ON HIM! BRING HIM DOWN!”

His troops charged, spears and arrows raining toward Feng Xin, but he moved like a tempest, dodging a thrust, shattering a spear with his fist, and sending soldiers flying with each swing. His blade gleamed with divine light, cutting through steel as if it were parchment. No attack touched him; he was untouchable!

Yuechang’s morale soared, their shouts of “Feng Xin!” echoing as Qie Lan and Qie Shun rallied, their cloud and lotus-etched armour flashing. Bai Jianguo, reinvigorated, drove his spear through a Xuli soldier, grinning fiercely. “THAT’S OUR MAN!” He bellowed.

Then, a horn sounded—reinforcements for Yuechang, summoned by the Huaiji magistrate, arrived with three hundred warriors, their banners bearing lotus and cloud emblems. The tide turned as they flanked Xuli, their spears joining the fray.

Feng Xin seized the moment, leaping onto a raft and launching toward Panyu’s gates. He vaulted the walls, his blade cleaving through the gatehouse guards, wood splintering as the barrier fell.

Qie Lan led a charge through the breach, her swords a whirlwind, while Bai Jianguo and Qie Shun held the flanks, their forces overwhelming the stunned Xuli garrison.

Li Hao, rallying a last stand, lunged at Feng Xin, but a single kick sent him sprawling, his blade snapping. “Yield!” Feng Xin commanded, his voice resonant with power. The Xuli commander finally collapsed, defeated, as Yuechang’s banners rose over Panyu’s towers.

Victory rang out, the Xi River’s banks alight with celebration, when a golden rift tore open the sky—the Heavenly Gates. A chorus of celestial chimes descended, bathing Feng Xin in light. His wounds healed fully, his form radiating divine energy as the gates beckoned.

Qie Lan fell to her knees, tears in her eyes. “It appears Heaven has called for you,” She whispered, “Go, our hero.” Feng Xin turned, a bittersweet smile for his comrades, then stepped into the light, ascending as a martial god, his fate sealed in the heavens.

FOOTNOTE:

^[10] _{Āiyā (哎呀): ah; oh; ugh; ouch (expressing surprise, annoyance, pain, frustration, sarcasm, etc).}

A/N:

Méizhōu (眉州) is the older name of Méishān (眉山).

Jǐnchéng (錦城) means the “Brocade City,” other name of Chengdu (actual place), it is located to the north of Meizhou/Meishan.

Let’s celebrate Feng Xin’s victory with this music (too bad, this version is not available on Spotify).

Chapter Text

In the shadowed streets of Jincheng, Mu Qing and Chen Yang moved as a seamless duo, their blades cutting through the demon-infested night. Chen Yang, in a support role, deflected a shadow-demon’s claws as it lunged, her movements guarding Mu Qing’s flank. Mu Qing, his dark-and-crimson robes billowing, unleashed waves of spiritual energy, disintegrating lesser demons with each sweep.

Their coordination shone as Chen Yang tossed a spear to pin a demon’s limb, allowing Mu Qing to sever its head with a single, icy thrust.

“Stay sharp!” Mu Qing commanded, his voice cold yet focused.

A hulking demon emerged, its muscular frame wreathed in black flames, eyes glowing with malevolent intent!

It roared, hurling a fireball that Chen Yang barely deflected, the heat singeing her armour. Mu Qing darted forward, his sabre clashing with the demon’s claws, sparks flying as he parried a crushing blow.

Chen Yang circled, lobbing spiritual-infused darts to distract it, her support buying Mu Qing time. With a surge of power, Mu Qing leaped, driving his blade through the demon’s chest, its flames flickering out as it collapsed, the ground trembling with its fall.

Jincheng’s air cleared, the city safe at last.

As Mu Qing prepared to report to the Heavenly Realm, a sudden cacophony erupted through the Group Spiritual Communication Array, voices overlapping in excitement;

Liang Wei, a civil god, chimed, “A man, they say, ascended during a war!”

Zhi Ruo, the Goddess of Tapestry, mused, “So, a martial god?”

A random deity interjected, “If a martial god, which territory will he claim?”

Pei Ming added, “I hear a new rebel group, Yuechang, is rising…”

Ling Wen pondered, “Could that become a new nation?”

Pei Ming continued, “Quite likely, and that would be his domain…”

Another voice hesitated, “I feel I know this man—”

But Zhu An declared, “Wasn’t he a deputy of Xianle!?”

Mu Qing’s eyes widened, shock freezing his features.

Chen Yang, noticing her lord’s panic, asked, “Jiangjun, what’s wrong?” Yet Mu Qing remained silent, muttering to himself.

“Feng Xin…?”

^|>

In the resplendent Great Martial Hall, the air thrummed with celestial energy as Feng Xin stood before the Heavenly Emperor, his mortal wounds healed, his form radiant with newfound divinity.

Jun Wu, his voice resonant, proclaimed, “...Henceforth, you are Jù Yáng (俱陽)—Altogether Bright—embodying the light of victory.” He presented a gleaming bow, its curves etched with wind motifs, naming it Fēngshén (風神), the ‘Wind God’ bow. Feng Xin accepted it with a nod, the weapon humming with power in his grasp.

Beside him stood Zhi Ruo, Goddess of Tapestry, her ethereal form wreathed in silken threads. Tasked by Jun Wu, she raised her hands, spiritual energy weaving around Feng Xin. His tattered armour and ragged clothes dissolved, replaced by majestic martial armoured robes in deep green and earthy tones, adorned with subtle patterns and reinforced with spiritual steel.

Feng Xin admired the craftsmanship, his voice steady yet respectful, “Goddess Zhi Ruo, your skill is unmatched—thank you.” She smiled, bowing slightly.

The golden resonance of the Great Martial Hall lingered as Jun Wu raised a hand, his voice booming with authority. “In light of Ju Yang’s ascension at Panyu, located in the southeast of the Central Plain, he is hereby appointed martial god of the south.”

“...”

A stunned silence fell, swiftly shattered by a wave of gasps and murmurs. The assembled deities exchanged incredulous glances. Hadn’t the south, vast and sprawling, been Xuan Zhen’s domain? The hall erupted into chaos.

Voices clashed in confusion. “Two martial gods for one domain? Unheard of!” A civil deity exclaimed. Another whispered, “Xuan Zhen won’t stand for this!”

Pei Ming, leaning against a pillar, chuckled dryly, “This’ll stir the pot, Xuan Zhen’s pride won’t take kindly to a rival.” A youthful god interjected, “But Panyu’s conquest justifies it, no?” The debate raged, a cacophony of speculation.

Lei Dian, the Lord Thunder Master, spoke, his voice cutting through the noise, “Two martial gods sharing a domain is a rarity, a deviation from celestial order. It has occurred but once in millennia, and seldom without strife.” As one of Jun Wu’s eldest deities, his words carried the weight of ancient knowledge, silencing the crowd momentarily.

Yet Zhu An, a sly grin spreading, clapped his hands, “Splendid! Xuan Zhen’s vast domain, finally challenged by his most despised foe. That means his downfall era begins!” His delight drew sharp looks, but the tension only thickened.

Amid the uproar, Feng Xin, still adjusting to his new ‘Wind God’ bow and deep earthy robes, overheard the repeated mention of “Xuan Zhen.” Turning to Zhi Ruo, he frowned, “Who is this Xuan Zhen they speak of?”

Zhi Ruo laughed softly, her silken threads shimmering. “You know him,” She teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Feng Xin’s curiosity flared, tinged with irritation. “What do you mean? Tell me more!” He pressed, but before she could elaborate, Jun Wu’s voice boomed, quelling the clamour.

“Enough!” Jun Wu declared, his gaze sweeping the hall, “Ju Yang’s ascension at Panyu merits this domain. It is fitting.”

Sun Wenyi, the martial god of the west, stepped forward, bowing, “May I inquire, Great Emperor, what of Xuan Zhen?”

Jun Wu smiled, a glint of strategy in his eyes, “Xuan Zhen has consented to this arrangement.”

The hall fell silent, the deities exchanging wary glances, the implications of shared rule hanging heavy. Feng Xin, still puzzled, glanced at Zhi Ruo, who merely shrugged, leaving his questions unanswered...

***

**

*

The ethereal glow of the Heavenly Realm welcomed Mu Qing and Chen Yang as they returned, their forms weary from Jincheng’s trials.

Song Xiao greeted them at the palace gates, his ‘Starlit Edge’ sheathed. “Jiangjun,” He said, bowing, “...someone you know has ascended as a martial god!”

Mu Qing’s expression remained impassive. “I already know,” He replied curtly, his robes settling as they approached the Palace of Xuan Zhen.

There, Jun Wu awaited, his divine presence commanding. “Xuan Zhen, a word in private,” He intoned. Mu Qing nodded to Chen Yang and Song Xiao. “Rest now,” He instructed, and they withdrew.

Alone, Jun Wu’s gaze softened. “Are you injured?” He asked.

Mu Qing shrugged, “Merely a minor wound.”

Without prompting, Jun Wu gently touched Mu Qing’s lacerated arm, a warm light emanating from his palm, instantly mending the flesh.

Mu Qing shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t have to... but t–thank you,” He murmured, his usual frostiness tinged with embarrassment, and Jun Wu smiled.

They walked toward a pavilion, when Jun Wu’s tone probed, “It seems you’ve endured a difficult ordeal.”

Mu Qing sighed, his fatigue evident. “Fortunately, it was resolved,” He said, though his voice carried a hint of failure.

Jun Wu tilted his head, his tone with concern, “How do you find managing the southern domain? You appear quite exhausted.”

Mu Qing’s eyes darkened, “Lately, the prayers have multiplied. I’m grateful to have managed, but I feel my efforts fall short.”

Jun Wu smiled, a calculated edge to his words, “You’ve not been a martial god long. This is but a taste, greater trials await, including heavenly calamities to raise your level.”

Mu Qing’s confidence wavered, his mind churning. Could he handle the vast south alone? He recalled Xie Lian, whose sprawling domain once drowned him in prayers, overwhelming Mu Qing and Feng Xin as his deputies. The memory of their shared struggles resurfaced—sorting endless pleas, their exhaustion mirroring his now. His thoughts drifted to Song Xiao and Chen Yang, who might soon falter as he had. Worse, Xie Lian’s fall and banishment loomed—could that fate be his? Anxiety crept in, and he bit his thin lip, unaware of the gesture.

Once they reached the pavilion, a fairy served tea and delicacies as they sat. Jun Wu, noting Mu Qing’s unease, soothed, “Calm yourself. Have you heard of the newly ascended martial god?”

Mu Qing nodded, “I know him, I even received prayers from his followers, the Yuechang soldiers. I couldn’t bless them fully, so I sent Song Xiao.”

Jun Wu’s smile sharpened, “That was no ordinary battle. Its outcome will forge new history.” His words carried a hint of pressure, probing Mu Qing’s resolve. “What domain do you think this new god should claim?” He asked.

“...”

Mu Qing fell silent, then spoke heavily, “Could he... share the south?”

Jun Wu raised an eyebrow. “The south? Why so? Isn’t that your domain?” He pressed, sowing doubt.

Mu Qing met his gaze, “As you have seen, I struggle alone with its vastness. I can’t manage it fully.”

“Xuan Zhen...,” Jun Wu leaned back, “Consider it carefully.”

But Mu Qing pressed on, invoking Xie Lian, “I won’t fall as he did—I won’t disappoint my worshippers with failure!”

“He...?” Jun Wu raised his eyebrows.

“Xie—Xianle...” Mu Qing muttered.

“Hmm...,” Jun Wu countered, “You haven’t failed—you succeeded today.”

Mu Qing shook his head, “For now, but the future, and the heavenly calamities—remains uncertain.”

Jun Wu’s smile returned, “Very well, if that’s your choice, what can I do?”

In a serene mortal village, Ling Wen arrived at Yushi Huang’s modest abode, a cluster of bamboo huts overlooking golden rice paddies. She carried a parcel of fine ink sticks and parchment, practical gifts for Yushi Huang’s scholarly pursuits, which she entrusted to Hei Niu, Yushi Huang’s sturdy ox.

Yushi Huang emerged, her simple verdant robes rustling, and waved a hand. “No need to trouble yourself, Lady Ling Wen,” She said with a warm smile. They settled on a bamboo cot facing the fields, sipping tea as a gentle breeze stirred the air.

Ling Wen tilted her head, her voice measured, “Why not return to your palace in the Heavenly Realm? It’s been ages.”

Yushi Huang chuckled, her gaze drifting to the horizon, “I prefer this peace. The deities—two-faced as they are—wear me down. Besides, I won’t abandon my attendants tending the fields and orchards here.”

Ling Wen nodded, impressed, “Admirable.” She then shared the news of Feng Xin’s recent ascension at Panyu.

Yushi Huang’s eyes lit up, “I heard whispers of that, it’s not far from here.”

Ling Wen added, “Panyu was once part of the Yushi kingdom, wasn’t it?”

Yushi Huang confirmed, “Indeed. Many in Yuechang are Yushi folk, driven by that legacy.”

Ling Wen probed further, “And the Qie family?”

Pausing, Yushi Huang sipped her tea. “They hail from Xuli. You’d recognise their accent,” Her eyes leered.

“Indeed...” Ling Wen sighed, putting down her cup, “They were once a general’s lineage, involved in a coup against Xuli’s king, thwarted by General Pei.”

“Oh, I see,” Yushi Huang mused, “A family of rebels, clinging to their cause with stubborn pride.”

Ling Wen raised an eyebrow, “Is that so?”

Yushi Huang smiled slyly, “Perhaps a new nation will soon rival Xuli and Yong'an.”

Ling Wen mirrored her grin, “I like that.”

...

..

^.

Following Yuechang’s victory at Panyu, the Qie family leveraged their triumph to forge a nascent state. First, they consolidated power by appointing local elders as governors, stabilising Panyu’s administration within a month. Next, they fortified the Xi River with watchtowers and allied with Huaiji’s farmers, boosting food production to sustain a growing army over three months. Trade routes along the Pearl River Delta were secured, drawing merchants and resources, while Qie Lan trained a disciplined militia, expanding their forces to two thousand in six months. Diplomacy with southern tribes, offering mutual defence pacts, added allies, and by the year’s end, Yuechang declared independence, its cloud and lotus banner flying over a new nation. Xuli, stripped of its southern territories—once gained by conquering Yushi—faced a diminished reach, its southern flank lost to this rebel state.

In Xuli’s capital, rage consumed Wanyan Bada, The King of Xuli. He ordered the execution of General Li Hao, his men and their family, hundreds of heads rolling on the execution ground as punishment for the Panyu defeat and territorial loss. “YOUR INCOMPETENCE COST US THE SOUTH!” Wanyan Bada roared, his voice echoing over the silent crowd.

The deed done, he retreated to a dilapidated temple, where a chained figure awaited—Wanyan Mandai, his half-brother, born of a concubine, his limbs bound in iron.

Wanyan Mandai’s eyes glinted with defiance. “Karma, brother, for your greed,” he taunted, his voice raspy.

“SILENCE!” Wanyan Bada’s face twisted, “You dare lecture me, your failure to bring that Xianle kunze—the Yong'an gift—leading to your ruin!”^[11]

Mandai laughed bitterly, “Greed for power, yes, but also your lust... hoarding beautiful concubines, draining the treasury dry. Your excesses sparked this war with Yong'an!”^[12]

Bada’s fury boiled over. Snatching a sword from his bodyguard, he plunged it into Mandai’s chest without hesitation. Blood pooled as Mandai chuckled weakly, collapsing. “Reap… what you sow…” He gasped, his life fading.

As Ling Wen and Yushi Huang had foreseen, Yuechang emerged as a sovereign nation in the southeast of the Central Plain, its cloud and lotus banner fluttering over a land reclaimed from Xuli’s grasp. Qie Mo, revered for his leadership, was crowned king, with Qie Lan named princess and Qie Shun anointed crown prince. Panyu, with its Pearl River Delta thriving, became the capital, a beacon of their new dynasty. Grateful for Feng Xin’s divine intervention, Qie Mo decreed the first act of his reign; the construction of a grand temple to honour the martial god. Its marble pillars rose swiftly, adorned with hawk carvings, a testament to their debt.

One afternoon, within the palace’s halls, Qie Mo summoned Bai Jianguo and Qie Lan. The king, his silver hair catching the light, smiled warmly, “Jianguo, you’ve proven your loyalty. I propose you wed my daughter, uniting our houses.”

Bai Jianguo, his farmer’s frame straightening, beamed, “I’d be honoured, Your Majesty.”

But Qie Lan’s expression darkened. “Father, I refuse,” She said firmly, her cloud-etched armour clinking as she stood, “It’s not Jianguo, for I hold him in high regard. I simply won’t marry.”

Qie Mo’s brow furrowed, “Lan’er, you’re no longer young. You must wed, bear heirs, or risk becoming an old maid!”

Qie Lan bristled, her voice sharp, “I’m insulted by that! You raised me to value freedom, not chains!”

Qie Mo sighed, pressing, “What of your betrothal to General Pei? That fell apart, his pursuit of that Yushi’s general ruined it.”

Qie Lan countered, “A blessing, Father! We never aligned, General Pei’s role in thwarting Wanyan Bada’s coup proved his fickleness. I’d not bind myself to such a man.” The air grew tense, Qie Mo’s pride clashing with her defiance.

Their rift deepened over days, conversations turning cold. Frustrated, Qie Lan resolved to leave, seeking the northeastern wilds. On the palace grounds, she saddled a gleaming white steed, its mane braided. Qie Shun approached, his crown prince robes fluttering, his face etched with concern. “Sister, are you certain?” He asked, his voice soft.

Qie Lan adjusted her reins, meeting his gaze. “I must find my path, Xiao Shun.”^[13]

He nodded, stepping closer, “Then take care on the road. Write when you can.”

She smiled faintly, patting his shoulder, then spurred her horse eastward, her figure vanishing into the dawn mist.

...

..

.

With the betrothal to Qie Lan dissolved, King Qie Mo sought to honour Bai Jianguo’s loyalty by offering him a position. Yet, the farmer’s peasant roots posed a challenge—illiterate and untested in leadership, he lacked the skills for a military role. Qie Mo hesitated, unsure where to place him, leaving Bai Jianguo to linger in the palace without a clear title.

Weeks passed, and whispers spread among the courtiers. “What’s he doing here?” One sneered. Another joked, “Perhaps he’s the king’s concubine, part of the harem!”

The rumours stung, fuelling Bai Jianguo’s growing discomfort. His farmer’s pride wounded, he resolved to follow Qie Lan eastward, seeking escape from the palace’s stifling gossip.

One evening, he sought solace at the nearly completed Ju Yang temple, its marble pillars still scaffolded, hawk carvings half-finished. Kneeling before the altar, he poured out his heart. “Great Ju Yang,” He murmured, voice trembling, “I’m lost here, mocked, useless. I miss the fields, the fight with Lady Qie Lan. Guide me, I beg you.” Tears welled as he clutched his spear, the weight of his uncertainty nearly breaking him.

Meanwhile, in the Heavenly Realm, Feng Xin paced the unfinished halls of his palace, its deep green decor incomplete. As a newly ascended Upper God, he grappled with celestial etiquette, feeling isolated amidst the divine hierarchy. Seeking familiarity, he descended to the mortal realm repeatedly, sending random dreams to locate Xie Lian, hoping to find him and appoint him as his deputy—what a bitter irony, given their past standing. I served him once; now I aim to uplift him,  Feng Xin mused, yet his searches were fruitless.

That night, Feng Xin’s divine senses caught Bai Jianguo’s prayer. Materialising before the temple, his fengshen bow glinting, he observed the man’s raw emotion. As Bai Jianguo’s voice faded, Feng Xin stepped forward, his form radiant. “Brother Bai,” He intoned, “...your loyalty moves me. I offer you a role as my deputy in the Heavenly Realm.” Manifesting for this was no violation, he reasoned, a divine privilege.

Bai Jianguo’s eyes widened, he found himself captivated by Feng Xin’s divine appearance in his newly armoured form, so stately and striking. Tears drying as he stammered, “Me? A god’s servant?”

“Not a servant, but rather my trusted right-hand man,” Feng Xin extended a hand, “Rise with me.” A golden light enveloped them, lifting Bai Jianguo to the heavens, his mortal burdens left behind.

The Palace of Ju Yang stood resplendent, its architecture a harmonious blend of sweeping roofs adorned with upturned eaves, supported by intricately carved wooden pillars painted in jade and gold. Courtyards featured lotus ponds reflecting the sky, surrounded by pavilions with latticed windows, their silken curtains fluttering in the celestial breeze. Ornate bronze lanterns cast a warm glow, while inner halls boasted murals of windswept plains and archery feats, a tribute to Ju Yang’s mortal legacy. Feng Xin, now adorned in his earthy green martial robes, arrived with Bai Jianguo, greeted by celestial guards in shimmering armour and fairies with translucent gowns, ready to serve.

Word of the palace’s completion reached Zhu An, who eagerly planned the first visit, accompanied by his deputies Jin Lin and Shen Shen. They brought gifts—silk scrolls inscribed with cultivation techniques and a jade incense burner, symbols of goodwill. At the gates, a fairy receptionist ushered them in with a graceful bow. Feng Xin, alerted by a guard, met them in the main hall with Bai Jianguo at his side.

Zhu An, cupping his hands, smiled broadly, “Greetings, General Ju Yang. I am Zhu An, martial god of the east. Perhaps you don’t recall, but we were Xianle folk too, training at Mount Taicang with His Royal Highness Xianle.”

Feng Xin nodded, a faint “Oh” escaping him—he barely remembered, never having been a Taicang disciple.

Zhu An continued, “How do you find the Upper Court’s atmosphere as a new god? Settling in?”

Feng Xin shrugged, his tone cautious, “It’s early days, I’m still observing.”

Zhu An seized the opening, “There is a custom here; new gods exchange gifts. You haven’t prepared, I see?”

Feng Xin blinked, “Oh, no…”

Zhu An waved it off, “No matter, it can follow. Once, new gods had to visit seniors’ palaces, it was a tiresome trek. But now, we come to you, it’s more efficient, yes?”

Feng Xin nodded, though a flicker of concern crossed his mind. He muttered, “Many gifts to prepare, then?”

Zhu An reassured, “Fear not, we’ll assist.”

Noticing Bai Jianguo, Zhu An asked, “The man behind you—is he your deputy?”

Feng Xin confirmed with a nod.

Zhu An introduced Jin Lin and Shen Shen. “Nice to meet you both,” They chorused.

Feng Xin, nearly forgetting, inquired, “What’s the Group Spiritual Communication Array password?”

Zhu An grinned, he drew close to Feng Xin’s ear and whispered a handful of passwords, adding his Private Array code. “For easy queries if you’re lost,” He offered, feigning helpfulness.

Bai Jianguo, seemingly puzzled, muttered, “Com—Commune Array… what’s that?”

Jin Lin clapped his shoulder. “No worry, brother—we’ll teach you,” He said warmly.

As Zhu An prepared to leave, Feng Xin recalled, “Wait—Xuan Zhen, who’s that? They say he’s the other southern martial god.”

Zhu An’s smile turned mysterious. “You’ll learn soon enough. Be patient… with him,” He said, a hint of sympathy in his tone, before departing with his deputies, leaving Feng Xin both curious and irked.

Determined, Feng Xin turned to Bai Jianguo, “Your first task as my deputy; investigate Xuan Zhen. Find out who he is!”

Bai Jianguo saluted, albeit clumsily, “Yes, sir!” The palace hummed with new purpose, the mystery of Xuan Zhen now their quest.

...

..

.

By Feng Xin’s task, Bai Jianguo set off toward the Palace of Xuan Zhen to uncover its master’s identity. Yet, unfamiliar with the ethereal layout, he wandered lost, asking fairies flying along the golden paths and random deities passing by.

His bewildered expression while scratching his head, and muttering to himself drew chuckles. “Look at this mortal, lost as a lamb!” One fairy giggled, while a deity smirked, “New deputy, eh? Good luck!” Flushed with embarrassment, Bai Jianguo pressed on.

Fortunately, Pei Ming strode by, his armoured robes billowing. Bai Jianguo hurried over, “Excuse me, General, where might the Palace of Xuan Zhen be?”

Pei Ming, intrigued, grinned, “I’m heading there myself. Join me!”

As they walked, Bai Jianguo ventured, “A pleasure... to meet you—it’s an honour to know the Martial God of the North.”

Pei Ming raised an eyebrow. “You know me?” A worshipper, perhaps?

Bai Jianguo bowed politely. “No, my lord,” He said, leaving Pei Ming half-disappointed, half-embarrassed.

At the Palace of Xuan Zhen, Song Xiao drilled celestial guards, his ‘Starlit Edge’ sword flashing. Pei Ming approached, “Is Xuan Zhen present?”

Song Xiao paused, wiping sweat, “Uncertain, my lord. He’s been absent lately... likely tending prayers elsewhere.”

Pei Ming frowned, “Odd, you’re usually cooperative. Not a spat, I hope?”

Song Xiao replied formally, though inwardly irked, “Not at all.” In truth, Mu Qing had instructed him to deflect Pei Ming’s nosiness.

Pei Ming then tried the Private Communication Array, only to find Mu Qing’s password changed, his frustration mounting.

Bai Jianguo, curious, asked politely, “What are you doing, General?”

Song Xiao smirked secretively, “Attempting to reach my master via the Communication Array.”

Bai Jianguo, still clueless, said, “Please teach me how—”

But Pei Ming interjected, irked, “Why’s the password changed!?” Song Xiao stifled a laugh. Pei Ming pressed, “Tell me the new one!” 

Just then, Ling Wen passed, and Pei Ming intercepted her, “Ling Wen, Xuan Zhen’s password changed—don’t you know?” Ling Wen shrugged, feigning innocence. But Pei Ming pressed on, “You’re the admin, right?”

“Changed? Let me verify,” She carried a parcel from Yushi Huang, a soothing herbal balm, beneficial for a kunze, and contacted Mu Qing.

Moments later, Mu Qing appeared, rolling his eyes at Pei Ming’s presence.

Ling Wen handed over the balm, smiling guilelessly, “General Pei just passed by, coincidentally.”

“Thank you,” Mu Qing said, seemingly pleased with his order. Seeing Ling Wen about to leave so quickly, Mu Qing felt a pang of guilt. “Leaving so soon?” He asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Ling Wen replied, “I have some outstanding work that requires my attention back at my residence.” She excused herself.

“When do you get a break?” Pei Ming teased as she left.

Mu Qing shot Song Xiao a private message; “Why didn’t you stop him?”  And Song Xiao ducked his head, apologetic.

Smiling, Pei Ming turned to Mu Qing, “Why’s your password changed? May I have the new one?” Yet the man beside him, Bai Jianguo, awestruck by Xuan Zhen’s striking beauty in his black-and-crimson robes and long high ponytail, gaped. 

Mu Qing noticed, asking Pei Ming curtly, “Who’s this? Your deputy?” But soon he recalled him as the snoring farmer who participated in the battle of Panyu.

Pei Ming replied, “Ju Yang’s deputy.” Obviously.

Mu Qing snapped, “What’s he doing here?”

Bai Jianguo, thinking Xuan Zhen rather brusque, cupped his hands and said, “Greetings, General Xuan Zhen, I’m tasked by my lord to visit.”

Seeing no gift, Mu Qing grew suspicious, “Next time, tell your lord to come himself!” He turned, adding, “Inform him we’ll meet soon, ready or not,” before retreating into the palace. Pei Ming sighed, disappointed—still no password.

In the opulent halls of the Palace of Ju Yang, Bai Jianguo recounted his visit to the Palace of Xuan Zhen to Feng Xin. “He was stunning, but so cold—his voice smooth yet sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk,” Bai Jianguo said, scratching his head, “...And his deputy seemed wary of General Ming Guang.”

Feng Xin listened, a flicker of recognition stirring. Beautiful yet icy… that voice… Could it be— His musing was cut short as a guard interrupted, “Ju Yang Jiangjun, the deities will arrive soon.”

Feng Xin snapped to, relieved he’d prepared gifts with Zhu An’s help. “Bai Jianguo, ready the presents with two fairies!” He ordered, his mind still half on the mystery.

Soon, the first guest arrived—Zhi Ruo, the weaving goddess, her golden silken robes shimmering. She presented Feng Xin with a delicate embroidered sash, its threads glowing faintly. Feng Xin offered a jade-carved fan in return, bowing. “A fine gift, thank you,” She said, her smile warm.

Next came the civil god Liang Wei with a scroll of celestial maps, exchanged for a silver hairpin from Feng Xin. Sun Wenyi, Martial God of the West, followed, introducing himself with a polite nod. “I oversee the western domains,” He said, trading a bronze incense holder for Feng Xin’s offered tea set.

Zhu An arrived with Jin Lin and Shen Shen, empty-handed since he’d given his jade burner earlier. Feng Xin handed him a silk scroll, smiling, “Thanks for your aid with this event.” Zhu An chuckled, accepting it graciously.

As the wait stretched, Zhi Ruo leaned toward Sun Wenyi and Jin Lin, gossiping softly, “Do you think Jun Wu placed Ju Yang and Xuan Zhen in the same domain on purpose? A kunze like Xuan Zhen might need a qianyuan like Ju Yang for realm balance.”

Sun Wenyi mused, “Perhaps... like the ‘yin’ and ‘yang’, harmony requires opposites.”

Jin Lin nodded, “A clever move, if true.”

Feng Xin overheard snippets, his curiosity piqued, but his attention shifted as a guard announced Ling Wen and Pei Ming’s arrival.

The civil goddess presented him with a set of enchanted quills, receiving a pearl necklace in return. Pei Ming’s arrival brought awkwardness, for Feng Xin recalled his past offer to be his deputy. Yet Pei Ming broke the tension with a hearty laugh. “Congrats, Ju Yang... you earned this ascent on your own merit!” He handed over a finely crafted dagger, taking Feng Xin’s offered wine jug. Then, glancing around, Pei Ming remarked, “Odd—Xuan Zhen’s still absent…”

Feng Xin seized the chance, “Do you know Xuan Zhen?” But before Pei Ming could answer, the guard announced, “GENERAL XUAN ZHEN HAS ARRIVED!”

The crowd parted, revealing Xuan Zhen striding in with Song Xiao and Chen Yang, the female deputy carrying a lacquered box. As the deities stepped aside, Feng Xin’s eyes widened, recognising the silky raven locks tied in a high ponytail, the cold beauty, the piercing voice—his old rival, now his co-domain god.

“Mu Qing!?”

^|> 

FOOTNOTES:

^[11] _{Wányán Bǎdā (完顏把荅) was referring to the event in chapter 20 of "Loss of History", where Yong'an offered Mu Qing to Xuli as a gift to his harem.}

^[12] _{Wányán Màndài (完顏漫帶) actually was doing a historical reference to Emperor Wu of the Jin Dynasty (Sima Yan, r. 266–290 AD): After unifying China, he indulged in a life of luxury and expanded his harem to an unprecedented size, reportedly housing thousands of women. This decadence at court set a precedent for the internal strife and weakness that would lead to the collapse of the Western Jin Dynasty soon after his death.}

^[13] _{Xiǎo (小) means "little" which "Xiao Shun" made it "little Shun".}

A/N:

Much later, an agreement will be made on which one will own southwest and southeast.

P.S.:

I'm in a hurry to update, because I have a lot of work tomorrow.

Chapter Text

As the crowd buzzed, Chen Yang handed a lacquered box to a fairy beside Bai Jianguo, who in turn passed a silk pouch to Song Xiao for Xuan Zhen. Feng Xin and Mu Qing locked eyes, a charged silence stretching between them.

Mu Qing offered a formal salute, his voice clipped, “Congratulations on your ascent, General Ju Yang.” He was about to cup his hands in a formal gesture. But Feng Xin seized it, his large, sun-kissed hand enveloping Mu Qing’s pale and slender one in a firm grip. The contrast was stark, Mu Qing’s delicate fair skin against Feng Xin’s calloused strength.

The onlookers stunned, Bai Jianguo’s jaw dropped, his confusion mirroring the stunned deities around them.

Feng Xin leaned in, whispering, “Since when?” His tone carried a mix of disbelief and accusation.

Mu Qing’s face flickered with subtle confusion, his brows knitting briefly.

Feng Xin’s gaze sharpened, locking onto Mu Qing’s. “You left without a word, abandoning us—me and His Highness—adrift...” He murmured, his eyes bore into Mu Qing’s, the word ‘us’ heavy with shared history. “When we’ve lost everything, it seems you…” He paused, swallowing his rising anger. The onlookers, including Bai Jianguo, stood frozen, stunned by the intimacy of the exchange.

When I thought I might have lost you too—

Mu Qing’s temper flared. With a sharp tug, he wrenched his hand free, his voice hissing. “Lost everything?” He scoffed, his tone biting. “Who do you think lost it all first!?” The words hung like a challenge.

Not far away, Zhu An smirked slyly, while Jin Lin whispered, “Perfect—some drama!” But the tension shattered as Mu Qing turned, signaling his deputies. “We’re leaving,” He said curtly, adding with formal detachment, “...and I hope you enjoy your gift, General Ju Yang.” He strode off, his robes swirling. Zhu An and his gang sighed, disappointed the spectacle ended so abruptly.

“MU QING!” Feng Xin bellowed, his voice echoing with unresolved fury, unwilling to let their past slip away unaddressed. But Zhu An stepped forward, gently tapping Feng Xin’s shoulder, “Let it be, General Ju Yang. This should be your celebration, let’s enjoy it. Xuan Zhen’s matter can wait.” His tone was sympathetic, though his eyes glinted with amusement at Feng Xin’s frayed mood.

As Mu Qing exited, he brushed past Yushi Huang and Shen Yi, who approached with gifts for Feng Xin. “Pardon me, I must go,” He muttered, bowing hastily, his voice strained. Yushi Huang paused, her gaze catching the glint of tears in Mu Qing’s eyes, a silent hint of his turmoil as he left.

Xie Lian’s wanderings brought him to the southeastern Central Plain, where he halted, stunned. The land, formerly Yushi, which had fallen to Xuli in his memory, now thrived as the new nation of Yuechang. The air buzzed with life, its clouds and lotus banners fluttering. In a bustling market, he paused to busk, his ancient bone flute emitting a haunting melody that drew a small crowd. Ruoye, his silk band, writhed like a serpent in his hand, an entrancing dance that earned a few coins, their clinks a modest reward.

Hunger gnawed at him, guiding his steps to a bustling roadside stall. He ordered a comforting bowl of steaming noodle soup, and as he savoured it, fragments of conversation wafted over from neighbouring tables.

“Have you heard about General Ju Yang?” A gruff voice enquired, belonging to a former farmer now serving as a watchtower guard, his tone hoarse from countless battles, “He truly ascended during the Panyu fight. You know, he shot down Xuli men from one hundred and eighty paces!”^[14]

Another patron gasped, “As far as that?”

The guard nodded, a broad grin spreading across his face as he stood up slightly, “Indeed! Our King, Qie Mo, led us with an unshakeable, iron will. And his daughter, a truly fierce warrior in her own right, commanded the charge. She was the one who brought Ju Yang’s blessing to the battlefield, and it absolutely turned the tide of the entire engagement!”

The small crowd around them leaned in, captivated.

“And Ju Yang...” The guard continued, his eyes gleaming with excitement, “...his gaze was as sharp as an eagle’s, wasn’t it? He shot an enemy’s head from one hundred and eighty paces! Can you believe it!?”

“WHOOAH!” The group erupted into thunderous applause and cheers, their collective roar akin to the sound from a thousand infantries charging.

Xie Lian murmured to himself, “Ju Yang… a martial god?” Finishing his meal, he paid the vendor and wandered, seeking a cheap inn or derelict spot to rest.

Along the way, a craftsman’s shout caught his ear, “Ju Yang statues! For your home shrine! The victory god, your protector!” The man thrust a wooden figurine toward Xie Lian—a majestic figure in ornate armour, wielding an oversized bow.

Xie Lian paused, the design stirring memories of Feng Xin, his deputy famed for such a weapon. Could this Ju Yang be Feng Xin? He wondered. Joy and pride swelled, for both his deputies were talented enough to ascend. Yet, guilt gnawed at him. Did his choice to recruit them hinder their potential back then? The thought lingered as he moved on, the statue’s image etched in his mind.

The Palace of Ju Yang fell silent as the deities departed, leaving Feng Xin, Bai Jianguo, Zhu An, and his two deputies in the echoing hall. Zhu An clapped Feng Xin on the shoulder, his tone overly familiar, “Come now, Ju Yang, no need to brood, let’s raise a cup instead! That spat with Mu Qing was just a spark, nothing more.”

Feng Xin snorted, unconvinced. “Since when did Mu Qi—Xuan Zhen ascend?” he asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

Zhu An leaned back, grinning. “I know him well, we were Mount Taicang’s Royal Holy Pavilion disciples together. Let’s just call him ‘Mu Qing’, he’s been Xuan Zhen for less than a year.”

Feng Xin paused, then pressed, “Answer me properly.”

Zhu An relented, “Fair enough—less than a year, truly.”

Jin Lin chimed in, “He was a deputy first, though.”

Feng Xin’s brow furrowed, “To which martial god?” His mind flashed to Pei Ming, recalling Bai Jianguo’s tale of Pei Ming’s ease with Mu Qing.

Shen Shen clarified, “Not a martial god’s deputy, he served Shen Yi as a medical deputy.”

Feng Xin frowned, “Shen Yi… who?” A memory surfaced, “...a white-haired man with a bamboo mask veiling his lower face?”

Bai Jianguo nodded eagerly, “That’s him! He arrived with a goddess as Xuan—Mu Qing left.”

Shen Shen added, “That’s Lady Yushi Huang, the rain goddess.”

Feng Xin pressed, “How long was Mu Qing Shen Yi’s deputy?”

Shen Shen replied, “About three years.”

Feng Xin calculated—close to their last encounter. “What’s he been up to since?” He asked, his curiosity peaking.

Zhu An and Jin Lin seized the chance to stir the pot. Jin Lin smirked, “He acts cold, but he’s cheap, chasing favour.”

Bai Jianguo blinked, “Cheap... how?”

Jin Lin lowered his voice, “Jun Wu’s shown interest in him a few times.”

Bai Jianguo tilted his head, “So, does that mean... Jun Wu fancy him?”

Zhu An cut in sharply, “Hush! Mind your tongue about the Heavenly Emperor! He’s a neutral leader, keeping Heaven stable for centuries.”

Shen Shen nodded, “Indeed, the celestial records say so.”

“As if you’ve lived centuries!” Feng Xin quipped, knowing Shen Shen and Zhu An, Xianle survivors, were his peers.

Shen Shen corrected, “It’s from the Heavenly library’s texts.”

Feng Xin’s eyes widened. “There’s a library here?”

Jin Lin laughed, “Of course, full of lore and secrets!”

The revelation sparked Feng Xin’s interest, his thoughts drifting to Mu Qing’s past and the celestial library’s potential answers. But before he could delve deeper into the library, Zhu An interjected, his tone shifting, “Actually, there was an incident three years ago.”

Feng Xin raised an eyebrow, though his interest was still fixated on the library. “What was it?” He asked, now his curiosity piqued as Zhu An’s face clouded with hesitation.

Jin Lin and Shen Shen exchanged uneasy glances. Pressed by Feng Xin’s insistent stare, Shen Shen began, “Three years back, before Sun Wenyi and Liang Wei ascended, thirty-two of us deputy gods planned a cultivation retreat at Crown Prince Summit.”

Zhu An nodded, “I, already Martial God of the East, volunteered to oversee them.”

Jin Lin continued, “We were set to meditate when an unexpected figure appeared.”

Zhu An’s voice dropped dramatically, “His Royal Highness Xianle!” 

Feng Xin jolted, nearly leaping from his seat. “XIE… HIS HIGHNESS!” He bellowed, eyes wide with shock. The trio nodded gravely. Feng Xin’s mind raced, frustration boiling. How could he miss that? He meant to visit the royal capital, but Xuli’s troops blocked him! He demanded aloud, “WHEN EXACTLY?”

Bai Jianguo reminded, “Three years ago—”

Feng Xin cut him off, exasperated, “I KNOW THAT! DATE, MONTH, YEAR, HOUR!”

Jin Lin snapped back, “HOW SHOULD I RECALL THAT?”

Feng Xin muttered, “It must be in that library…”

Zhu An ignored the detour, pressing on with a feigned sigh, “Pity you missed it. We chatted briefly with His Highness, we even offered him to cultivate alongside us, so he could ascend once more, but soon Mu Qing arrived,” He omitted their role in driving Xie Lian away, spinning a tale of welcome, “We tried to calm him, but Mu Qing ignored us and faced Xianle directly.”

Jin Lin added, “He seemed shocked by Xianle’s presence and ordered him out! A fight broke out!”

Feng Xin’s face darkened, his thoughts churning. Why would Mu Qing do that? Xie Lian never wronged him! He pressed, “How did they fight? Mu Qing was just a medical deputy, not a warrior, as far as you told me.”

Zhu An shrugged, “He used my sabre, we lost a bet to him.”

Bai Jianguo, curious, asked, “What bet?”

Zhu An paused, truthfully at a loss for what new deception he could spin, but Jin Lin chimed in, “A wager you’d ascend that year!”

Zhu An shot Jin Lin an appreciative glance for the improvisation, adding, “We had high hopes for you, unlike Mu Qing.”

Jin Lin feigned regret, “Sadly, he was right.”

Feng Xin scowled, though his focus shifted, “So, why did His Highness and Mu Qing fight?”

Zhu An shifted uncomfortably, feigning reluctance, “Well, it started when Mu Qing ordered Xianle out, claiming his dark aura disrupted our cultivation. We felt awkward toward His Highness, really, and Xianle explained he wished to…” Jin Lin cut in, “Visit his parents’ graves!”

Feng Xin interjected, startled, “Wait—aren’t they in Meizhou? I buried them myself!”

Zhu An shrugged, “We’re unsure, but Xianle mentioned they’d been relocated.”

Shen Shen added, “He aimed for the royal mausoleum in Crown Prince Summit and mentioned Mu Qing’s child... Yao Yao, was it?”

Feng Xin nodded, his heart clenched, the name stirring a flood of sorrow. “Yao Yao…” He murmured, recalling the toddler’s tragic death, whose tiny form he’d buried alongside Mu Qing’s tearful breakdown.

Shen Shen continued, “Xianle said Yao Yao’s grave was moved there too.”

Zhu An leaned in, voice dramatic, “But instead of being moved, Mu Qing flew into a rage, feeling Xianle insulted him.”

Feng Xin slammed his hand on the nearby table, the crack echoing. “HOW COULD HE THINK THAT!?” He rose, voice trembling, “From all my time serving His Highness, he had the purest empathy I’ve known, his intent to share Yao Yao’s relocation was noble! Insult? How could Mu Qing twist it so?” His mind reeled; he’d known Mu Qing’s negative streak, but this seemed too much.

Bai Jianguo piped up, “What happened next?”

Zhu An replied, “After their fight, Mu Qing drove Xianle away.”

Jin Lin sighed, “Poor Xianle... his hurt was plain.” Zhu An nodded, but Shen Shen added, “Before Xianle left, Mu Qing tossed him a scroll tube, which seemed like a letter from Xianle’s parents.”

Feng Xin’s eyes widened, “A LETTER? FROM XIE LIAN’S PARENTS?” How? Where did Mu Qing get that? And how could he be the one who gave it to Xie Lian? He wondered.

Zhu An and Jin Lin shot Shen Shen sharp, irritated glances, annoyed at the slip that invited further probing. Shen Shen backtracked, uneasy, he mumbled, “Ah… maybe I’ve misremembered.” Yet Feng Xin’s curiosity deepened—such an event couldn’t end with just an eviction.

The journey back to the Palace of Xuan Zhen was cloaked in silence, Mu Qing walking ahead with a stony expression. Song Xiao and Chen Yang trailed, their questions stifled by his aura, hesitant to speak.

Upon arrival, Mu Qing stormed off again. When Song Xiao ventured, “Jiangjun, where are you—”, but Mu Qing snapped, “DON’T FOLLOW ME!” then added, “Rest or train, do as you please,” before striding away, his expression unreadable. Song Xiao exchanged a worried glance with Chen Yang but held his tongue.

Lost in thought, Mu Qing wandered aimlessly, until he found himself at a secluded grove where a heavenly river flowed, its waters shimmering with ethereal light. The memory surfaced—his early days as a deputy, strolling here with The Heavenly Emperor, the air filled with quiet counsel. Colourful koi swam lazily below, their scales glinting. Recalling that this river could reveal the mortal realm with spiritual energy, Mu Qing focused his power.

The surface rippled, unveiling Meizhou. There, Yu Yu swung joyfully, pushed by Yu Gui, her laughter echoing. Mu Qing’s heart ached, the image stirring memories of Miao Miao, his lost companion, a pang of tenderness softening his features.

Driven by curiosity, he shifted his gaze to Qiyi, knowing Yong'an’s palace had relocated there, where his daughter might be.

But the vision blurred!

Nothing.

Puzzled, he drew his focus southward. At first, only a hazy mist appeared, but as he concentrated, it clarified, revealing familiar landscapes within his domain. He realised with a jolt; his vision was limited to his domain. Whose domain is Qiyi, then?

The answer hit him—The Martial God of East! Mu Qing’s face twisted, a mix of dismay and irritation crossing his face.

Zhu An, of all people!? ^[15]

The Palace of Ju Yang grew quiet again, leaving Feng Xin and Bai Jianguo alone amid its jade-inlaid halls. Feng Xin’s mind churned, fixated on the scroll tube Shen Shen had mentioned, allegedly from Xie Lian’s parents. Confronting Mu Qing directly seemed impossible, so his thoughts drifted to the Heavenly library Shen Shen had hinted at. Perhaps it held clues about Xie Lian’s parents’ fate. Lacking its location, a recent discovery, he turned to Bai Jianguo, “Find the Heavenly library; where it is, who oversees it. Right now, I’m getting overwhelmed by Yuechang’s prayers.” Bai Jianguo nodded, though his expression tightened.

Stepping out, Bai Jianguo floundered, muttering, “Where do I even start? This’d suit Qie Shun better, and now he’s Yuechang’s crown prince.” His peasant roots and illiteracy, honed by a poor village’s lack of education, hindered him, added by his unmastered Spiritual Communication Array.

Passing grand buildings, he squinted at their signs, clueless. Lost in thought, he collided with someone—a fairy in a stunning purple gown. Its fabric flowed like liquid amethyst, embroidered with silver lotus blooms, the hem trailing like mist, befitting a celestial woman. Bai Jianguo stammered apologies. “Forgive me, miss, I didn’t mean to—”

The fairy tilted her head, her voice melodic, “What are you searching for, pacing like that?” 

Bai Jianguo admitted, “The Heavenly library’s location.”

She chuckled softly, pointing to a nearby structure; a towering edifice with sweeping vermillion roofs and golden eaves, resembling a phoenix’s outstretched wings, “How could you miss it? The sign is clear!”

Bai Jianguo’s face flushed, shame mingling with gloom. Hesitantly, he confessed, “I’m illiterate, a poor peasant farmer with no education.”

The fairy’s laughter faded, sympathy softening her gaze. “Oh, I’m sorry,” She said, then assumed, “You want to learn to read, then? I can take you to Cai Yuerong.”

Bai Jianguo, polite, asked, “Who might she be?”

The fairy smiled, “Lady Ling Wen’s deputy. She teaches a class to eradicate illiteracy.”

Bai Jianguo’s eyes widened, “A class? Here in the heavenly realm? Who attends?”

The fairy explained, “Many deputies were from humble origins such as peasants, some even former slaves. They were elevated by their ascended gods’ ties.”

Bai Jianguo’s mood dipped, recalling his aimless days in Yuechang’s palace under Qie Mo’s uncertainty, and now as Feng Xin’s deputy, perhaps out of pity.

The fairy encouraged him, “General Ju Yang must see something in you. You helped seize Panyu and build Yuechang, didn’t you?” Her words lifted his spirits, a much-needed balm after the day’s wearying thoughts.

As the quiet moments stretched between them, a comfortable silence settled, broken only by the distant murmur of the palace.

Bai Jianguo then asked, “May I know your name?” They exchanged introductions. Her name was Zǐxiá (紫霞), a name as ethereal as her presence.

Shortly after, Zixia led Bai Jianguo into the Heavenly library, where Cai Yuerong prepared to teach in a front chamber. The room glowed with soft lantern light, shelves of ancient scrolls lining the walls, their fragrance of aged paper filling the air.

Bai Jianguo, brimming with enthusiasm, introduced himself, “I’m Bai Jianguo, deputy to General Ju Yang!”

Cai Yuerong, a poised figure in flowing light peach robes, smiled, “Welcome. So, you’re new here?” She asked kindly.

Bai Jianguo blushed, admitting sheepishly, “Very new, I don’t even know how to use the Spiritual Communication Array.”

Cai Yuerong chuckled softly, not mocking but easing the tension, “Then I can offer you a special class for that.”

“Really?” Bai Jianguo’s face lit up.

Cai Yuerong nodded, then added, “Though, this class isn’t free.”

Bai Jianguo’s eyes widened, “I have to pay?” He fumbled in his pockets, only to recall he’d brought no money to Heaven.

Zixia giggled, “Mortal currency doesn’t work here.”

“HAH!?” Bai Jianguo exclaimed, bewildered.

Cai Yuerong clarified, “We use merits as currency.”

Bai Jianguo tilted his head, “What are... ‘merits’?”

Zixia explained, “For gods, merits are the number of incense sticks burnt and offerings left in their temples.”

Bai Jianguo mused, “Wow, why so?”

Cai Yuerong replied, “Because gods draw power from their believers’ faith and worship.”

Soon, other deputy gods—fellow students of Cai Yuerong—filed in, their humble origins evident in their varied, simple robes. The class began, the chamber buzzing with the promise of new knowledge.

Having finished gazing into the celestial river, Mu Qing felt a sudden urge to visit the Heavenly Library. The walk was quiet, his thoughts a tangled mess, until he arrived at the grand structure, its golden spires piercing the ethereal sky.

As he approached, a murmur drew his attention to a large table where a crowd had gathered.

Curiosity piqued, he edged closer and recognised Cai Yuerong, her light peach robes a familiar sight from their past encounters. It was a literacy class, and among the students, he spotted Bai Jianguo, Feng Xin’s deputy.

Oh, yes... he was a peasant before his ascent, fitting he’d be here.

The thought triggered a memory of Chen Yang, his deputy was originally from a Yong'an farming family, and once illiterate like Bai Jianguo. Mu Qing recalled their early days together, when he, pregnant with Miao Miao, would guide Chen Yang to the royal library, patiently teaching her to read amidst the scent of old parchment. A pang of nostalgia softened his stern features, the memory of Miao Miao’s tiny kicks a bittersweet echo.

Shaking off the reverie, Mu Qing turned his focus to his purpose and headed to the ‘History of Domains’ section. The library’s vast shelves loomed, filled with tomes that glowed faintly with magical energy. His eyes fell on the martial gods’ domains; his own, Pei Ming’s, Sun Wenyi’s, Zhu An’s, and recently Feng Xin’s, each meticulously detailed.

These books, he knew, updated themselves using merits from civil gods, a system he now pondered; perhaps that’s why Ling Wen tasked deputy Cai with these classes. Beyond noble intent, it’s a clever ploy to gather more merits for herself. The idea of Ling Wen’s strategic mind brought a wry smile to his lips as he scanned the records.

He reached for Pei Ming’s domain book, its leather cover worn yet vibrant. Memories surfaced of his captivity in Yong'an’s palace, post-Xie Lian’s banishment, where he overheard that some figures including Lang Ying and Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo had begun venerating Pei Ming.^[16]

Flipping to the minor domain section, he searched diligently. After a moment, his breath caught—there it was, in clear script; parts of Qiyi had erected Ming Guang shrines!

The revelation tied back to his earlier frustration at the river, where Zhu An’s control over Qiyi had irked him. Now, Pei Ming’s influence there added another layer of complexity, stirring a mix of irritation and intrigue within him.

The Palace of Ju Yang stood still as Feng Xin awaited his deputy’s return. When Bai Jianguo stepped in, Feng Xin rose from his seat, eyes alight, “Finally, you’re back! Did you find the Heavenly library?”

The deputy nodded eagerly, “Yes, sir! I met a purple fairy named Zixia and Cai Yuerong, Lady Ling Wen’s deputy. I even joined a literacy class!”

Feng Xin beamed, clapping him on the shoulder, “Excellent! Smarter deputies mean more help for me!”

“Oh!” Bai Jianguo added, “...and I saw Mu Qing there.”

Feng Xin jolted, “What was he doing there!?”

Bai Jianguo shrugged, “He was reading books.”

Feng Xin pressed, “Which section?”

Bai Jianguo scratched his head, “I don’t know... I’m just learning basic letters.”

Feng Xin slapped his forehead, chiding himself. Of course, he’s only started reading! Recovering, he asked, “But you remember where he was, right?”

Bai Jianguo nodded.

Feng Xin decided, “Then lead me there!”

At the Palace of Ming Guang, Pei Ming returned from addressing his worshippers’ prayers, his armoured robes slightly dishevelled.

A private message pinged through his Spiritual Communication Array;

“General Ming Guang, where are you?”

The voice was soft, decorous, yet tinged with a cool edge—unmistakably Mu Qing!

Pei Ming’s face lit up with glee, teasing, “Just back at my palace... miss me, eh?”

Mu Qing’s reply was flat, “May I visit?”

Pei Ming nearly leapt with joy, “Please do, my palace is always open to a beauty like you!” 

The connection cut abruptly, leaving Pei Ming slightly miffed as he recalled he’d forgotten to ask for Mu Qing’s new password. No matter, he thought, he’s coming here anyway. He swiftly ordered his deputies and fairies to clean and prepare delicacies, buzzing with anticipation for his esteemed guest.

...

..

.

Mu Qing arrived alone at the Palace of Ming Guang, his robes fluttering as he paused, gazing in awe. The palace blended rugged elegance with sweeping grandeur, its walls rose like fortified steppes, adorned with intricate wooden latticework and fur-lined banners that danced in the celestial breeze, while towering turrets with curved roofs evoked the vastness of open plains, crowned with golden ornaments that gleamed like steppe treasures. The sight stirred something within him, a mix of admiration and curiosity.

Pei Ming awaited at the gate, his armoured robes vibrant against the palace’s backdrop. “Alone? I thought your deputies might join,” He quipped with a grin.

Mu Qing replied coolly, “They’re training.”

Pei Ming gestured warmly, “Come in, cuisine and wine await.”

Inside, they settled on cushioned chairs in the guest hall, where a fairy maid poured wine from a familiar jug. Mu Qing’s expression soured as he recognised it as a gift from Feng Xin.

Pei Ming, noting the shift, clarified, “I’m unsure of its age, but your wine was exquisite—I’ve saved it, for it improves with time.”

Mu Qing merely grunted, picking a dried plum.

After a moment, Pei Ming ventured, “So, what brings you? Sharing your new password, perhaps—”

Mu Qing cut in, “I’m curious about your palace.” 

Pei Ming blinked, then brightened, “Oh! Feel free to explore! I’d have tidied more if I’d known. Want a tour?”

Mu Qing offered a faint smile, “Very well.”

They rose, strolling through the halls. Pei Ming noticed Mu Qing hadn’t touched the wine.

In the courtyard, Pei Ming’s deputies were training, their movements sharp. Mu Qing asked, “All your deputies?”

Pei Ming nodded, “Yes, though some guards are at the rear.”

Mu Qing observed, “You have quite a number…” 

Pei Ming chuckled, “You’ll need many too, with your vast domain.”

Mu Qing pondered—Pei Ming’s northern territory was the second largest among martial gods’ domains, perhaps the largest before his ascent, and after Xianle’s fall.

Pei Ming added, “But your domain’s split with Ju Yang, isn’t it?”

Mu Qing fell silent, feigning interest in the deputies.

“Why share with Ju Yang?” Pei Ming pressed, recalling Jun Wu’s explanation.

Mu Qing met his gaze, eyes uneasy, pausing before replying coldly, “That’s none of your concern.”

Pei Ming’s face fell, a sigh escaping, “Seems I’m not as close to you as I thought.”

Mu Qing regretted his sharpness, hadn’t he come to bridge that gap? Softening, he said, “I… will tell you when I’m ready.”

Pei Ming fell quiet, wondering if trauma lurked behind Mu Qing’s walls, then smiled, “Share when you’re ready, I’ll listen anytime.” They resumed their walk.

At a pavilion, a glimpse of another structure peeked from the roofline—towers of white jade with crimson accents, their elegance faded yet enduring, remnants of a lost glory.

Mu Qing asked, “Isn’t that Xianle Palace?”

Pei Ming confirmed, “Yes.”

Mu Qing frowned, “It still stands? I thought fallen gods’ palaces crumbled with lost merits.”

Pei Ming explained, “The Heavenly Emperor preserves it, and I suspect he hopes Xianle will ascend again.”

Mu Qing’s mind drifted to that heavenly river walk with Jun Wu, the memory stirring a complex ache;

Mu Qing dropped to his knees, his head bowed before Jun Wu, his voice a fervent plea, “This humble subject does not understand what transpires, but I beg Lord’s aid to save him.”

Then much later, Jun Wu clapped his shoulder, his armoured robes tattered, fresh wounds from Xie Lian’s fight mingling with those from Bai Wuxiang. His voice heavy, “Xianle refused to ascend. He doesn’t wish to be saved.”

The memory of that heavenly river with Jun Wu made Mu Qing even more unsure about Xie Lian re-ascending a third time. The weight of Xie Lian’s past struggles gnawed at him as he and Pei Ming resumed their tour, shifting to lighter topics. 

Pei Ming regaled Mu Qing with tales of his own ascension, then added a recent discovery, “Did you know Qie Lan, the princess of that new kingdom Ju Yang helped found, was once my fiancée?”

Mu Qing raised an eyebrow, “Why didn’t it work out?”

Pei Ming shrugged, his gaze flicking toward Mu Qing with a hint of mischief. “She wasn’t my type,” He said, leaving the implication hanging.

Mu Qing offered a brief recount of his exile with Xie Lian’s family, though his focus drifted to Yao Yao’s antics; his laughter as he toddled, his tiny hands clutching the wooden sword—Xie Lian’s birthday gift.

Pei Ming interjected, “Wait, you had two children, right? One’s a girl, what’s her name?”

Mu Qing wished to clarify that he had three children. Yet, with Yao Yao gone, it wasn’t wrong to now say he only had two. For a moment, his expression turned melancholic, his voice softened, “Xie Mian, but she’s now ‘Zhangsun Miao’, adopted by Yong'an’s Grand Commandant.”

Knowing that the little princess Xianle had ended up in Yong'an’s hands, Pei Ming wished to learn more. Yet, if he pushed further, he feared their burgeoning closeness would only fracture. Let time unveil everything in due course, his expression turned sympathetic, “You must miss her dearly.”

Mu Qing fell silent, nodding faintly, his mind whispering; you can help me see her again, but hesitation held his tongue.

Before he could voice it, a chime from his Spiritual Communication Array signalled incoming prayers.

“I must go, duty call,” Before Mu Qing left, he stepped closer to Pei Ming, “The password is...” His voice lowered, then said, “...use it wisely.”

Pei Ming’s face brightened, a grin spreading, “Thank you, Xuan Zhen! Safe travels.”

Mu Qing nodded curtly, “Farewell, Ming Guang. Until next time.” With that, he departed, the weight of their exchange lingering in the air.

FOOTNOTES:

^[14] _{Equivalent to ± 250 metres, 1 bù (步) or "pace" was estimated to be approximately 1.386 metres (based on measurements of China’s Qin Dynasty).}

^[15] _{That's based on the fanon map I made back in tumblr.}

^[16] _{A reference to chapter 19 of ‘Loss of History’.}

A/N:

‘Celestial Library’ and ‘Heavenly Library’ are actually the same, I just use them interchangeably for variation.

Cai Yuerong's debut appearance is in chapter 40 of ‘Loss of History’.

What do you think Mu Qing's password is?

Chapter Text

Feng Xin stepped into the Heavenly Library, its towering shelves aglow with celestial light, guided by Bai Jianguo.

“There! That’s where I saw Mu Qing,” Bai Jianguo said, pointing to a section.

Feng Xin approached, reading the plaque: ‘History of Domains’. To his surprise, a book bore his name. With eager hands, he pulled it down, flipping through its pages. The content was sparse, with vast blank sections, and disappointment flickered. So little recorded, he thought, setting it back. Yet, a clue emerged; Mu Qing had been probing their shared domain.

“Which book did he read?” Feng Xin muttered, curiosity igniting. He gathered tomes on the martial gods—his own, Mu Qing’s, Pei Ming’s, Zhu An’s, Sun Wenyi’s—and moved to a table.

Bai Jianguo trailed behind.

“No harm in studying what lies ahead!” Feng Xin eagerly declared, thumping the books down on the table. He intended to ask Bai Jianguo’s help in reading these books, but then recalled his deputy’s recent literacy lessons.

Perhaps he needed a learned deputy too, casting a sidelong glance at Bai Jianguo. The latter sat puzzled, finally asking, “What can I do, Brother Feng?”

Feng Xin warmed to his deputy’s enthusiasm despite his limitations. “Investigate who oversees this library!” He instructed.

Bai Jianguo sprang up, saluting, “Yes, sir! On it!” and hurried off.

Alone, Feng Xin settled into his reading, the rustle of pages filling the silence. Fifteen minutes later, a young woman sat opposite him, Ling Wen’s deputy from his palace visit. This time, her teal robes adorned with silver thread. She smiled in greeting; Feng Xin nodded curtly, returning to Zhu An’s domain book. Yet, Bai Jianguo’s tale of the literacy class nagged at him. “Er… are you Cai Yuerong?” He ventured.

She blinked, surprised. “Indeed I am. It is an honour that General Ju Yang remembers me,” She replied formally.

JACKPOT! Feng Xin cheered inwardly. “My deputy mentioned your literacy class,” He said.

Cai Yuerong nodded, “Bai Jianguo was the keenest student that day.”

Feng Xin nodded appreciatively, “Thank you for educating him.”

She smiled, “My pleasure, General.”

They resumed their reading, but Feng Xin’s gaze drifted. Cai Yuerong’s book, he noted, was titled ‘History of Crown Prince Summit’—a title that stirred a flicker of intrigue.

Feng Xin leaned forward, his curiosity piqued, “That book… where’s it from, and is there a copy?”

Cai Yuerong tilted her head, “You’re interested in the Crown Prince Summit?”

Feng Xin pressed impatiently, “Obviously, now answer me.”

Cai Yuerong maintained her calm demeanour, “Sadly, most books here lack copies, but you can print one yourself in the library.”

Feng Xin’s brow furrowed, “How?”

She rose, cradling the book, “Come, I’ll show you.”

Feng Xin stood, following her lead.

They halted at a small chamber, a sign reading ‘Printing Room’ in elegant script. Inside, a celestial printing machine dominated the space—a marvel of divine craftsmanship. Its frame was forged from polished obsidian, etched with swirling silver runes that pulsed faintly with spiritual energy. A crystal pedestal at its centre held the book, where a beam of golden light scanned the pages, projecting ethereal duplicates onto a stack of blank parchment below. Gears of jade and bronze whirred silently, guided by an unseen force, as the copies materialised with each turn.

Cai Yuerong explained, “Place the book here, and the machine crafts a copy using the original’s essence. Simple, yet effective.”

Feng Xin listened intently, but Cai Yuerong added, “This isn’t free, it requires merits from upper court gods.”

Feng Xin’s eyes narrowed, “How much?”

Cai Yuerong calculated, “For a book like this, it’s 500 merits—equivalent to six months’ worth of incense and offerings from your Yuechang worshippers.”

Feng Xin gaped, 500 merits was a steep price, indeed matching his half a year’s devotion!

Cai Yuerong shrugged, “Six months isn’t long for immortals like us,” She said, though for Feng Xin, it felt like an eternity in his quest to unravel Mu Qing’s secrets. “That’s too much... and too long...” He muttered.

She conceded, “I agree the library’s fees are exorbitant.”

Feng Xin frowned, “Why so?”

Cai Yuerong sighed, “This place is overseen by the top civil god in the Heavenly Realm.”

Feng Xin pressed, “Who?”

She replied, “Currently, Liang Wei—Deity of Finance. He was an accountant before he ascended as Jing Wen’s deputy.”

Feng Xin blinked, startled, “Liang Wei? I thought it was Ling Wen…”

Cai Yuerong exhaled heavily, “After Jing Wen fell, Lady Ling Wen aimed to become the top civil god to reform this capitalist system. Jing Wen was notorious for greed, hiking library fees to amass merits, claiming it funded improvements, yet it was just a mere nonsense. We hoped Lady Ling Wen would succeed him, but it’s a struggle for goddesses like us. Liang Wei seized the role, yet he revels in Jing Wen’s oppressive system rather than changing it.”

Feng Xin fell silent, mulling it over. If so, wouldn’t Ling Wen’s success be better? He mused aloud, “I always thought Ling Wen was the top, given Jun Wu’s reliance on her.”

Cai Yuerong nodded, “Lady Ling Wen is the most competent, her deputies, including me, trust that.”

Feng Xin probed, “What’s held her back from being number one?”

Cai Yuerong paused, then spoke carefully, “As you know, Lady Ling Wen is a woman and a zhongyong. I suspect Liang Wei and Zhi Ruo accused her of ascending through seduction, and that tale spread like wildfire!”

Feng Xin frowned, “Zhi Ruo? The weaving goddess?” He glanced at his ornate armour, crafted by her during his investiture, “She does gossip a lot, and her stare always unnerves me.”

Cai Yuerong nodded, “They say Zhi Ruo challenged Lady Ling Wen’s legitimacy when she first ascended.”

Feng Xin pressed, “Really? How do you know? Were you already a deputy then?”

Cai Yuerong shook her head, “No, but General Ming Guang mentioned it—he often visits to chat,” She continued, “Due to their gossip, Ling Wen’s temples were vandalised, her donation boxes stuffed with menstrual linens and bralettes!”

Feng Xin’s face darkened. “That’s despicable! How dare they!” He spat, defending Ling Wen fiercely. Cai Yuerong’s expression softened with appreciation.

Feng Xin pressed on, “Can I speak with Ling Wen? Directly or via the Communication Array?” He mulled, needing to judge her himself before deciding.

Cai Yuerong fell silent, her eyes distant as she communed through the array. After a moment, she nodded, “Lady Ling Wen will visit you in one and a half shíchen.”^[17]

Feng Xin’s mind raced. “So soon... And why my place? I still haven’t gotten around to tidying...” He whispered, worried his palace was untidy.

Cai Yuerong caught it, chuckling. “Trust me, our palace is far messier. Farewell for now,” She said, bowing slightly before departing.

Left alone, Feng Xin approached the library keeper, an elderly deity with silver hair, to borrow the martial god domain books. “I’d like to take these,” He said, presenting five tomes.

The keeper adjusted his spectacles, “That’ll be 25 merits per book, General.” Feng Xin calculated—25 merits equalled nine days’ worth of incense and offerings from Yuechang. Exorbitant! He thought, especially for five.

“I’ll take one,” He decided, selecting Xuan Zhen’s domain book, which currently still covers the entire southern region. He would borrow the rest later and inwardly vowed to make his own history.

“Twenty-five merits for Xuan Zhen book?” The keeper asked and Feng Xin nodded, handing over a merit token.

The keeper scanned it with a glowing orb. “Correct. Place your seal here,” He instructed, pointing to a parchment.

Feng Xin pressed his thumb, the ink shimmering, “Is that all?”

The keeper smiled, “Yes, General. Return it within a month, or it’s another 10 merits.”

Feng Xin grunted. “Fine. I’m off,” He said, tucking the book under his arm and exiting, his mind buzzing with plans.

...

..

.

Three hours later, after tending to the usual prayers, Feng Xin lounged in his palace’s relaxation chamber, poring over Xuan Zhen’s domain book. The soft glow of lanterns illuminated the parchment, revealing the vast southern territories still under Mu Qing’s watch.

A celestial guard’s voice broke his focus, “Lady Ling Wen has arrived, General.”

Feng Xin straightened, “Invite her in! Wait in the guest hall while I prepare,” He instructed, smoothing his robes.

Moments later, he entered the guest hall to find Ling Wen nibbling walnuts, her dark earthy robes shimmering faintly. She sipped tea as Feng Xin sat opposite. “General Ju Yang, thank you for the invitation,” She began courteously, straightening her stature.

Feng Xin cut to the chase, “Let’s be direct—your deputy, Cai Yuerong, told me much. She spoke of your ascension struggles, the accusations from Liang Wei and Zhi Ruo about seduction, and the vandalism of your temples with… unseemly items.”

Ling Wen placed her cup down. “I seek no pity, but her account is largely true,” She sighed, “Even my deputy is often harassed when she teaches her literacy classes.”

Feng Xin cursed under his breath, “What the hell?!” His mind raced; that class was so beneficial for people like his deputy right now. His eyes narrowed with sympathy, “None of you deserve such treatments, what can I do to help?”

Ling Wen smiled faintly, “No need if your own business weighs you down.”

The mention of business jogged Feng Xin’s memory, “Speaking of which, about that ‘Crown Prince Summit history book’ your deputy read, has she finished it?” He’d like to borrow it himself.

Ling Wen replied, “Not yet… but pardon me, are you curious about that place?”

“...”

Feng Xin fell silent, whispering, “Xie Lian…” but Ling Wen caught it, “Pardon, is it about His Highness Xianle?”

“...”

Feng Xin hesitated, then began, “...after the gift exchange, Zhu An told me a story of their encounter with His Highness… then Mu Qing arrived and drove him off, though the others welcomed him—”

Ling Wen cut in, “Wait! Who welcomed him?”

Feng Xin answered, “The thirty-something deputies cultivating, including Zhu An.”

Ling Wen frowned, “My reports say they were disturbed by Xianle’s curse shackles, allegedly disrupting their cultivation.”

Feng Xin blinked, confused. “Huh?”

Ling Wen continued, “A fight broke out. Per Jun Wu’s command, I dispatched martial deputies to intervene, with Xuan Zhen as medical deputy on standby for injuries. But Xuan Zhen—then deputy Mu, arrived first.”

Feng Xin’s brow furrowed deeply, suspecting Zhu An and the deputies had deceived him. “So, did Mu Qing really banish His Highness?”

Ling Wen reluctantly nodded, “Yes, and a fierce battle ensued.”

Feng Xin pondered—Zhu An hadn’t lied entirely, but they’d shifted blame. Then, recalling Shen Shen’s mention, he asked, “What about a letter from Xie Lian’s parents? Zhu An’s deputy said Mu Qing gave it to him.”

Ling Wen paused, thinking, “A letter? I’m afraid I’m unaware.”

Feng Xin’s shoulders slumped in disappointment, “Oh…”

“However...” Ling Wen added, “...the deputies argued Xuan Zhen murdered Xianle’s parents, it was unproven claims, and Jun Wu tasked me to compile a chronology of the King and Queen’s deaths, proving Xuan Zhen’s innocence.”

Feng Xin sat upright, interested. The mystery deepened, yet clarity began eluding him. He leaned in, curiosity burning, “So, Mu Qing had no hand in their deaths?”

Ling Wen nodded solemnly, “The time gap between his departure and their deaths was significant.”

Feng Xin nodded, processing, but pressed further, “When I found the King and Queen hanging, I noticed something odd on the King—a head wound. There was a small wooden stool nearby, its edge stained with dried blood.”

Ling Wen affirmed, “That’s correct, but I assure you Xuan Zhen wasn’t involved. Beyond the time difference, we have his fingerprints from his deputy of Xianle days, taken during administrative dealings with us civil gods. My deputy checked the stool, his prints didn’t match.”

Feng Xin nodded, yet a new question arose, “Then who struck the King so fiercely?”

Ling Wen hesitated, smacking her lips, reluctant to answer.

Feng Xin urged, “It’s fine, tell me,” though his mind raced. It's impossible that Xie Lian did it! Though the fallen prince was there first, utterly broken.

Ling Wen finally spoke, “You may find this hard to believe, but fingerprint evidence^[18] points to the Queen.”

Feng Xin froze, shock washing over him. The Queen killed the King? Incredulous! She loved him so deeply… He murmured, “How could this be…?” Relief flooded him that Mu Qing was innocent, yet the Queen’s role was unimaginable. He studied Ling Wen’s eyes intently, searching for deceit, but as the newly ascended Ju Yang, he couldn’t gauge her true ties to Mu Qing. Nevertheless, it meant the oddity of a single stool—rather than the two—that he found now made sense. Yet, another mystery remained; had the queen also lifted the king’s body and hung it high?  That is highly unlikely! The Queen is a woman, her build isn’t large, she has no martial background, and she was middle-aged. Even if it were proven that the Queen was the one who struck the King’s head with that wooden stool... Feng Xin then pressed Ling Wen further, “Alright, even if the Queen did kill the King, it’s impossible that she alone lifted the King’s body and hanged him like that, is it?”

Ling Wen appeared to ponder for a moment before replying, “That’s true; it’s highly likely there was someone else assisting her. But as I explained before, Xuan Zhen has no involvement in this whatsoever…” Then, almost simultaneously, Ling Wen and Feng Xin concluded, “Then someone else must be helping her!”

“However…” Ling Wen added, “...my team conducted a thorough investigation, and the findings were conclusive; there were no other fingerprints on the King’s body apart from the Queen’s. This strongly suggests that any accomplice meticulously covered their tracks.” She thought to herself, could that be why this had escaped my notice?

Feng Xin also appeared deep in thought. Softly, to himself and Ling Wen, he mused, “Why would the Queen do this? Who is the man most likely to have helped her and why was he so elusive? Are those linked to that letter?” One mystery unravelled; Xie Lian’s parents’ deaths. But the mysterious man, and the letter hinted at by Shen Shen, remained an enigma.

Silence stretched between them until Feng Xin’s eyes lit up, “Lady Ling Wen, regarding your struggles, I can help you.”

“Eh?” Ling Wen blinked, startled.

Feng Xin pressed on, “You want to be the top civil god, replacing Liang Wei, don’t you?”

Ling Wen feigned hesitancy, “…That—”

Feng Xin cut through, “I’ll support you! Those library fees are outrageous after all, I hope you could reform them soon!”

Ling Wen demurred, “You don’t have t—”

But Feng Xin interrupted, “I’ll aid you if you help me with something.”

Ling Wen realised the aid wasn’t free. She offered, “Then, what can I do for you?”

Feng Xin smiled diplomatically, “Help me investigate the identity of this mysterious man who helped the queen in the king’s murder, and the truth of the letter from Xie Lian’s parents, allegedly given by Mu Qing to Xie Lian before he left.”

One night, as The Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo slumbered in his modest chamber, a vivid dream enveloped him...

The air shimmered with celestial light, and before him stood General Ming Guang, his armoured robes billowing, his presence commanding yet warm.

Zhangsun Bo’s breath caught! Once again, this martial god’s gallant figure graced his dreams, stirring a mix of awe and reverence.

Pei Ming’s voice resonated, deep and clear, “Zhangsun Bo, I charge you with a task; build a shrine to Xuan Zhen within your residence.”

Zhangsun Bo bowed low, his tone deferential, “Forgive my ignorance, great General, but if the people know not of Xuan Zhen, nor worship him, how shall this be done?”

Pei Ming’s eyes softened, a knowing smile playing on his lips, “Beneath your stern discipline—forged from your peasant roots and honed in the military—lies a heart that cherishes your children deeply. Xuan Zhen is the martial god who safeguards the young. Honour him, and protect them.”

Zhangsun Bo nodded obediently, yet hesitated, “Might I inquire, General, of Xuan Zhen’s visage, for I know it not?”

Pei Ming chuckled, as if anticipating this, “Fear not, I’ve prepared for this.” From his sleeve, he produced a finely carved wooden idol of Mu Qing, its features sharp yet serene, clad in his luxurious robes. Internally, Pei Ming swelled with pride, his hidden talent for sculpting, once the delight of adoring maidens, had crafted this masterpiece.

Zhangsun Bo gazed at the idol, mesmerised by its craftsmanship, the dream fading as dawn approached. Upon waking, he found the small wooden figure resting on his lap. Rising, he carried it to the lantern’s glow, squinting for a closer look. His eyes narrowed, a thought stirring.

Why does this resemble that concubine of Xianle, the birth mother of my daughter who’d once captured by the late King Lang Ying?

...

..

.

In the Heavenly Realm, Pei Ming and Mu Qing stood by the celestial river, its waters alive with colourful koi darting beneath the surface.

Pei Ming waved a hand dismissively, “You needn’t trouble yourself bringing me here just to see your daughter. We’re both busy, matching free time is a chore. So, I sent a dream to the Grand Commandant Zhangsun, instructing him to build your shrine at his residence. Now you can glimpse her whenever you wish.”

Mu Qing bowed slightly, cupping his hands in gratitude, “I am deeply grateful for your help, General Ming Guang.”

Pei Ming chuckled, “No need for that—relax. Though, I must warn you, I’m unsure if this is allowed. Keeping it low profile, Jun Wu might impose sanctions, given its Zhu An’s domain now. I still hold a sliver of territory there since Yong’an folk knew me as their god before his ascent.”

In a city at the easternmost edge of Yuechang, Qie Lan, the eldest princess of the royal family, slept atop a hill in a modest house. Her dreams unfurled vividly...

She found herself with Rong Guang, Pei Ming’s deputy and sworn brother from his pre-ascension days. Rong Guang was a man with a weathered face, his dark hair tied back with a leather cord, clad in rugged grey robes that bore the scars of past battles.

They pored over a map, plotting to storm the capital and overthrow the king of Xuli. Qie Lan asked, “Did you convince Pei Ming to aid our plan?” Internally, she mused; though they were betrothed, it was pure politics, she never warmed to him.

Rong Guang grinned, “He’s showing signs of agreement.”

Qie Lan’s eyes sparkled with hope. In a playful lilt, she teased, “Perhaps he should court you instead, I’ll be your secret admirer!”

Rong Guang’s face flushed with indignation. “WHAT NONSENSE IS THIS?!” He snapped, though her laughter softened the air—it was merely a jest.

The day of the coup dawned with tension thick in the air. Qie Lan stood beside her father, Marshal Qie Mo, her brother Qie Shun, Eunuch Kang, Commander Hong, and Rong Guang, their swords gleaming under the dim light. Their plan to seize the capital unfolded with precision—until Pei Ming descended with a small, elite force. The clash erupted in a whirlwind of steel and shouts.

Rong Guang parried a soldier’s blade, his rugged grey armour tearing as he spun, while Qie Mo’s spear thrust through an attacker, blood spraying. Qie Shun ducked a swipe, his youthful agility saving him, and Eunuch Kang’s fan concealed a hidden dagger that felled a foe. Commander Hong roared, cleaving through ranks, but Pei Ming’s prowess was beastly—his sword danced like a dragon, felling rebels with each strike.

Qie Lan’s eyes narrowed at Rong Guang, fury rising. HE LIED! She realised. He’d failed to sway Pei Ming to their cause and deceived her family for support.

As Pei Ming’s forces closed in, she made a ruthless choice. “Rong Guang, take the fall!” She hissed, shoving him toward Pei Ming.

Rong Guang stumbled, his eyes wide with betrayal. Pei Ming’s sword pierced his chest, the tip gleaming red. Rong Guang gasped, clutching Pei Ming’s arm. “General… I believed in you… supported you always…” He whispered, blood bubbling at his lips.

Pei Ming’s face contorted with regret, tears welling as he caught Rong Guang’s lifeless body, cradling it. “Forgive me, brother Rong…” He murmured, his voice breaking.

Qie Lan and her family fled, hearts pounding as they mounted their horses, piercing through Pei Ming’s relentless elite guards. Their blades sang, cutting down pursuers, but the odds were dire. “His martial might is monstrous!” Qie Lan shouted, urging her horse faster, her anger at Rong Guang’s deceit fuelling her resolve.

Suddenly, they reached a familiar place; the Yuechang Palace in Panyu!? As they halted for a breath, Feng Xin emerged, his celestial armour gleaming with golden runes, a divine aura radiating. With a single sweep of his bow, he repelled the elite guards.

“Feng–Ju Yang!” Qie Lan turned—her father, brother and those elite guards had vanished?!

Feng Xin faced her, his voice firm. “No time for pleasantries, I bear a decree for you, Your Highness,” He said, extending a blessing that shimmered with celestial light.

*

**

***

Qie Lan jolted awake, sweat beading on her brow as the dream faded. She rose, splashing water on her face, and prepared for the day.

Donning a traveller’s robe adorned with cloud motifs in soft blues and whites, she grabbed her horse and rode down the hill. Soon, she arrived at a modest Ling Wen temple, its wooden beams weathered yet serene.

A priest, recognising her as Yuechang’s princess, greeted her with a bow. Qie Lan inquired about the priests’ struggles. The priest sighed, “We face constant trouble, obscene items—like menstrual linens and bralettes—keep appearing in Ling Wen’s donation box.”

Worshippers nearby nodded, adding, “Liang Wei’s followers provoke us too.”

Qie Lan pondered, then suggested, “What if you replaced the statue with one of a handsome male scholar?”

A worshipper chuckled nervously, “But none of us are sculptors, Your Highness.”

Qie Lan pressed, “Surely there’s a skilled artisan nearby?”

A priest nodded, “There is... Master Lǐ Wěi (李偉),^[19] if I recall.”

Qie Lan decided, “Very well, commission him for a scholar god statue. I’ll cover the cost, give him this.” She handed over a token bearing her royal insignia, marking the order as directly commissioned by Yuechang’s princess. The priests and worshippers beamed, offering profuse thanks as she bid farewell.

Riding a few metres away, Qie Lan encountered a chaotic brawl. Rowdy youths clashed with young vendors, while middle-aged merchants pleaded, their stalls ransacked. “HELP US!” one cried.

Qie Lan dismounted, her resolve hardening. She stepped into the fray, dodging a wild punch. “BACK OFF!” a thug snarled, swinging a club. With surprising strength, she caught his arm, twisting it until he yelped, then knocked him out with a swift kick.

Another charged, but she sidestepped, sending him sprawling with a palm strike. Why do I feel so powerful? She wondered, recalling Ju Yang’s blessing from her dream. The thugs, battered and groaning, retreated.

The merchants knelt, gratitude in their eyes. “Thank you, Princess!” Their children echoed. Yet, Qie Lan’s mind turned inward; This stems from poor education and scarce livelihoods, security alone won’t fix it. She asked, “How long has this persisted?”

A merchant replied, “It's been about a decade since Xuli conquered this city.”

Qie Lan recalled—this prefecture once belonged to Yushi, conquered by Xuli. Pei Ming had led the conquest, aided by her family, easing Yushi’s fall. His name had soared as a hero, while her family’s contributions faded. Now, with Yuechang Qie in control, Qie Lan saw this as recompense for Pei Ming’s betrayal. She turned to the merchants, her voice steady. “Fear not! Henceforth, this region falls under my protection.”

The crowd murmured in relief as she mounted her horse, her resolve hardening. Returning to her hilltop abode, she fetched paper, grinding ink with a steady hand and dipping her brush. She penned a letter to her father, Qie Mo:

Honoured Imperial Father,

I apologise for our last quarrel before my flight from the palace. I am well, now in Gūsū (姑苏). This prefecture city teeters on the edge, bordering Xuli, and its safety wanes. I request additional troops for the frontier. Moreover, this land lags behind, my plan is to build a dormitory and academy on Mount Gusu, a tranquil peak near my dwelling, to uplift its people.

...

..

.

Days turned to months, months to years. Under Qie Lan’s vigilant care, Gusu flourished. The port expanded, transforming the city into a bustling trade hub. Her academy, initially a centre for scholars, birthed civil servants, officials, and leaders who propelled Gusu’s growth. Though not designed for cultivators, Qie Lan permitted martial and spiritual training when a cultivator noted the mountain’s abundant spiritual energy. Inspired, she embraced an ascetic life, mastering cultivation in her later years.

Centuries later, Qie Lan’s legacy endured. Her deeds in building Gusu inspired a young cultivating monk and musician, who revived her long-abandoned academy, naming it the ‘Cloud Recesses’.

And from that time, the civil goddess Ling Wen became widely known as the civil god Ling Wen, replacing Liang Wei as the number one civil god, and even surpassed Jing Wen’s legacy.

FOOTNOTES:

^[17] _{During the Qin Dynasty, the day was not divided into 24 hours. Instead, it was primarily divided into 12 large units called shíchén (時辰); One full day was divided into 12 shíchen. Therefore, 1 shíchen is equal to 2 modern hours.}

^[18] _{Source: The earliest use of fingerprints can be traced back to the Zhou dynasty (1046-256 BCE), and the first documented use of crime scene fingermarks dates back to the Qin dynasty (221-206 BCE).}

^[19] _{This Lǐ Wěi (李偉) was the twin brother of the Lǐ Wèi (李衛) who hideously carved Xuan Zhen’s statue back in chapter 3, their talents were quite diverse.}

A/N:

Hopefully no one has finished reading yet, but if you have, I want to apologise because there is a slight revision in the section (starting from) ‘Feng Xin froze, shock washing over him.’ I just remembered that there was a little detail I forgot, so I apologise. >w<

Chapter Text

Nestled amidst rolling hills, the residence of Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo stood as a testament to refined elegance. Its walls, crafted from polished timber and adorned with intricate latticework, rose gracefully, supporting a sweeping tiled roof with upturned eaves that seemed to embrace the sky. Courtyards bloomed with flowers, their stone pathways winding past bronze incense burners that wafted faint sandalwood into the air. The interior boasted lacquered furniture, its surfaces etched with floral motifs, and silk draperies that softened the light filtering through paper windows.

Zhangsun Miao, known affectionately as Miao Miao in her youth, resided within these walls. She grew under the care of her adoptive parents, Zhangsun Bo and Madam An. At a tender age, they raised her with a feminine grace, teaching her to sew delicate embroidery, knit soft scarves, paint watercolours of blooming lotuses, and assist with light kitchen tasks like shaping steamed buns. Zhangsun Bo, with his stern military bearing softened by paternal warmth, believed she mirrored her birth mother, destined to be a kunze, her gentle nature a reflection of that lineage.

At eight years old, Miao Miao knelt before the Xuan Zhen shrine in a quiet corner of the residence. The shrine was a modest yet elegant alcove, its centrepiece a wooden idol carved by Pei Ming—a figure of Mu Qing in his luxurious robes, its features sharp yet serene, the craftsmanship evoking a divine poise.

Surrounded by flickering oil lamps, she clasped her hands, her voice a whisper, “Honoured Xuan Zhen… I miss your warmth, the scent of yueji roses that clung to you. Please visit me in my dreams, let me feel you again. My adoptive family now plants those roses in the garden, I tend them so I never forget your fragrance. Guide me, I pray.” Her words hung in the air, a child’s longing mingling with the shrine’s sacred stillness.

Years passed, and at twelve, a storm broke over the household. Miao Miao, now called Zhangsun Miao, presented not as a kunze but as a qianyuan! The revelation sent ripples of shock through the family. Her adoptive younger brother, Zhǎngsūn Hào (長孫昊), a spirited seven-year-old son of Zhangsun Bo and Madam An, gaped alongside the servants.

Zhangsun Bo, after initial disbelief, resolved to adapt her upbringing. “A qianyuan must be trained as such!” He declared, his voice firm yet proud.

The next day, in the courtyard, Zhangsun Miao stood uncertainly as Zhangsun Bo handed her a bow. “Hold it steady,” He instructed, positioning her stance.

The string bit into her fingers as she drew, the arrow wobbling before striking a target metres away—a shaky but true hit.

Next, he led her to a wooden training dummy, teaching her to thrust a wooden sword. “Strength comes with practice,” He said, guiding her arm.

Finally, atop a sturdy horse, she gripped the reins, her heart racing as it galloped, Zhangsun Bo’s steady hand on her back. Sweat beaded on her brow, but a spark of pride flickered—she was adapting.

That evening, Zhangsun Miao returned to the Xuan Zhen shrine, her steps heavy. Kneeling before the wooden idol, she murmured, “Honoured Xuan Zhen, I’m bewildered. I was raised as a kunze, and now I’m a qianyuan. This strength confounds me. Am I still your daughter? Please, grant me a sign, guide me through this change. I fear losing who I was, yet I yearn to honour this new path.” Her prayer rose, a plea for balance amid her shifting identity.

That night, after her prayer, Zhangsun Miao drifted into sleep, greeted by a rare vision of Mu Qing, her mother. Joy surged within her, despite daily prayers at the Xuan Zhen shrine, her mother’s appearances in her dreams were scarce.

Mu Qing sat beneath a canopy of celestial light, Zhangsun Miao’s head resting in his lap as he stroked her hair tenderly. “Be kind to your family here,” Mu Qing advised, his voice soft yet firm, “Cherish the skills they’ve taught you, but above all, never forget your royal Xianle blood... your true self.” The dream faded, leaving Zhangsun Miao with a warm ache.

In the Heavenly Realm, Mu Qing stood by the celestial river, his luxurious dark robes rippling as he gazed into the waters, reflecting his now-grown daughter. Tears welled—Zhangsun Miao had presented as a qianyuan, a surprise that both startled and intrigued him.

Regret gnawed at Mu Qing; the single Xuan Zhen shrine, worshipped solely by Zhangsun Miao in Yong'an, limited his visits. He had urged his daughter to keep her devotion secret, wary of Jun Wu’s sanctions for encroaching on Zhu An’s domain.

Better fleeting glimpses than none at all, than banishment sealing that bond forever.

...

..

.

..

...

Eight years later, Zhangsun Miao, now twenty, prepared for her coming-of-age ceremony. The residence buzzed with preparation, its courtyards adorned with crimson banners and incense smoke curling skyward.

The ceremony followed ancient rites; she knelt before an altar of polished jade, her hair unbound as Zhangsun Bo offered a cup of rice wine, symbolising her transition to adulthood.

Priests chanted, their voices rising with the clanging of bronze bells, while attendants presented a ceremonial robe of deep indigo, embroidered with cranes.

Zhangsun Bo bestowed her courtesy name^[20], “Huìmíng (慧明),” meaning ‘wise brightness’, a nod to her intellect and spirit.

High-level and well-known people attended the event; Zhangsun Bo and Madam An, their fifteen-year-old son Zhangsun Hao, and honoured guests; King Lang Yang, his grandmother Grand Dowager Queen Wang Ya, and adoptive mother Grand Consort Yiping.

Lang Yang, now a striking young man, stood noticeably taller than most, having inherited his father’s impressive stature and handsome features. Yet, his complexion was fair and his dark hair fine, a clear testament to his birth mother’s beauty.

Chief Eunuch Zhao, co-regent with Wang Ya, stood alongside Prince Lang Jun, Lang Yang’s uncle, and his personal guard, Fu Huizhong, a tall figure with a steady gaze.

Throughout, Lang Yang stole glances at Zhangsun Miao, a flicker of interest in his eyes, mirrored by Fu Huizhong’s respectful admiration.

Post-ceremony, as guests mingled, Lang Yang approached Zhangsun Bo. “Your daughter’s martial skill is remarkable—consider her for ‘Colonel of the City Gates’^[21],” He suggested, his tone eager, though his motive hinted at keeping Zhangsun Miao near.

Before Zhangsun Bo could respond, Wang Ya interjected, “No, she’d serve better as a ‘Commandery Commandant’^[22], guarding the eastern border with Xuli.” Her smile masked a subtle intent—to separate Lang Yang from Zhangsun Miao and curb the Zhangsun family’s influence.

Lang Yang’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, while Zhangsun Bo’s nod hid a flicker of displeasure, sensing the political undercurrent.

The royal entourage had returned to the palace, leaving the Zhangsun residence behind. In his chamber, Lang Yang paced, his voice rising in frustration, “Once again, Grandmother overrules me, thrusting Zhangsun Miao to the eastern border against my will!”

Fu Huizhong, his steadfast guard, stepped forward, his tone soothing, “Your Majesty, her regency weighs heavy, but patience will serve you well.”

Lang Yang sighed, running a hand through his hair, “How should I act? I yearn to rule fully and diminish her influence!”

Before Fu Huizhong could respond, a eunuch announced, “Grand Consort Yiping seeks an audience.”

“Come,” Lang Yang gestured her in, his tone softening.

The Grand Consort Yiping entered, her presence commanding yet tinged with age. Once a demoness named Hongdie, crafted by Jun Wu in the likeness of his late wife, she had been granted eternal youth. To seduce Lang Ying, Lang Yang’s father and the late king of Yong'an, and infiltrate the court, Jun Wu altered her face to match Lang Ying’s late wife’s, rendering her mortal and subjecting her to the bane of women; ageing. Now in her forties, she retained a striking beauty, her silver-streaked hair framing a face lined with wisdom, her crimson robe flowing elegantly.

“Mother,” Lang Yang greeted, bowing slightly.

Grand Consort Yiping smiled warmly, “My son, you look troubled.”

Lang Yang poured his heart out, “Wang Ya thwarts me again—Zhangsun Miao was meant for the capital, yet she assigns her to a border post! I’m tired of her control!”

Grand Consort Yiping patted his hand, her expression thoughtful, “Calm yourself, dear. Wang Ya is a hurdle, but Chief Eunuch Zhao, also Grand Chancellor, is the true threat—more dangerous than her. I’ll seek out discontented eunuchs to sway them. Perhaps a visit to the Heavenly Emperor’s temple will yield guidance.”

Lang Yang exhaled, his tension easing.

...

..

.

At the temple, its stone pillars etched with intricate runes, Hongdie knelt before the altar, incense smoke curling upward. She closed her eyes, her voice a reverent whisper, “Master, this is Hongdie. I beseech your guidance on the best path for Lang Yang to seize full power and rid us of Wang Ya and her minions. Grant me wisdom, I pray.”

At Zhangsun’s residence, the yard echoed with laughter as Zhangsun Miao and her younger brother Zhangsun Hao raced their horses, their hooves kicking up dust.

Miao, astride her sleek chestnut mare, grinned over her shoulder, “KEEP UP, XIAO HAO! DON’T LET ME LAP YOU!”

Hao, on a spirited bay, laughed breathlessly, “NOT FAIR, SISTER—YOU’RE TOO FAST!”

They’d wagered a playful forfeit, and as Miao crossed the finish line first, she dismounted, her eyes twinkling, “You lost, time for your penalty!”

She chased Hao as the latter dismounted, tickling his sides as he squirmed, giggling. “Stop, stop! This isn’t fair—your riding skills are unreal!” He protested, though he didn’t fall, his cheeks flushed with fun.

The joy faded as Zhangsun Miao’s thoughts drifted to her lost brother, Yao Yao. Separated since their childhood, her last memory was of Chief Eunuch Zhao taking him away while she was entrusted to Chen Yang, her loyal maid.

***

**

*

Visits to the palace had seen her seek the chief eunuch repeatedly, only to be dodged. One day, she finally cornered him in a shadowed corridor. Grabbing his sleeve, Zhangsun Miao demanded, “I’ve tried meeting you several times, will you evade me again?”

Chief Eunuch Zhao stiffened, his voice formal, “Release me, please. You address The Grand Chancellor.” 

Zhangsun Miao’s mind flashed to his past as her servant during her Xianle princess days, but she relented, letting go. “How long will you avoid me?” She pressed.

The Grand Chancellor Zhao sighed, “What do you require of me?”

Zhangsun Miao’s eyes hardened, “My brother… Yao Yao. Do you know his fate?”

Grand Chancellor Zhao feigned ignorance, “I don’t comprehend your question.”

Zhangsun Miao’s grip tightened inwardly, “Don’t pretend! You took him from me that day!”

Grand Chancellor Zhao hesitated, guilt flickering across his face, “Last I knew, he rejoined his family—the king, queen, the fallen crown prince of Xianle…”

...and you tore me from them!  Zhangsun Miao seethed silently.

Grand Chancellor Zhao continued, “…and your mother, Mu-fei^[23].”

Zhangsun Miao cut in softly, “Liar...”

Grand Chancellor Zhao blinked, “What?”

Her voice rose, “You liar! My mum isn’t with them—he’s a god now!”

Grand Chancellor Zhao’s eyes widened, “A god!?”

Zhangsun Miao froze, regret stinging, her slip was out.

Grand Chancellor Zhao pressed, “If your mother did ascend, why not ask him directly?” With that, he turned and left, leaving her in stunned silence.

...

..

.

Zhangsun Miao knelt before the Xuan Zhen shrine, her prayers whispered into the stillness before exhaustion claimed her, and she dozed off against the wooden idol’s base.

In her dream, she found herself in a serene grove bathed in golden light, where Mu Qing awaited, his luxurious black-and-crimson robes flowing like a river. Zhangsun Miao’s heart leapt with joy, such visits were rare despite her daily devotions.

Mu Qing smiled, brushing a hand through Miao’s hair, “How is my daughter? Train well?”

Zhangsun Miao nodded, then seized her chance, “A-Niang, do you know of my brother Yao Yao? I miss him dearly.”

Mu Qing’s eyes glistened, a tear threatening to fall. He grappled inwardly; should he confess Yao Yao’s death or shield Miao Miao from that pain?

After a tense silence, he chose the latter, “Yao Yao is well, living peacefully...”

Zhangsun Miao’s face brightened, “Where is he now? Can I visit?”

“...”

Mu Qing faltered, then lied again, “He’s near Lang'er Bay, it’s in an old Yong'an province before Xianle’s fall. I lack sway there, Sun Wenyi’s domain holds it.”

Zhangsun Miao’s shoulders slumped, disappointment mingling with resolve. She vowed, “I’ll go one day.”

Mu Qing’s heart ached, silently wishing his daughter’s fate would never lead her there.

“Oh!” Zhangsun Miao brightened again, “I met a god while riding to visit Aunt Wen!”

At ‘Aunt Wen,’ Mu Qing’s mind drifted to doctor Wen, the royal physician who tended him during Yao Yao’s birth, a memory he now yearned for.

Zhangsun Miao continued, “...but he said he’s a deputy... Lord Shen, I think?”

Mu Qing recognised Shen Shen, Zhu An’s deputy. “Aunt Wen was a skilled physician. Next time, learn her healing arts, it’ll serve you well,” He advised.

“Yes, Mum,” Zhangsun Miao nodded, “Can I be your deputy?”

Mu Qing froze, his heart swelling—Zhangsun Miao’s martial prowess made her a fitting choice, and she was his daughter. Yet, he explained, “Martial gods can only appoint deputies within their main domain. I’m bound by that rule.”

Zhangsun Miao’s face fell, deeming Yuechang’s distance impossible. Then an idea struck, “Since I will join the military soon, what if I conquer Xuli and Yuechang to join you?”

Mu Qing froze, shocked by his daughter’s idea, his voice sharpened, “Never entertain such reckless, destructive notions for personal gain! Family or not!”

Zhangsun Miao fell silent, chastened. “I apologise, A-Niang...” She muttered.

Softening, Mu Qing felt a pang of guilt at his daughter’s downcast look, “If you can, go visit Meizhou, it’s still my domain. Before I appoint you there, seek Yu Gui and his family. They aided me in my darkest times.” His gaze grew distant, tinged with longing, as the dream dissolved.

*

**

***

The flashback dream faded, and Zhangsun Miao found herself back in the yard with Zhangsun Hao. They paused their play, plucking lychees from a high branch, the fruit’s sweet aroma filling the air as they rested against the tree.

Hao, brimming with energy, grinned. “Let’s race back to the gate, rematch time!”

Zhangsun Miao teased, “Oh, you’ll win, will you?” with a playful smirk.

Hao shot back, “Don’t get cocky… I’ve learned a trick to beat you!”

They mounted their horses, the chestnut and bay snorting eagerly. The race began, hooves thundering. Near the gate, Hao surged ahead, his confidence soaring. “PREPARE FOR MY REVENGE!” He shouted, hinting at tickling Miao back.

Miao’s eyes widened—pride mingled with surprise at his skill...

...until disaster struck!

Just shy of the gate, Hao’s horse stumbled, and he tumbled to the ground!

Miao gasped, leaping off her mare to rush to him. “XIAO HAO!” She cried, kneeling as servants and guards hurried over.

“Young Master Hao, are you hurt?” A guard asked, concerned about etching his face. A maid added, “We saw him fall, should we fetch a physician?”

Madam An arrived, her voice trembling, “My son, speak to me!”

As Zhangsun Miao, with a servant’s help, lifted Hao’s half-conscious form, a startling scent hit her—pomegranate and white tea, sweet and herbaceous.

Zhangsun Hao was presented as a kunze!

In Grand Dowager Queen Wang Ya’s chamber, an officer delivered a letter from King Qie Mo of Yuechang. Wang Ya broke the seal, her eyes scanning the parchment. It read;

Honoured Grand Dowager Queen of Yong'an,

With regret, Yuechang declines Prince Lang Jun’s marriage proposal to Qie Lan. My daughter has long cherished freedom, viewing marriage as a chain. This is no reflection on Lang Jun’s worth, for Yuechang holds him in high esteem. Instead, consider the daughter of the former Huaiji magistrate, now my Grand Secretary, whose family aided ours in conquering Panyu. Her lineage and loyalty make her a worthy match.

Wang Ya’s face darkened, fury simmering. She summoned Grand Chancellor Zhao, her voice tight, “Yuechang dares reject us! What now for Lang Jun!?”

Grand Chancellor Zhao pondered, “There’s still the Zhaoyi princess, Qī Líng (戚玲), cousin to the late Queen Qi Hua of Xianle.”

Wang Ya scowled, “I’ll not taint our royal blood with Xianle!”

Grand Chancellor Zhao countered smoothly, “Qi Ling bears no Xianle blood, her lineage is pure Zhaoyi royal descent.” 

After his persuasion, Wang Ya relented, “Very well, draft a letter to the Zhaoyi royals.” She leaned forward, her voice edged with impatience, “Then... What of Lang Yang? He’s presented, yet takes no harem nor weds. Why is that?” Internally, she grumbled; Why a qianyuan like his father, not a kunze like his birth mother? Had he been a kunze, she could’ve humiliated him and replaced him with Lang Jun.

Grand Chancellor Zhao adjusted his robes, replying, “It’s best we marry him soon.”

“Why rush?” Wang Ya frowned, “Wouldn’t leaving him single, childless, weaken him?”

Grand Chancellor Zhao shook his head, “Childlessness isn’t always a weakness...” Here I, a eunuch, hold this power, and you rely on me.  He continued, “Wed him to a woman or kunze from our allies’ families, and his dependence on us will grow.”

Wang Ya nodded, impressed by his foresight, “Then whom should we choose?”

Grand Chancellor Zhao suggested, “What if we approach Grand Secretary Lǚ (呂) for one of his children?”

At Zhangsun’s residence, Zhangsun Hao lay in his chamber, tended by healers after his fall and presentation as a kunze. Strict orders barred Zhangsun Miao and Zhangsun Bo from entering for seven days, a precaution for his delicate state.

Restless, Zhangsun Miao retreated to her sanctuary; the Xuan Zhen shrine. Kneeling before the elegant wooden idol of Mu Qing, she poured out her heart, “Honoured Xuan Zhen, I’m stunned—Xiao Hao’s a kunze. I fear his future, dreading he’ll suffer as...” Her voice trembled with worry, “...Mum once did.”

Exhausted from the day’s race, she soon drifted into sleep, her head resting against the shrine’s cool base.

In the depths of her sleep, Zhangsun Miao found herself once more in a dream, cradled by Mu Qing. His gentle hand stroked her hair as her head rested on her mother’s lap, the golden light of the dreamscape softening the air.

“Since Hao was a boy, was he not?” Mu Qing asked softly.

Zhangsun Miao nodded.

Mu Qing continued, “Then he is a ‘yang kunze.’ You needn’t fret overly for his fate.”

Zhangsun Miao tilted her head, “Why so?”

Mu Qing’s smile turned tender, “Miao Miao, you were raised as a daughter, yet now you’re a qianyuan—a ‘yin qianyuan.’ Both ‘yang kunze’ and ‘yin qianyuan’^[24] hold choices I never had.” His gaze grew distant.

Zhangsun Miao pressed, “What choices, A-Niang?”

Mu Qing’s voice lowered, “The choice to birth or sire your offspring...”

Zhangsun Miao’s vision blurred, and her dream dissolved.

...

..

.

In the Heavenly Realm, by the celestial river, Mu Qing lingered after sending the dream, his obsidian eyes tracing Zhangsun Miao’s half-conscious form waking at the shrine.

Pei Ming approached, peering over his shoulder. “Your daughter’s grown, hasn’t she? Quite a beauty,” He remarked with a grin.

Mu Qing rolled his eyes, shooting him a sidelong glance, “Mind your manners, don’t you dare meddle with her!”

Pei Ming chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare!” He teased, “Besides, I’d hardly make you a grandmother so soon.”

Mu Qing snorted, his mind whispering; Only because your latest mortal scandal with that concubine keeps you busy.

In the family room of Zhangsun’s residence, Zhangsun Bo and Madam An sat in tense silence.

The physician arrived, confirming with a bow, “Young Master Hao is indeed a kunze.”

Zhangsun Bo’s face hardened, his hopes of his own son inheriting his military post dashed, leaving him reliant on his adopted daughter, Zhangsun Miao, for the family’s future.

Madam An placed a comforting hand on his arm, though her own unease showed.

Zhangsun Bo muttered, “What of our family’s future?” A long, fraught silence followed. He stared blankly ahead, the weight of their current predicament settling heavily upon him. He could almost feel the family’s legacy slipping through his fingers, and a profound sense of despondency washed over him.

Madam An watched him, her own heart aching, before a flicker of defiance, then inspiration, sparked within her. Her eyes brightened with an idea, “Husband, this may seem a misfortune, but it could be a blessing in disguise.”

Zhangsun Bo frowned, “Explain.”

She leaned closer, “With this, we can wed Hao'er to His Majesty, strengthening our influence.”

Zhangsun Bo’s expression lifted, enlightenment dawning, “You’re right! Marrying Miao'er to His Majesty is impossible, sharing the same birth mother. But with Hao'er…” His eyes widened as a startling realisation hit, “Wife, from now on, keep Miao'er and Hao'er apart—let them not grow too close!”

Madam An gasped, hands flying to her mouth, quickly grasping his intent and nodding in agreement.

...

..

.

The day arrived for Zhangsun Miao’s official appointment. In the grand hall, Lang Yang sat on his throne, his gaze fixed on Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo with hopeful intensity. Days prior, he had sent a letter proposing Zhangsun Miao as Colonel of the City Gates, yet Zhangsun Bo’s silence unnerved him.

Grand Consort Yiping, sitting nearby behind a silk screen, soothed him, “The Grand Commandant likely avoids drawing attention, hence no reply.”

Behind another silk screen, Grand Dowager Queen Wang Ya presided regally, her eyes darting to Grand Chancellor Zhao with a sly smile. She had prepared a counter-edict, poised to override Lang Yang’s wish.

A palace attendant, with his voice clear, announced, “By the decree of the Grand Queen Dowager Regent, His Excellency, the Grand Commandant, is requested to acknowledge the appointment of his esteemed daughter, Zhangsun Miao, as Commandery Commandant of the Eastern Frontier!”

All eyes turned to the Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo.

Lang Yang leaned forward imperceptibly, his heart pounding. Would Grand Commandant Zhangsun subtly resist? Would he express any hesitation, offering him a sliver of hope?

Zhangsun Bo stepped forward, his posture unwavering. Cupping his hands, he slowly knelt, his voice resonating with practiced formality, yet carrying a distinct tone of acceptance that sent a chill down Lang Yang’s spine.

“Your Royal Majesty, and Esteemed Grand Queen Dowager Regent,” He began, his voice firm and clear, “This humble servant receives this most profound honour with the deepest gratitude. My daughter, Zhangsun Miao, though young, has always harboured a fierce dedication to the safety of our glorious Yong'an. To be entrusted with the vital duty of defending our eastern borders, under the wise guidance of the Grand Queen Dowager, is a privilege beyond measure.”

He paused, then continued, his voice now imbued with a tone of patriotic zeal, “We, as loyal subjects, stand ready to serve wherever the Imperial Court deems our skills most valuable. This appointment is a testament to the Grand Queen Dowager’s discerning wisdom and her unwavering commitment to the kingdom’s security. My daughter will depart at once, eager to fulfill this crucial role and bring glory to the Royal House and to the Grand Queen Dowager’s benevolent rule!”

Lang Yang clenched his teeth as he watched Zhangsun Bo bowing low, a perfect display of deference and obedience. There was no hint of disappointment over the original palace post, no subtle plea for reconsideration. The Grand Commandant’s words were a complete endorsement, a public affirmation of The Grand Queen Dowager’s decision and, by extension, her supreme authority.

Wang Ya offered a serene, almost imperceptible nod from behind her screen. Grand Chancellor Zhao, standing beside her, allowed a faint, knowing smile to touch his lips.

The other officials in the hall quickly followed suit, offering their congratulations to Zhangsun Bo, implicitly acknowledging Wang Ya’s unyielding power.

Lang Yang’s hands clenched into fists, knuckles white against the silken armrests of his throne. A low, guttural growl rumbled in his chest, barely suppressed. Zhangsun Bo’s obsequious display was a mockery, a grand charade designed to publicly humble him and flaunt the Grand Queen Dowager’s absolute dominance. His jaw tightened, a muscle twitching furiously in his cheek.

Beside him, Grand Consort Yiping, elegant and poised, laid a gentle, reassuring hand on his arm. “Your Majesty,” She murmured, her voice a soft, calming balm amidst the rising storm of his fury, “Patience.” Her eyes, however, held a shared understanding of the bitter defeat.

FOOTNOTES:

^[20] _{Zì (字), also known as a courtesy name/style name, is an additional name bestowed upon individuals at adulthood, complementing their given name. This tradition is prevalent in the East Asian cultural sphere, particularly in China, Japan, Korea, Taiwan and Vietnam.}

^[21] _{Chéngmén Xiàowèi (城門校尉) was a professional standing army stationed near the capital. This official commanded the garrisons at the city gates. Being a colonel here meant direct involvement in elite military affairs and close proximity to the imperial court.}

^[22] _{Jùnwèi (郡尉) from ‘Commandery’ (jùn, 郡) and ‘Commander/Colonel’ (xiàowèi, 校尉); regional military leader responsible for maintaining order, suppressing banditry, and defending borders within a specific commandery.}

^[23] _{Mù-fēi (慕妃) or Royal Consort Mu. ‘Fei’ was the highest rank of concubinage during Zhou dynasty, only below The Queen, according to ‘the Rites of Zhou’. Even though that was in the past, Eunuch Zhao still referred to Mu Qing by that title as a form of respect mixed with his guilt.}

^[24] _{Yáng (陽) for masculinity (siring) and Yīn (陰) for femininity (birthing). Yin kunze/omega male and yang qianyuan/alpha female often suffer from being mistaken for their gender during their childhood, they are also the rarest and treasured ones. Only qianyuan/alpha male and kunze/omega female who have neither ‘yin’ nor ‘yang’ categories in their secondary gender (because it is so obvious).}

P.S:

The novel ‘All Tomorrows’ is both fascinating and terrifying at the same time. 😬🤯

Chapter Text

At Zhangsun Bo’s residence, a royal messenger arrived, his ebony robe fluttering as he unfurled the edict from Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya. In the courtyard, under a canopy of silk banners, he proclaimed with a resonant voice, “By decree of Her Majesty, Zhangsun Miao is appointed Commandery Commandant, to be stationed at Tóngguān (潼关), near the old royal capital held by Xuli.” Incense burned, and attendants kowtowed as the messenger presented a jade seal, its carvings glinting in the sunlight, before departing.

Zhangsun Miao, moved by the honour, began packing, aided by Madam An and her servants.

As she folded her robes, Zhangsun Hao appeared at the threshold, leaning weakly after his heat cycle, sweat beading his brow, though his pomegranate-and-white-tea scent had faded. “You’ll be leaving soon, sister?” He asked, voice soft.

Zhangsun Miao turned, startled, “How are you feeling, Hao?”

Hao nodded, “I’m recovering, will be soon. But… are you leaving?”

She sighed, “I must go, I can’t disappoint the Queen Dowager’s edict. It’s for our family’s good.”

Hao stepped closer, worrying, creasing his face, “About this… my presentation—what’ll happen to me?”

Miao smiled, patting his shoulder reassuringly.

“Nothing to fear, my son,” Madam An entered, with striking, deep-set eyes and a confident demeanor in her early fifties, her silk robes elegantly accentuating her graceful figure.

Hao and Miao looked up, “Mother?”

Madam An smiled, “Your father negotiates with the king about your role and future.” She hugged Miao, “Ready, dear?”

Miao nodded, “I’ll miss this home and you all.”

Madam An cautioned, “Be careful on the road.”

Hao quipped, “Don’t forget to write!”

Miao grinned, “Only if you promise not to slack off!” With laughter, she went outside her room to the carriage which already awaited her.

At the palace, Zhangsun Bo faced King Lang Yang, who frowned, “Why accept the Grand Queen Dowager’s edict without objection, Grand Commandant? You even showed excessive deference!”

Grand Consort Yiping interjected, “He must tread carefully with her feelings. Surely, he plans something else, am I right?”

Zhangsun Bo bowed, “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

Lang Yang pressed, “Speak, then.”

Zhangsun Bo replied respectfully, “Lately, I’ve seen potential in my son Zhangsun Hao. His quick wit, loyalty, and strength suit him for Colonel of the City Gates. Meanwhile, Zhangsun Miao’s equestrian and combat skills align with her new role as Commandery Commandant of the Eastern Frontier. I beseech you, my king, consider Hao for the gates.”

Lang Yang hesitated, but Yiping leaned in, “The Zhangsun family has stood by us since your infancy. When Wang Ya sought to unseat you, Zhangsun offered support, influence, and strength to keep us secure.”

Lang Yang nodded, relenting, though concern lingered, “But what if Wang Ya and eunuch Zhao block this again?”

Grand Consort Yiping responded with a measured tone, “We’ll act swiftly and in secret.” She gestured to a eunuch beside her, who promptly brought paper, ink, and Lang Yang’s personal royal seal. As the eunuch arranged the items, Yiping instructed, “Write the edict for Zhangsun Bo’s son!”

Lang Yang complied, his brush trembling slightly. After two false starts, marred by smudged characters, he succeeded on the third attempt, pressing the seal into the wax with a decisive thud. He reached to hand it to Zhangsun Bo, but Yiping gently restrained his wrist, “Wait! We should use a messenger.”

Lang Yang frowned, “Why? Grand Commandant Zhangsun is here.”

Yiping explained, “If he’s seen meeting you covertly or carrying this edict himself, the Grand Queen Dowager’s spies will suspect us, unraveling our plan,” Turning to Zhangsun Bo, she added, “Leave us now, and ensure no one follows.”

Zhangsun Bo nodded. “Understood, Your Highness,” He bowed, slipping out with careful stealth.

Once The Grand Commandant was gone, Lang Yang turned to Yiping, “But this feels impractical, Mother.”

She met his gaze steadily, “It’s necessary. Sending the edict to the Zhangsun residence keeps Lord Zhangsun detached from protocol breaches. He can maintain his public loyalty to the Grand Queen Dowager.”

Lang Yang nodded, then called for a eunuch to summon a messenger, only for Yiping to stop him again, “Better we entrust Fu Huizhong with this!”

Lang Yang’s brow furrowed in curiosity.

Yiping elaborated, “We can’t be sure of the royal messenger’s allegiance now. It’s safer with your trusted bodyguard.”

Lang Yang agreed, instructing the eunuch, “Fetch Fu Huizhong.”

Moments later, Fu Huizhong entered, his presence commanding yet refined. In his early forties, he retained a striking handsomeness; sharp features framed by streaks of silver in his dark hair, his muscular frame clad in black leather armour adorned with silver clasps, a sword resting at his hip.

Lang Yang handed him the edict, “Deliver this to the Zhangsun residence.” But before Fu Huizhong could depart, Lang Yang added, “...and join Zhangsun Miao at Tongguan.”

Fu Huizhong and Grand Consort Yiping exchanged startled glances.

Lang Yang explained, “I discussed this with Zhangsun Bo days ago, our plan to reclaim the old royal capital from Xuli.”

Yiping pressed, “Is the Grand Queen Dowager aware?”

Lang Yang nodded, “This time, we have mutual agreement after years of discord.”

Yiping cautioned, “Stay vigilant, watch her and her allies.”

Lang Yang nodded, turning to Fu Huizhong, “I’ve studied your past in Xianle’s court. You know the old capital’s layout and faced Xuli troops. This is an honour, yes?”

Fu Huizhong bowed, “Indeed, Your Majesty, though today’s Xuli forces may differ from those I knew.”

Lang Yang smiled, “Xuli excels in cavalry as northerners, but Grand Commandant Zhangsun says his daughter rivals them. I’d see it myself.”

Yiping interjected, “My son, what if Wang Ya approved this to weaken you without Fu Huizhong? She might send some assassins.”

“I’ll be fine, Mother,” Lang Yang reassured her, “I’ve trained with Fu Huizhong.”

Still, The Grand Consort’s worry lingered.

Zhangsun Miao finally arrived at the palace to report. In the grand hall, she knelt before Lang Yang, her travel-worn robes replaced by a formal vermilion tunic.

Lang Yang’s voice rang out, “By royal decree, Zhangsun Miao, you are appointed Commandery Commandant of Tongguan. Receive the seal and your orders.”

He presented a jade seal and a decree, which she accepted with a bow, “Your Majesty, this one humbly accepts.”

Lang Yang added, “Tongguan borders the old royal capital, now held by Xuli. The fortress faces frequent raids, its walls weakened. Your mission; fortify the defenses and lead the conquest to reclaim the capital.”

A murmur rippled through the court;

A general nodded, “Her debut in battle? Bold!”

A courtier countered, “Too risky for a novice!”

Behind her silk screen, Wang Ya jeered, “This rookie, thrust into war? Preposterous.”

Yet Grand Chancellor Zhao smiled faintly, “Her skills may turn the tide, Xuli won’t expect this.”

Wang Ya whispered to Grand Chancellor Zhao, “What if she wins? The Zhangsun name will soar! Remember, Zhao, they’ve always sided with the king!”

Grand Chancellor Zhao murmured back, “It’s a gamble, their name could rise or lose all future leverage.”

As the ceremony ended, the hall emptied, Wang Ya and Zhao departing with calculating glances.

As Zhangsun Miao prepared to leave, Lang Yang called out, a warm smile on his face, “Rest here awhile, Lady Zhangsun. You may wish to bid farewell to your father.”

She turned, startled, then bowed. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” She replied, her tone sincere yet formal.

Lang Yang continued, “Fu Huizhong will join you at Tongguan. He’s on a task for me now—wait here until his return, then go together.”

Zhangsun Miao nodded respectfully, “As you command, Your Majesty.”

Lang Yang tilted his head, “While we wait, shall we stroll the palace?” She agreed, and they wandered the gardens of Yong'an’s palace in Qiyi, its lotus ponds reflecting the sky. Lang Yang spoke, his voice regal yet nostalgic, “These halls once echoed with my father’s laughter. Do you recall the old tales of Xianle’s court, Lady Zhangsun?”

Zhangsun Miao responded, her tone deferential, “Indeed, Your Majesty. I heard of its grandeur from my nurse, its festivals lit the night.” She had a faint memory of her childhood with Yao Yao... and Chen Yang, the maid who took care of her. She also remembered her mother’s calming, fragrant embrace, and the Heavenly Crown Prince, her big brother, who had visited her several times.

The Fallen Heavenly Crown Prince… Her big brother, The last time Zhangsun Miao saw him was when she was hiding from the chaos in the palace that claimed the life of the late King Lang Ying, cradling Lang Yang and protecting him.

He chuckled softly, “A time before strife. Your presence here stirs those memories.”

As they walked, Zhangsun Miao noticed yueji roses dotting the paths, their scent stirring memories of Mu Qing’s fragrance. She wondered; they shared a mother, did he subconsciously recall him too?

Perhaps it’s a tribute to Grand Consort Yiping—her scent mirrors Mum’s, a mystery I’ve yet to unravel.

Lost in thought, she jolted as Lang Yang gently took her wrist. “Let’s spar a moment on the training field,” He said playfully, “I’d see your swordplay before you leave for Tongguan.”

Zhangsun Miao blushed, hesitant. Sparing a king? What if she bested him? It would be awkward! She mused. She was used to Hao, her adopted brother, her childhood companion. But Lang Yang, her blood kin, felt foreign. He was a king; she was but a high official’s daughter, once a Xianle princess. Ironic, wasn’t it?

Lang Yang broke her reverie with a light laugh. “You’re lost in thought again, Lady Zhangsun... quite the charming sight,” He teased inwardly, thinking that she looked adorable when flustered.

Zhangsun Miao’s cheeks reddened. “Your Majesty jests too kindly,” She stammered, “I’m no match for your skill.”

Lang Yang grinned. “Nonsense—let’s test it!” He signalled a guard, “Bring two swords for us.”

On the training field, Zhangsun Miao and Lang Yang stood poised, clad in light armour; her in fitted leather with ebony accents, him in silver-trimmed plates. Swords in hand, they awaited Lang Yang’s countdown, “Three… two… one—begin!” The clash erupted.

Zhangsun Miao’s style dazzled with speed, agility, and adaptability—her blade danced like a swift river, dodging and striking with fluid grace.

Lang Yang countered with agility, precision, and a dancer’s poise, his strikes elegant yet deadly, parrying her advances with a flick of his wrist.

The air rang with steel, their movements a blur.

Initially, Zhangsun Miao struggled, unused to his refined technique compared to the raw power of Zhangsun Bo or Hao’s playful spars. But as she adapted, she spotted a gap, her sword arcing toward victory—until Fu Huizhong arrived.

Fu Huizhong, his silver-streaked hair catching the light, watched, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Lady Zhangsun Miao’s swift footwork reminded him of Royal Consort Mu, with whom he’d sparred shortly after Prince Xie Qian’s birth.

Time pressed, and with reluctance, he called out, “Your Majesty, Lady Zhangsun—forgive me!”

Distracted, Zhangsun Miao faltered, and Lang Yang seized the moment, disarming her with a precise thrust, the tip of his sword hovering at her chest. Breathless, they paused.

Fu Huizhong bowed apologetically, “I regret the interruption, it was unavoidable.”

Lang Yang laughed, sheathing his sword, “Well fought, Lady Zhangsun—your speed is remarkable.”

Zhangsun Miao returned the praise, bowing, “Your Majesty’s precision is unmatched.”

Lang Yang turned to Fu Huizhong, “What do you think of our skills?”

Fu Huizhong demurred, “I arrived late, I’m afraid I can’t judge fairly,” He added, “The edict reached the Zhangsun residence.”

Zhangsun Miao’s eyes lit up, “What edict?”

Lang Yang explained, “Your brother Zhangsun Hao is named ‘Colonel of the City Gates’.”

Her joy dimmed, “I can’t congratulate him, I will leave for Tongguan soon...”

Lang Yang reassured, “You can write him a letter.”

A guard offered towels; as they wiped sweat, Lang Yang smiled, “Rest now, join me for lunch. Huizhong will pack for Tongguan.”

Zhangsun Miao bowed, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Fu Huizhong nodded. “I have to pack, excuse me,” and departed.

In Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya’s opulent chamber, a eunuch announced the return of the royal envoy sent to Zhaoyi. The envoy bowed, presenting a scroll, “The Zhaoyi royal family joyfully accepted Prince Lang Jun’s proposal, offering a bride price^[25] agreement and a portrait of Princess Qi Ling.”

Wang Ya unrolled the painting, nodding at the delicate brush strokes depicting a poised young woman. She handed it to Lang Jun beside her, smiling, “What do you think, my son?” 

Lang Jun studied it; her face was unremarkable, yet her eyes held a noble gleam. He nodded resignedly. His years advance, choices dwindle, he longed for a family. “How old is she?” He asked.

Wang Ya replied, “Late twenties, but a physician confirms her fertility.” She then opened the bride price scroll, skimmed its terms—gold, silk, and horses—and smiled. “Prepare the gifts and send a delegation to Zhaoyi with the betrothal offerings,” She ordered the envoy, sealing her approval. The envoy departed swiftly.

Moments later, another eunuch entered, bowing, “Your Majesty, Zhangsun Bo’s son, Zhangsun Hao, is to take the post of ‘Colonel of the City Gates’.”

Wang Ya’s eyes widened in shock, “Without my knowledge!?”

The eunuch explained, “Grand Commandant Zhangsun received a direct edict from King Lang Yang.”

Wang Ya’s face darkened, her voice a low growl, “Zhangsun Bo, playing behind my back. So that’s why you accepted my edict so graciously!”

Lang Jun, startled by her rage, asked, “What’s wrong, Mother?”

Wang Ya snapped, “He’s outmanoeuvred us!” She turned to the eunuch, “Summon Grand Chancellor Zhao at once!”

As the eunuch hurried off, Lang Jun rose to leave, but Wang Ya stopped him, “Stay, my son, you must understand the turmoil brewing in Yong'an’s court.”

With Fu Huizhong’s packing complete and Zhangsun Miao’s farewell to her father, they set out for Tongguan with their retinue, the clatter of hooves echoing along the dusty road.

As they passed through a bustling market before the city gates, Zhangsun Miao signalled a halt. “Let’s stop at that stall,” She said, dismounting her carriage.

Fu Huizhong followed, instructing the driver to wait.

They entered a modest kiosk, greeted by Master Wu Fang, a legendary elderly painter whose once-glorious reputation starkly contrasted his current life. Housed in a small dwelling near the market, his simple stall bore the weight of history. After Yong'an conquered Xianle, Wu Fang—a friend to late King Xie Jian of Xianle—faced execution, but the late King Lang Ying of Yong'an spared him, deeming him apolitical. Rumour held that his pardon stemmed from immortalising Legendary Consort Mu’s beauty in a painting now a Yong'an national treasure.

Zhangsun Miao smiled warmly, “How are you, Master Wu?”

Wu Fang, his voice frail yet kind, replied, “Well enough, thank you. Please, sit.”

The painter shuffled to fetch a scroll, while Fu Huizhong asked, “What painting did you commission, Lady Zhangsun?”

Zhangsun Miao’s calm smile widened. “A portrait of the martial god Xuan Zhen,” She said, her tone reverent.

Fu Huizhong’s mind stirred with curiosity—Xuan Zhen? A name unheard in Yong'an’s capital.

Soon, Wu Fang returned, presenting the rolled painting.

Zhangsun Miao untied a pouch from her belt, handing over coins as payment.

Wu Fang counted them, frowning, “This is too much, take some back.” 

Zhangsun Miao shook her head, “It’s fitting for a master like you, Master Wu. You deserve far more.”

Touched, Wu Fang’s eyes glistened.

Zhangsun Miao unrolled the scroll, and her breath caught—the silver headdress, the black-and-crimson luxurious robes, there was her mother’s face, Mu Qing, gazing back as if alive. Tears welled in her eyes.

Fu Huizhong, peering over, froze in shock. Royal Consort Mu—a god?

Noticing Zhangsun Miao’s emotion, Wu Fang asked gently, “Is the painting disappointing, my lady?”

Zhangsun Miao shook her head, voice thick, “It exceeds my expectations. This Xuan Zhen is exactly as he appears in my dreams.”

Wu Fang’s expression softened, “Though I met him only once and captured him on canvas, his beauty and grace remained in my memory.”

Her eyes, filled with a deep longing, drifted to a portrait of her mother with a serene expression and a gentle smile.

Yet a spirit entirely his own...

Years ago, when the third coming of Human Face Disease in Lang'er Bay was averted, a fragile peace settled over the land, yet for Wu Ming, it marked the unraveling of his existence. His soul, once bound to his mortal form, shattered under the strain, fragments scattering like ash on the wind.

The calamity had demanded everything—his life, his loyalty, his very essence—and yet, a sliver of consciousness endured. This remnant flickered with an unshakable devotion to Xie Lian, his prince, his beacon. It was this bond, forged in the fires of sacrifice, that refused to let him fade entirely into the void.

Driven by an instinct deeper than memory, Wu Ming’s fractured spirit drifted, drawn toward a mysterious mountain. The mountain’s gates, long sealed, groaned open, releasing a cacophony of roars and the clash of steel—a slaughter unlike any other beckoned. His consciousness, though dim, recognised the call. Here, amidst the chaos of the mountain’s awakening, warriors and spirits clashed with feral ghosts and vengeful deities, a crucible where the broken might find purpose.

Wu Ming’s form was no longer whole, mere wisps of shadow and intent, but he pressed forward. The air thrummed with the scent of blood and incense, the ground trembling under the weight of battle. His devotion to Xie Lian fuelled each step, a silent vow to protect the prince’s legacy even in death.

As he joined the fray, his movements were erratic yet fierce, striking at shadowy figures with an energy conjured from his fading will. A hulking ghost lunged, its claws raking the air, but Wu Ming twisted aside, his ethereal form bending unnaturally. He drove his power into its core, the ghost dissolving into a wail that echoed through the mountain pass.

Around him, others fought—some for redemption, others for vengeance—but Wu Ming’s purpose remained singular. His consciousness wavered, memories of Xie Lian’s gentle commands and steadfast courage flickering like torchlight, of the fallen prince, bruised and broken, facing down thirty-three gods and his former deputy, who had sought to claim his place of cultivation and cast him out.

Wu Ming, in his incredibly weak spirit form, felt a burning, powerless rage as he watched Xie Lian being humiliated. He was filled with a deep sense of despair and helplessness, unable to intervene or protect the one he revered most...

For you, Dianxia...

Another foe fell, and the slaughter raged on. Though his soul fragmented further with each blow, Wu Ming pressed deeper, a loyal shadow amidst the carnage, bound by love to a cause beyond the grave.

Zhangsun Miao, Fu Huizhong and their entourage approached the towering wooden gates of the eastern border fort. The long journey from the capital had worn them both, but as the fortress came into view, a final burst of imperial grandeur was required. Their procession, though tired, marched in an orderly column behind them, their banners fluttering in the stiff breeze that swept across the rolling hills.

As they drew near, the heavy gates groaned open. A small group of officers stood waiting in the dusty courtyard, their uniforms practical and well-worn, a stark contrast to the ceremonial finery of the newcomers.

At the front was a gruff-looking man, perhaps in his fifties, with a neatly trimmed beard and a stern, weathered face. This was Captain Wǔ (武), the acting commander of the fort.

Fu Huizhong, was the first to dismount. As The King’s Envoy, he spoke with a voice that cut through the silence, “Attention! We have arrived by imperial decree. This is your new Commandery Commandant, appointed by The King himself.” He gestured to Zhangsun Miao, who dismounted with a quiet dignity, her gaze already taking in the barracks, the watchtowers, and the faces of the men. At just twenty years old, she was a striking figure, her presence commanding attention despite her youth.

Captain Wu, without hesitation, dropped to one knee and bowed his head respectfully, “Captain Wu, at your service, sirs. We have been awaiting your honour’s arrival.” He looked up, his eyes meeting the envoy’s before settling on his new superior, “The men are assembled and await your inspection, Commandant. The fort is secure.”

Zhangsun Miao simply gave a firm nod. She was not here for flowery speeches, “Rise, Captain. Lead us to the command centre. We have business to attend to.”

“Right away, ma’am,” Captain Wu said, rising to his feet and gesturing towards the main building. The men around him saluted crisply, a cheerless but disciplined welcome.

As they were led through the courtyard, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and horses—the unvarnished reality of frontier life. Their journey was over, but the work, it seemed, was only just beginning.

The royal procession halted before the main gate of the royal capital, preparing to venture beyond for a sacred ritual. King Lang Yang, accompanied by his retinue and guards, peered through the carriage window as officials outside verified documents and delivered reports. Their destination was a temple atop a distant mountain, where they would beseech the martial god Zhu An and The Heavenly Emperor for blessings to conquer the old royal capital.

Through the window, Lang Yang’s gaze fell upon Zhangsun Hao, who stood commanding his troops with a steady hand. During his childhood, Zhangsun Bo had often brought Hao and Miao to play with him. As a boy, Lang Yang had delighted in their company, but as they matured, his attention sharpened. Their faces differ so,  he mused. Hao resembled Zhangsun Bo in build, though his gentle eyes mirrored Madam An’s softness. Yet Miao… her gaze held Madam An’s warmth, and her mannerisms echoed Zhangsun Bo’s discipline, but her features bore no trace of either. Studying her closely, Lang Yang realised a startling truth; she resembled him more than Hao, her brother.

His thoughts deepened. He recalled Zhangsun Hao’s recent audience, accepting the edict for ‘Colonel of the City Gates’. A fleeting sweetness of pomegranate had wafted from him, a scent Lang Yang recognised as a kunze’s mark. Had he just presented? He wondered. Yet he wore no scent blocker—careless, or intentional? Observing Zhangsun Bo’s watchful stare that day, a suspicion gnawed at Lang Yang; Did this family harbour some ulterior motive toward him?

Within the confines of his thoughts, Lang Yang pondered the mystery before him. Zhangsun Bo’s placement of Miao in the perilous role of border commandant, Hao in the safer City Gates post, and that unblocked kunze scent from Hao—it all wove a puzzling enigma.

To unravel it, Lang Yang had deliberately heightened Zhangsun Miao’s danger by tasking her with reclaiming the old royal capital. This, he deemed, was a masterful test of Zhangsun Bo’s loyalty, Zhangsun Miao’s true ties to her family, and his own dominance over the court against his grandmother Wang Ya and Grand Chancellor Zhao, should Zhangsun Miao triumph. Thus, he entrusted Fu Huizhong to accompany and shield her, confident in his veteran bodyguard’s prowess.

The checkpoint procedures concluded, shattering his reverie. The city gates swung open, and Lang Yang’s carriage rolled forward. As his window passed Zhangsun Hao, still overseeing his troops, Lang Yang caught from his peripheral vision Hao bowing respectfully, a gesture that lingered in his mind.

No scent of pomegranate...

That night, within the main building of Tongguan fortress, Zhangsun Miao sat in her chamber. Her room was austere yet dignified; stone walls adorned with Xuan Zhen’s painting by Master Wu Fang and a tapestry of a galloping horse, a low wooden table lit by a flickering oil lamp, and a narrow bed with a crimson blanket. Before her lay parchment and brush, as she penned a letter to her brother, Zhangsun Hao;

- Dear Xiao Hao,

I write to you with a heart full of pride, offering my warmest congratulations on your appointment as Colonel of the City Gates. May you carry out your duties with strength and integrity, a beacon of our family’s honour. I pray for your safety and success in this new role.

How are you and our parents? I hope all is well at home. My journey with Fu Huizhong was uneventful, though the roads grew rugged as we neared Tongguan. The fortress sits atop a windswept plateau, its walls scarred by past battles, overlooking a valley where Xuli’s scouts linger. The people here welcomed me with cautious respect, hardy folk, shaped by the border’s harshness, yet kind in their own way.

My mission to reclaim the old royal capital looms large. I seek your prayers, dear brother, that victory may be ours. When time allows, please check on Xuan Zhen’s shrine at our residence. If you can, tend to it, clean the altar, light an incense stick, for I long to return to a place of peace.

- With all my affection,

   Your sister, Zhangsun Miao

...

..

.

Several days later, the letter from Zhangsun Miao reached Zhangsun Hao’s hands. At first, a smile played on his lips as he read, the warmth of her words wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. Yet, as he reached the end, a grim realisation settled in his chest; his sister was in grave danger!

This was her first military career step, yet her debut thrust her into war against Xuli to reclaim the old royal capital. Hao knew Miao’s martial prowess was formidable, honed through years of training, but military history offered no precedent for a Commandery Commandant leading a battle on their debut. Typically, novices served under higher-ranked commanders or generals. His lips tightened, teeth grazing his lower lip in unease.

Just then, Madam An passed by, her steps soft on the wooden floor. Noticing his agitation, she asked, “Why so troubled, my son?”

Zhangsun Hao handed her the letter, his voice hesitant, “I just received this from Sister Miao.”

As his mother scanned it, Hao’s mind raced; Her skills are unmatched, yet this mission is reckless. She’s facing Xuli alone in her first command. What if she falls?

Madam An’s expression remained calm, betraying no trace of worry. “Pray to Ming Guang for her,” She advised simply. Her composure steadied him, though his thoughts churned.

The mention of prayer sparked a memory, Zhangsun Miao’s request in the letter to tend Xuan Zhen’s shrine. Without a word, Zhangsun Hao left Madam An and hurried to the familiar nook, his sister’s favourite retreat where she often dozed. Inside, the shrine was tidy but dusted with neglect.

Zhangsun Hao began wiping the wooden statue of Xuan Zhen, starting with the god’s carved face. Gazing at its serene features, he mused, so beautiful... Why does my big sister worship this god? Most here revere Zhu An or Ming Guang. Noticing the long sabre in its hand, he wondered, is Xuan Zhen a martial god too? Who worships him... and from where?

Curiosity piqued, Zhangsun Hao knelt and offered a tentative prayer...

...

..

.

In the Upper Court, the air thrummed with celestial energy as Jun Wu convened the gods to address the prolonged Yong'an-Xuli war. Seated upon his ornate throne, his voice carried the weight of wisdom, reminiscent of a sage preacher. “Esteemed officers,” he began, his tone measured, “...the mortal strife between Yong'an and Xuli demands our guidance. Let us consider mediation or divine justice, ensuring our decision leans not excessively toward any side, for balance is the will of the heavens. Speak your counsel with clarity and fairness.” The assembly murmured, debating the merits of intervention, their voices echoing off the gilded walls.

As the meeting concluded, Mu Qing emerged from the Great Martial Hall, his robes trailing behind him. At the exit, his deputies, Chen Yang and Song Xiao, awaited, bowing deeply. Chen Yang stepped forward, presenting a bronze box. “Jiangjun, the item you requested is within,” she said respectfully. Mu Qing nodded, accepting it, and they walked back to Xuan Zhen’s palace.

“Honoured Xuan Zhen, my big sister Miao faces great peril, tasked with reclaiming the old royal capital from Xuli in her first command. She’s skilled, but the danger is vast. I beseech you... bless her, protect her, and grant her victory in this battle. Watch over her, I pray.”

Mu Qing froze mid-step. The box slipped from his hands, clattering to the marble floor. Several spiritual energy marbles spilled out, rolling in all directions.

Chen Yang and Song Xiao scrambled to gather them, their voices laced with concern. “Jiangjun, are you unwell? What troubles you?” They asked, their tones reverent.

Mu Qing’s mind raced, Zhangsun Hao’s prayer had reached him, a faint but urgent ripple through the divine wind.

Miao Miao is in danger!?

Biting his lips, instinct urged him to rush to his daughter’s aid, but Jun Wu’s recent admonition echoed in his thoughts, alongside the unwritten law against meddling in Zhu An’s domain, which lay beyond his jurisdiction.

What can I do to save her??

FOOTNOTE:

^[25] _{Bride price has a long history in China. Cǎilǐ (彩礼), the bride price or the betrothal gifts, is also called pìnlǐ (聘禮) or pìncái (聘財). It has been one of the most important marriage customs in ancient China since the Western Zhou Dynasty (1046 BC to 771 BC).}

A/N:

Wu Fang’s debut/first appearance was in chapter 7 of ‘Loss of History’, and he possessed photographic memory.

P.S.:

Update is a bit slow because I'm on leave and have a lot of schedule.

Chapter Text

Before engaging the Xuli forces holding the old royal capital, Zhangsun Miao, newly appointed Commandery Commandant of Tongguan, sought to master the terrain and bond with her troops. Yet, the task proved daunting. Whispers of dissent rippled through the ranks;

A grizzled soldier muttered, “A woman leading us? Qianyuan or not, she’s unfit!”

Another scoffed, “No experience, straight from her father’s shadow to command a war?”

A third grumbled, “Nepotism, plain and simple. Grand Commandant Zhangsun pulled strings for her.”

The murmurs stung, and Zhangsun Miao, overhearing from the barracks’ edge, felt her morale wane, her shoulders slumping under the weight of doubt. She confided in Fu Huizhong that evening, her voice low, “They question my every move; my gender, my skill, my right to lead.”

Fu Huizhong placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his tone steady, “They have yet to witness your martial prowess, Lady Zhangsun. Their ignorance blinds them. Prove yourself, and their tongues will still.”

Zhangsun Miao’s spirits lifted slightly, a flicker of resolve returning.

...

..

.

Days later, tension flared when Commandery Deputy Rén Hào (仁浩), a senior officer with a scarred face and a reputation for bluntness, confronted her. “You, a green commandant, think to lead us?” He sneered, stepping close, “Duel me! Prove your worth!”

The gathered Tongguan soldiers erupted in cheers, circling the training ground, eager to see if Zhangsun Miao could command their respect.

Fu Huizhong’s brow furrowed with concern, but Zhangsun Miao squared her shoulders. “I’ll accept,” she declared, “I must prove my place here.”

The duel commenced, with Captain Wu, acting as referee. Fu Huizhong had offered to officiate, but Zhangsun Miao declined, wary of accusations of a rigged match. Her hair was tied in a high ponytail, interwoven with tight braids that swayed with each movement, a striking contrast to her crimson armour.

Ren Hao, broad and weathered, wielded a heavy broadsword, his style brute and forceful, aiming a sweeping strike at her legs. Zhangsun Miao danced aside, her sword flashing with speed and adaptability. Her blade arced like a crescent moon, parrying with a deft twist.

Ren Hao lunged again, his sword crashing down, but she rolled, her agility evading the blow, countering with a precise thrust that grazed his armour.

The crowd gasped as Zhangsun Miao found her rhythm, her movements fluid yet fierce.

Ren Hao roared, swinging wildly, but she ducked, her braid whipping behind her, and struck his wrist, forcing a fumble. Seizing the opening, she disarmed him with a spinning flourish, her sword tip resting at his throat. 

Silence fell.

Ren Hao dropped to one knee, panting. “You… you’ve earned this,” he conceded.

The soldiers stared, stunned. Some nodded grudgingly, murmuring, “Perhaps she’s worthy,” while others remained silent, their doubts not fully dispelled.

Following Zhangsun Miao’s victory over Commandery Deputy Ren Hao, a grudging respect began to take root among the Tongguan troops.

Yet, not all hearts turned as whispers of dissent lingered.

After she issued her latest command, “Prepare the vanguard for a dawn assault on Xuli’s outer defenses, our first strike to reclaim the old royal capital,” the soldiers saluted and obeyed.

But once she strode a few paces away, hushed voices rose, “She’s still a woman, qianyuan or not, can she hold?” one muttered.

Another hissed, “No battle experience, yet she leads us to death.”

A third sneered, “Nepotism’s curse! Zhangsun Bo’s daughter, nothing more.”

These unintended eavesdropping gnawed at Zhangsun Miao’s confidence, but the subtle interference from Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya soon overshadowed them.

Supply carts arrived days late, then with dwindling rations.

Fu Huizhong, seasoned in courtly intrigue, recognised the pattern. He confided in Zhangsun Miao, “This is no accident, Lady Zhangsun. The Dowager seeks your failure to weaken King Lang Yang’s position.” Though they suspected Grand Chancellor Zhao’s hand, proof eluded them.

...

..

.

A week later, a crisis struck, rations were slashed drastically. Exhausted from the siege, the soldiers grumbled, rumours of palace betrayal spreading like wildfire, stoking unrest.

Captain Wu entered Zhangsun Miao’s tent, his face grim, “Commandant, the men grow restless. We have food for mere days. Without retreat, they may rebel.”

Zhangsun Miao bit her lip, her fist clenching atop the map-strewn table. Retreat was unthinkable, it would hand Wang Ya a triumph and doom Lang Yang’s ambitions. She needed a solution, not just for logistics, but to rally her troops’ spirits.

That night, as she neared her chamber, Zhangsun Miao overheard more complaints;

“This food shortage is a disaster!” one soldier groaned.

Another whispered, “A bad omen, choosing Zhangsun Miao cursed us!”

Heavy-hearted, she entered her room, a sparse space with a reed mat, a bronze candelabrum, and a low desk. Kneeling, she prayed to Xuan Zhen, “Honoured Xuan Zhen, I face trials at Tongguan. The troops doubt me, supplies dwindle, and Xuli looms. The Grand Queen Dowager’s hand starves us—guide me, grant me wisdom.” Exhausted, she drifted into sleep, the candle’s flame flickering beside her.

***

Zhangsun Miao found herself seated on a large stone by a koi pond, its waters shimmering under a soft, ethereal light.

Mu Qing approached, settling beside her, his dark-and-crimson robes blending with the dream’s hues.

Zhangsun Miao turned, her face lighting with a mix of shock and joy. “A-Niang!” She exclaimed.

Mu Qing smiled, though his brow furrowed at the tears glistening in her eyes. A single drop traced her cheek, and he gently wiped it away with his thumb.

Zhangsun Miao’s voice trembled as she poured out her woes, “A-Niang, the troops at Tongguan doubt me, of my gender, of my inexperience. The Grand Queen Dowager starves us with delayed supplies, and Xuli looms. I fear I’ll fail.”

Mu Qing listened, his expression softening. “Hush, my child,” he soothed, “...doubt is a shadow that fades with light. You have strength beyond their sight. The Dowager’s games are cruel, but you’re not alone.” His words steadied her, though her heart remained heavy.

She concluded with a plea, “You fought wars, didn’t you? What advice can you offer?”

Mu Qing nodded, his gaze distant, “I faced chaos, true, but no food shortages plagued us. Those battles were disorderly enough—betrayals, ambushes...”

...and the cursed plague...

“...still, we endured...”

A silence fell, broken by Mu Qing’s gentle question, “What did you learn living with Madam An, your foster mother, before your qianyuan presentation?”

Zhangsun Miao brightened slightly, “She taught me sewing, crafting, and cooking. I longed to master sewing like you, Mum.”

Mu Qing’s smile widened, “Do you recall your zhuazhou^[26] ceremony?”

Zhangsun Miao shook her head.

“You chose a cooking utensil,” Mu Qing chuckled, “The guests laughed, joking you’d be a fine cook one day.”

Zhangsun Miao laughed too, “I learned recipes with Mother, we even created new dishes. We dreamed of a restaurant in the capital, but fate led me here to Tongguan for war.”

Mu Qing tilted his head, “But you haven’t forgotten those skills, have you?”

“...,” Zhangsun Miao hesitated, then nodded, “I suppose I can still manage.”

“Then use them,” Mu Qing advised, “Check the available provisions, perhaps you can cook for your men. And if you need my guidance, pray—I’ll hear you.”

Zhangsun Miao nodded, a relieved smile breaking through.

Mu Qing’s heart warmed, his mind whispering, her smile remains unchanged from childhood.

***

Soon, Zhangsun Miao awoke, the dawn light filtering into her chamber, a new resolve stirring within her. She ventured alone into the kitchen area, the stale stench of dwindling rations assaulting her senses. Only wilted vegetables and a scant handful of grain remained, but her gaze fell upon sacks of dried horse meat and scraps from slaughtered livestock, more abundant, as the animals grazed the camp’s outskirts.

An idea sparked, inspired by tales of soldiers surviving through ingenuity. She summoned the cooks, issuing an unusual command, “Take all the dried meat and scraps. Boil them in a large cauldron. Add the vegetables, then thicken the broth with the remaining grain. Make a rich, hearty porridge.” Donning an apron, she joined them, stirring the pot herself.

A cook, wide-eyed, protested, “Commandant, you need not labour with us, my lady.”

But Zhangsun Miao smiled, “I’ll craft a dish from a recipe my mother^[27] and I devised years ago.”

...

..

.

An hour later, a rich, enticing aroma enveloped the camp, banishing the gloom of bland grain rations. Each soldier received a steaming bowl of thick, meaty porridge.

“By the gods, this is divine, better than any five-star restaurant!” One exclaimed.

Another grinned, “The barracks’ finest meal yet, beats palace feasts!”

Still wearing an apron, Zhangsun Miao stepped out from the kitchen. Her voice boomed, “EVERYONE, LISTEN UP!”

The soldiers gazed at her, their surprise turning to admiration. It turned out their commander herself had prepared this heavenly delicious meal.

Zhangsun Miao took a bowl before all, her voice ringing out, “The enemy seeks to starve us, but they underestimate us, the toughest warriors in the world! We need no golden grain from the palace. With the strength of our meat and will, we’ll endure!” She explained the new ‘steel porridge’ would sustain them, its hearty recipe a defiance of hunger.

The soldiers devoured their portions, awestruck. Their commandant didn’t hide in luxury but shared their hardship. The dish became a symbol of resistance, a promise to overcome logistics themselves and prove Yong'an’s unyielding spirit.

Nearby, Fu Huizhong overheard a soldier murmur; “She’s no mere figurehead, a true leader!”

Another added, “Commandant Zhangsun’s got our backs, let’s fight for her!”

Fu Huizhong smiled proudly, his faith in her reaffirmed. The siege pressed on with renewed vigour, victory feeling tantalisingly close.

“Hong Hong'er…” A soft voice called, tugging at the edges of consciousness.

Hong'er’s eyes fluttered open, blurred by tears shed in sleep. He felt a gentle hand stroking his hair.

As his vision cleared, he saw the Heavenly Crown Prince of Xianle, cradling him.

Shock rippled through him, realising he rested in Xie Lian’s arms. In his hands, he clutched a budaoweng doll,^[28] its wide, friendly grin mirroring Xie Lian’s warmth. Hong'er gazed up, meeting Xie Lian’s tender smile.

“It seems you’re awake,” Xie Lian murmured, lowering him gently onto a plush mat to sit. He patted Hong'er’s head, “Fear no more.” 

Drowsiness overcame Hong'er, and he drifted back to sleep.

“Hong'er...”

“Hong'er?”

“Young Master?”

“Young Master?”

The prince’s voice fading into a girl’s repeated calls of “Young Master,” blending into the ether.

Wu Ming’s eyes opened again, vision swimming before sharpening. Before him stood a young girl, clad in red and white. The intricate red silk top was short, baring her midriff, and adorned with delicate silver beads that shimmered with her every breath. Her hair was styled in twin buns with braids cascading down, and an anxious gaze was fixed on him.

“Are you alright?” she asked, her voice trembling, her hands held out slightly, revealing that both were chained.

Wu Ming blinked, attempting to rise, but his head throbbed with weight. He groaned, clutching it, then froze—his hands roamed his body, confirming a solid form, no longer a mere orb of energy! He flexed his fingers, wiggled his toes, marvelling at the return of flesh.

The girl tilted her head, “What’s wrong?”

He ignored her, scanning his surroundings. The cave was dim, its walls slick with moisture, adorned with jagged stalactites and faint luminescent moss casting an eerie glow. A trickle of water echoed from a distant crevice. Turning to her, he asked, “Where am I?”

She shook her head, uncertain.

“How did I get here?” He pressed.

She explained, “I found you collapsed here while seeking an exit.”

Wu Ming frowned, “What place is this?”

She replied, “I don’t know, but we’re deep within a mountain cave.”

Attempting to stand, Wu Ming winced as pain shot through him. The girl swiftly supported him.

As Wu Ming turned, his eyes caught a large, old scar splitting her forehead. Such a wound should have been fatal for a human. Shocked, he whispered, “You… you’re already dead!?”

The girl’s eyes widened, staring at Wu Ming in astonishment. “Am I?” She murmured, her fingers brushing the scar on her forehead. Realisation dawned, and she nodded slowly, turning away. “I am already dead…” she whispered, then faced him again, pointing accusingly, “...and you are too!”

Wu Ming met her gaze, noting she barely reached his ear’s height. He snorted, “That scar’s old, shouldn’t you know this place after so long dead?”

Her lips pursed in frustration, and she stamped her foot, “How should I know? Why should I care about this wretched place? I’ve been trapped here for years, desperate to leave, but this cave’s a maze of dead ends!” She sank down, hugging her knees, “…It’s hopeless.”

“...”

Wu Ming fell silent, his own memory a blank slate on how he arrived.

An idea flickered, to unravel this mystery together. “Trapped for years,” he mused, “Do you recall how you ended up here?”

The girl lifted her face, studying him; his black attire, pale skin, one sharp, glowing obsidian eye piercing through, the other shadowed by long dark bangs.

“I remember fleeing bandits who kidnapped me…” she began, exhaling heavily, “My homeland, Yushi, warred with Xuli. Soldiers ravaged our lands. My southern village fell too. Many men turned into bandits or defected to Xuli, selling women and children as tribute to survive.”

Wu Ming nodded, listening intently, that explained why her wrists were chained. Her lavish attire clashed with her rustic speech and mannerisms, much like his own village roots.

She continued, “En route to Xuli’s capital, I escaped the caravan, but the bandits gave chase. I reached this mountain’s base, found this cave, and hid, exhausted.”

Wu Ming sat beside her, catching a faint jasmine scent—a kunze, he noted. “How did you die?” He asked.

“They caught me,” She said, “But I stole some explosives, rigged a trap at the cave’s mouth. The blast hit them, yet one, maddened, hurled an axe. It struck my head,” She lightly touched the scar again, “I suppose that’s how I died.”

Wu Ming fell silent, his mind turning. Yushi had fallen long ago, even before Xianle’s fall, meaning the girl beside him had died decades before Yong'an’s civil war against Xianle began. She was older than him, both in mortal years and as an undead spirit.

Breaking the quiet, she turned to him, “...and you, how did you end up here?”

Wu Ming paused, then murmured, “I don’t know…”

Her eyes widened, a mix of surprise and amusement dancing in them. “Don’t know? You’re worse off than me!” She huffed, still irked by his earlier jab about her ignorance of the cave after so long.

Wu Ming remained unfazed, his expression stoic.

Undeterred, she pressed, “Then how did you… die?”

He replied softly, “I was a soldier.”

She nodded, thinking he probably fell on some battlefield. “Which war?” She asked.

He answered, “The Xianle civil war.”

“Xianle…” She mused aloud. She’d heard of it, a glamorous nation northwest of Yushi, though she’d never ventured there.

“...”

The silence stretched, and she grew restless, sensing they were wasting time—though Wu Ming was lost in thought. Rising, she moved to leave.

“Wait—YOU!” Wu Ming called, struggling to his feet.

She glanced back, “I’m going to find an exit again.”

Wu Ming continued, “I’m coming too. I need to understand this place.”

She shrugged, “Suit yourself.” But she halted, turning with a pointed look, “...and stop calling me ‘you’—I have a name.”

He caught up, standing beside her, meeting her gaze.

The girl straightened, “I’m Yìnní (印尼).”

^|> 

Zhangsun Miao stood atop a grassy mound, her heavy military robe in crimson billowing in the wind as she surveyed the scene below. Her troops bustled, erecting a sturdy camp under the shadow of the old royal capital’s weathered walls. Once a proud symbol of Xianle’s glory, now an impregnable challenge under Xuli’s grip. The air carried the clang of hammers and the distant cry of ravens circling the battlements.

Inside her command tent, maps sprawled across a wooden table, she convened her key officers. Commandery Deputy Ren Hao stood with undeniable ambition, his eyes scanning the tent as if it should bear his name. Beside him, Captain Wu, a weathered veteran, watched with weary yet keen eyes. In the corner, Fu Huizhong stood, as the King’s envoy, his presence a constant reminder of the political stakes.

“The engineers have marked positions,” Zhangsun Miao began, her voice calm against the camp’s fervour, “We won’t rush an assault. This war will be won outside the walls, not atop them.”

“A frontal attack would catch them off guard, Lady Commandant,” Ren Hao interjected, his tone laced with dissent, “Our troops’ spirits are high. We must seize the moment.”

Zhangsun Miao’s sharp gaze fixed on him, “And lose a third of our force at the gates? A direct strike plays into their hands! Patience is our weapon.” She tapped the map with a wooden rod, “Deputy Ren, take five thousand to isolate the city. Cut all supply routes and capture any messengers attempting to flee.”

Ren Hao’s face twitched with reluctance. He craved battle, but he bowed, “As you command, Lady Commandant.”

Turning to Captain Wu, Zhangsun Miao continued, “Captain, lead the scouts. Find weaknesses in the wall’s base. Locate their water source and any hidden routes. I want no surprises.”

Captain Wu nodded, experience etched in his gaze, “Yes, Commandant. We’ll move at dusk.”

Finally, she addressed Fu Huizhong, “Lord Fu, this will be a prolonged effort. Does His Majesty offer further instructions for a drawn-out campaign?”

Fu Huizhong stepped forward, “His Majesty’s sole command, Commandant Zhangsun, is to complete the mission decisively. He trusts your strategy. But remember,” his voice softened, “...each day’s delay gives the court’s enemies a chance to sow doubt.”

Tension thickened the air. The war beyond the walls seemed simpler than the intrigues within. Zhangsun Miao regarded her officers with a calculated stare, “Then we waste no time. We must justify the King’s faith. Execute your duties. We leave only when the old royal capital is ours!”

As the officers dispersed, the tent flaps fell shut, and Zhangsun Miao lingered, her fingers brushing the map’s worn edges.

...

..

.

Yet some days later, the calm shattered when a scout burst in, his face pale beneath a layer of dust. “Lady Commandant,” he panted, “Xuli has poisoned the grazing lands. The livestock sicken, our meat supply is at risk!” The news struck like a blade, threatening the ‘steel porridge’ that had bolstered morale. 

Zhangsun Miao’s jaw tightened, her mind racing to avert disaster.

Alone that night, she knelt before the painting of Xuan Zhen in her room, whispering to him, “A-Niang, the enemy strikes our sustenance. Guide me.”

Exhaustion claimed her, and sleep drew her into a dream...

She found herself sitting in a gazebo, its wooden lattice carved with swirling vines, draped with silken curtains fluttering in a desert breeze. The air carried a faint scent of yueji roses, and the floor was adorned with intricate rugs in deep crimson and gold. There, Mu Qing appeared, his robes shimmering, a serene smile on his face.

“Miao Miao,” Mu Qing said softly, “...the land’s poison tests your resolve. Seek medicinal herbs; yarrow for strength, mugwort to cleanse. Blend them into your porridge. Your hands can turn this crisis into victory.” His voice was a balm, his wisdom guiding her.

Zhangsun Miao nodded, tears of gratitude welling, “Thank you, A-Niang.”

Mu Qing’s form faded, leaving her with a renewed sense of purpose.

Awakening at dawn, Zhangsun Miao rallied the cooks, her voice steady, “Scour the plateau for yarrow and mugwort. We’ll infuse the porridge to counter the poison.”

As they worked, the camp filled with an earthy aroma, and the troops, skeptical at first, tasted the result.

“It’s robust, strengthens the spirit!” one exclaimed.

Another grinned, “Our commandant’s magic, Xuli can’t break us!”

The herbal ‘steel porridge’ became a morale triumph, a testament to Zhangsun Miao’s ingenuity and Xuan Zhen’s divine guidance, the siege’s momentum surging forward.

In the palace of Yong'an, where shadows stretched across the lacquered screens, Wang Ya adjusted a pin in her elaborate bun. The faint glint of jade and gold was the only sharp thing in the soft, silken opulence of her private hall. A brazier glowed with fragrant coals, its warmth doing little to temper the chill in her smile as she observed the man kneeling before her.

Minister Sū (苏) was a minor official from the Grand Chancellor Zhao, a man whose ambition far outstripped his spine. Perspiration beaded on his brow, staining the collar of his court robes.

“It is done, Your Majesty,” he stammered, his eyes fixed on the polished floor. He dared not meet her gaze, “The script is a perfect imitation of the Royal Scribe’s hand. The courier is ready.”

Wang Ya walked towards him, her movements as fluid and silent as a viper’s. She took the proffered scroll, its silk ties still smelling faintly of fresh ink, “Perfection is a lofty claim, Minister Su. Especially when the fate of Grand Chancellor Zhao’s patronage rests upon your… delicate talents.”

The implied threat hung in the air, thicker than the incense smoke. Minister Su swallowed hard, “Your Majesty, I assure you—”

“Assure me of nothing,” she cut in, her voice a silken blade. She unfurled the edict. The elegant, flowing script was indeed a masterful imitation, commanding Commandery Commandant Zhangsun Miao to abandon the crucial Tongguan Pass and retreat. A suicidal order, strategically. A brilliant gambit, politically.

“And the seal?” she murmured, running her long guarded nail^[29] along the edge of the document.

From a small, ornate box, Minister Su produced a lump of crimson wax and a bronze seal. “The King’s personal cygnet. We… acquired an impression. This replica is flawless to a casual eye, but should a true expert examine it…”

“...they will find it wanting,” Wang Ya finished, a flicker of genuine pleasure in her eyes. That was the crux of her plan. The forgery needed to be just good enough to cause hesitation, to force Zhangsun Miao’s hand, but flawed enough to be unmasked eventually.

“Let Zhangsun Miao obey, and she appears a fool, abandoning a vital garrison on a whim. Let her disobey, and she defies The King herself. Either way, her hesitation will be painted as weakness, her defiance as treason. The King’s precious Commandant will be tarnished, and through her, Lang Yang’s own authority will begin to crack.”

She handed the scroll back to the trembling minister, “Have it sealed. Give it to the fastest rider. Tell him his life depends on reaching Tongguan before the next moonrise.”

As Minister Su scurried away to complete his task, Wang Ya turned to gaze at a blossoming plum branch in a vase. Her smile was thin and cold.

Let Zhangsun Miao face the dust and steel of the frontier; the true war was won here, in the quiet, perfumed halls of power.

Two days later, the wind howled through the Tongguan Pass, whipping dust and grit against the leather flaps of the command tent.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of tallow lamps and worn maps. Zhangsun Miao stood over a large table, her finger tracing a supply route through the western mountains.

A guard entered, announcing the arrival of a royal courier. The man was ushered in, breathless and coated in the pale dust of the road. He presented a sealed edict with a low bow.

Zhangsun Miao took it, her brow furrowing slightly at the sight of King Lang Yang’s seal. An order from the capital was not unusual, but one from The King directly was rare. She broke the wax and unrolled the scroll. As she read the elegant script, the disciplined calm of her expression hardened into a mask of disbelief, then suspicion.

“Retreat?” she said aloud, the word a stark note of incredulity in the quiet tent, “Abandon the pass?”

Fu Huizhong, her second-in-command, stepped forward from the shadows where he had been observing. A veteran with eyes that missed nothing, he had served Lang Yang for more than a decade, “Lady Commandant? What are the orders?”

“The orders are madness,” Zhangsun Miao replied, handing him the scroll, “To cede Tongguan now would be to open the gates to the heartlands. It would undo everything we have bled for.”

Fu Huizhong read the document swiftly, his gaze sharp and analytical. He did not question the strategic rashness; he already knew it. Instead, his attention went to the physical object itself. He ran a thumb over the paper, felt its texture, and then looked closely at the shattered remains of the crimson seal still clinging to the silk tie.

He picked up a piece of the wax, holding it close to the lamplight.

“...”

For a long moment, there was only the sound of the wind outside.

“This is a forgery, Lady Commandant,” he finally declared, his voice low and certain.

“Are you sure?” Zhangsun Miao asked, though she had already felt the falsehood in her gut.

“Positive,” Fu Huizhong affirmed, pointing with the tip of a dagger. “His Majesty’s wax is mixed with a rare ambergris, it gives off a unique scent when warmed and cools with a slight lustre. This is common beeswax. And look here,” he gestured to the impression in the wax fragment, “the dragon’s right claw… it lacks the fine detail of the true seal. The artisan who carved this replica was skilled, but not a master. This is a clever imitation, meant to deceive at a glance, not to withstand scrutiny.”

A cold understanding settled over Zhangsun Miao. This wasn’t an enemy’s clumsy attempt at disinformation. This was a poisoned dart flown from the capital.

“Perhaps... The Grand Queen Dowager’s hand is at play, testing your resolve,” Fu Huizhong warned, his eyes grave.

Zhangsun Miao shook her head, looking past the map towards the distant, glittering nest of snakes that was Yong'an. “Not His Majesty’s hand. This lacks his pragmatism. This is the work of someone who plays with soldiers’ lives as if they were pieces on a game board. This has the perfumed scent of Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya’s scheming.” She tossed the forged edict onto the table, its elegant script a mockery of true command.

“They seek to paint my hesitation as weakness, or my defiance as treason,” she realised, her voice hardening with resolve. “A test, just as you say, Lord Fu. But not of my loyalty to the throne. It is a test of my nerve.”

She looked at her trusted lieutenant, a steely glint in her eyes, “We will not be retreating. We hold the pass. Tell Captain Wu to have the messenger detained and questioned. I want to know whose coin bought his loyalty and whose venom penned this order.”

Fu Huizhong nodded and left.

...

..

.

Once he relayed Zhangsun Miao’s command to Captain Wu, Fu Huizhong took his action. Disguising himself as a merchant, he slipped into a nearby town, intercepting a second courier with a similar edict.

The man confessed under pressure, naming a clerk in Grand Chancellor Zhao’s retinue as the forger, though he swore the Grand Chancellor’s involvement was unproven.

Fu Huizhong returned, his report to Zhangsun Miao grim, “The Grand Queen Dowager seeks your failure to weaken His Majesty. The Grand Chancellor Zhao may be complicit, but we lack evidence to accuse him openly.”

Zhangsun Miao clenched her fist, “Then we hold our ground. A retreat now hands them victory.”

In Yong'an Court, the whispers had grown into a clamour. In teahouses and court antechambers, the story was spun and re-spun until it became an accepted truth;

‘Lady Zhangsun defies The King.’

‘She grows arrogant in the west.’

“She believes her own judgement is superior to that of the throne!”

Wang Ya cultivated these rumours as a gardener tends to prize-winning orchids. Seated in her pavilion, surrounded by influential court ladies and military officials of wavering loyalty, she fanned the flames with feigned concern.

“One must feel for the young commandant,” she sighed, her voice laced with a delicate, poisonous pity as her maid poured tea for Zhangsun Bo. “The frontier is a harsh place. It can make even the strongest mind… brittle. To openly disregard an edict from The King… It speaks of a profound instability. I pray for my grandson’s sake that her command does not falter at a crucial moment.”

Zhangsun Bo grunted inwardly, her words, seemingly sympathetic, planted a seed of doubt that sprouted into suspicion.

The narrative she crafted was simple and deadly; Zhangsun Miao, his foster daughter, was no longer a loyal bastion of the kingdom, but a dangerous, rogue element.

...

..

.

Lang Yang, from his dragon throne, grew uneasy, his earlier suspicions of Zhangsun Bo’s motives resurfacing.

Is this Zhangsun Bo’s gambit, or Grandmother’s alone?

In the solemn quiet of the Hall of Celestial Governance, his throne felt more like a cage than a seat of power. The edict had been sent in his name, using a perfect replica of his own Royal Seal, yet he had not seen it, let alone approved it. It was a brazen move by his regents, a stark reminder of his own powerlessness.

He had summoned them. Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya swept into the hall, her deep purple silken robes whispering across the marble floor, an expression of serene concern artfully fixed on her face. Grand Chancellor Zhao followed, his demeanour one of respectful gravity. They bowed, but it was the shallow bow of equals, of guardians to a ward.

“An order has been sent to Tongguan Pass,” Lang Yang began, his voice tight with a fury he struggled to contain, “An order for Lady Zhangsun to retreat. An order that bears my seal. I did not give this order.”

Upon hearing this, the Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo, who was also summoned, was immediately taken aback. He realised the edict was a fake and part of Wang Ya’s plan.

Wang Ya’s perfectly painted lips curved into a sympathetic smile, “Your Majesty, you are young, and the burdens of the throne are heavy. The Grand Chancellor and I acted in your best interests, to preserve the strength of your armies. A prolonged campaign drains the treasury. It was a simple administrative manoeuvre.”

“A ‘manoeuvre’!?” Lang Yang’s voice rose, “It is strategic suicide! Lady Zhangsun herself has written that the pass is the linchpin of our entire western defence! You have used my name to command her to commit treason against the realm!”

“Treason is a strong word, Your Majesty,” Grand Chancellor Zhao interjected smoothly, his voice a calm and reasonable balm that only further infuriated the young King, “Prudence is perhaps a better one. Lady Zhangsun, for all her skill, is but one commander. The Regency must consider the welfare of the entire kingdom. We realised you would be troubled by the details, so we took the burden upon ourselves.”

The condescension was suffocating. They were not advising him; they were managing him. He was a symbol, and they wielded true power. He saw the trap clearly; if Zhangsun Miao obeyed the forged order, the kingdom was weakened. If she disobeyed, she was defying the King’s own seal, giving the regents the perfect pretext to remove her from command and replace her with one of their own puppets. Either way, he lost his strongest ally.

He sank back into his throne, the argument lost before it had even begun. They held all the power. Open defiance was impossible. “Leave me,” he commanded, his voice barely a whisper.

Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya and Grand Chancellor bowed, hiding their smirk, then left.

Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo also bowed deeply, turning to follow the others.

“No, you stay,” Lang Yang’s voice, though quiet, was sharp and clear.

Zhangsun Bo paused, a flicker of surprise on his face, then turned back to face his young king. The hall’s large doors closed with a soft thud behind the departing figures.

From the shadows, eunuch Meng emerged. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, his face etched with worry.

“They are strangling me with my own authority, Meng-gonggong,”^[30] Lang Yang said, with a desperate edge to his voice, “I am a prisoner in this palace. I don’t know what is truly happening in my own kingdom. I trust Zhangsun Miao’s instincts more than I trust the counsel of my own regents.” He stood, a new resolve hardening his features, “I cannot fight them in the open, not yet. But I will not be blinded. I need my own eyes in that pass.”

He looked at eunuch Meng, his gaze intense, “Summon Colonel An. He is to lead an urgent supply convoy to Tongguan. His official duty is to replenish their stores of arrows and grain. His true mission is to get a message to the Commandant—a message from me alone—and to return with an unvarnished assessment of the situation. It is a silent test, but not of her loyalty. It is a test of who still holds true to the throne, and not just the regents who sit beside it.”

“Pardon me Your Majesty, is the Colonel An you speak of Ān Kāng (安康)?” Zhangsun Bo’s voice cut through, a flicker of recognition in his eyes.

Lang Yang nodded once, “The very same.”

“Ah,” Zhangsun Bo nodded, a wry half-smile touching his lips.

He is my wife’s nephew. An honourable and discreet man. His Majesty has chosen wisely.

At Tongguan, as Zhangsun Miao projected an aura of unshakeable confidence to her troops, Fu Huizhong worked relentlessly. The weight of their decision was immense. They were in open defiance of an order bearing the King’s Royal Seal. Morale was fraying as rumours of their ‘treason’ began to circulate even among their own men. They needed proof, something concrete to justify their position.

The answer, Fu Huizhong felt certain, lay with the captured courier. For days, he had scrutinised every item in the man’s satchel; a spare set of clothes, a water-skin, a whetstone, and a small, seemingly innocent merchant’s ledger.

Late one night, under the flickering lamplight, he finally found it. The ledger’s accounts were perfectly mundane, except for faint, almost invisible inconsistencies in the ink.

Following a hunch, he carefully dabbed a cloth soaked in rice wine across a page. The effect was immediate. New characters bled through the original script, pale and ghost-like. It was a coded message.

He worked for hours, his heart pounding. By dawn, he had deciphered enough. He strode over to where Zhangsun Miao was reviewing the night-watch reports. “Lady Commandant,” he said, his voice tight with urgency, laying the ledger on the table, “The order was not the only message he carried.”

Zhangsun Miao looked at the smudged, revealed characters, “What does it say?”

“Fragments of intelligence,” Fu Huizhong explained, pointing a calloused finger at the lines of script, “It details troop weaknesses in other garrisons loyal to the King. But then there is this…” He indicated two damning phrases, “‘Should the she-wolf at the pass falter,’ it reads, ‘loyalists will be isolated.’ And this, my lady, changes everything; ‘The boy king will learn his place, and the throne will be secured for wiser counsel’.”

“...”

A chilling silence descended on the tent, broken only by the whistling wind. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying clarity. This was never just about discrediting a general. This was a coup, meticulously planned and executed from the very centre of power. The forged edict was the first move in a deadly game to systematically remove all of the King’s allies, isolate him, and turn the Regency into absolute, permanent rule.

A memory, sharp and poignant, surfaced in Zhangsun Miao’s mind...

She was a little girl again, laying at her birth mother’s bump. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a lantern.

Mu Qing’s obsidian eyes were misty, reflecting a deep sadness. He ran a gentle hand through Miao Miao’s hair.

“Miao Miao,” he whispered, gently patting his daughter’s head, his voice thick with emotion, “Always remember, this baby is not just your little brother. He is also the crown prince. He may sit on a throne in the future, but he is a small, frightened boy underneath it all. The world of court is a dangerous place, filled with snakes wearing silk. You must promise me you will be his shield. That you will protect him from all the dangers that would seek to devour him.”

A single tear rolled down his cheek, landing on Miao Miao’s chubby one like a drop of molten silver.

The memory vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by the grim reality of the present.

“They are not just testing my nerve,” Zhangsun Miao said, her voice a low, dangerous whisper, “They are clearing the board. We are not just holding a pass against an enemy from without. We are the last line of defence for His Majesty against the enemy within!”

...

..

.

Zhangsun Miao stood atop a reinforced watchtower, her heavy military robe in crimson snapping in the wind as she orchestrated the siege of the old royal capital. Her strategy unfolded with precision, an echo of Zhangsun warfare traditions.

Below, the sprawling camp was a city of its own, a testament to her meticulous planning. Near the engineering corps, a quiet officer named An Kang reviewed the schematics for a new siege tower, his brow furrowed in concentration.

He was a tall man with brown hair and light brown eyes like Madam An. Zhangsun Miao caught the scent of crushed artemisia and millet ale as she descended...

A qianyuan...

They exchanged a nod.

Zhangsun Miao had known from the day the man arrived, with his sharp gaze and ledgers that were too perfectly organised, that his true accounts were not of grain and arrows, but of loyalty and competence. She kept him close, a piece on the board she was still evaluating.

Her strategy was relentless. Deputy Ren Hao’s five thousand troops had severed Xuli’s supply lines, choking the city. Captain Wu’s scouts, cloaked in twilight, had pinpointed the eastern gate’s frailty, its stone base undermined by a subterranean stream.

At Zhangsun Miao’s command, towering siege engines rose from the earth; wheeled battering rams clad in iron plates and multi-tiered towers, their construction overseen with quiet efficiency by An Kang, who had already suggested three improvements to reinforce their axles. To unnerve the defenders, she deployed diversionary fires, while sappers dug trenches to flood the eastern approach.

...

..

. 

The siege stretched into its third week. Zhangsun Miao’s nightly barrages of drums and blazing torches sapped Xuli’s morale. Her herbal ‘steel porridge’ fortified her troops, but exhaustion was a subtle poison seeping into the camp.

One night, a dream intervened...

Mu Qing appeared in a gazebo wreathed in desert vines. “Miao Miao,” he whispered, “...the stream hides a tunnel. Send sappers, but Zhu An’s gaze lingers, his martial pride may strike.”

Zhangsun Miao awoke with a jolt, a frown creasing her brow. She immediately sent for her inner circle, her thoughts churning over her mother’s cryptic warning.

Zhu An? The name echoed in her mind. He was the martial god venerated by King Lang Yang and some officials, a deity of war and protection.

Yet, she had also heard whispers among the common people that Zhu An was now seen as a protector by the people of Xuli, their enemy.

What could her mother mean by his “martial pride” striking? Was it a warning of divine interference in their campaign? The riddle hung in the air, a puzzle she needed to solve before dawn.

Fu Huizhong arrived first, followed moments later by An Kang, summoned from his review of the night’s supply shipments.

“Fu Huizhong, Colonel An,” Zhangsun Miao began, her voice low, “I need a team of sappers to investigate the stream bed by the eastern gate. I believe a secret passage lies there.”

Fu Huizhong adjusted his arm guard, “A sound strategy, Your Excellency. But it is an old trick, and often a trap.” He felt a flicker of pride at her intuition, so like her mother’s.

“I will personally oversee the team,” An Kang stepped forward, his expression neutral, “If a tunnel exists, my lady, its entrance will be structurally compromised by the water. The sappers will need specialised shoring timbers to prevent a collapse. I can have them fabricated within the hour.”

Zhangsun Miao nodded, a glint of approval in her eyes. He was more than an observer; he was an asset! “See to it, Lord An.”

They met the sappers an hour before dawn. As picks struck stone, a sudden, violent earth tremor shook the ground, cracking a support beam in a nearby siege tower. An Kang instinctively checked the ground for signs of a sinkhole, his mind racing through geological explanations, but found none. It was unnatural. From the valley, a distant, rumbling laughter echoed.

“It’s a spirit, a vengeful ghost...” Fu Huizhong muttered, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sheathed sword, a ceremonial blade he hadn’t drawn in years. He knelt instantly, muttering a quick prayer under his breath, “May the Heavenly Emperor grant us mercy. This place is cursed.”

The tremor and the sinister laughs were a warning, a sign that they had disturbed something far more ancient than the city walls. He exchanged a concerned look with Zhangsun Miao, a silent acknowledgement that this was more than a mere siege—it was a battle against unseen forces.

Zhangsun Miao, however, stood frozen, her mind not on ghosts or curses, but on her latest dream. Her mother’s whispered warning echoed in her memory, and a chilling realisation dawned on her; This wasn’t some random spirit. This was a direct response to her actions. Was this the ‘strike’ her mother had warned her about!?

She looked at the shivering troops and the worried face of Fu Huizhong, a new kind of dread settling in her gut. She knew the name. Now, she was starting to understand the power behind it.

An Kang watched them both, his face unreadable, realising with a cold certainty that the reports he would send back to the King would speak of more than just troop numbers and morale. This was a battle against something ancient.

...

..

.

The breakthrough came at dawn. Zhangsun Miao led a stealth force through the now-secured tunnel, her agility a blur in the gloom.

An Kang moved silently behind her, his compact crossbow held at the ready. They burst into the city, catching Xuli’s weary guards by surprise. At the signal, archers atop the siege towers rained down arrows, and the great rams splintered the eastern gate.

As Xuli’s banners fell, victory seemed hers—until a shadowy figure emerged from the rubble, a Xuli assassin’s blade glinting toward her unguarded back!

Zhangsun Miao sensed the attack a split second before it landed, spinning to defend herself, but the blade was unnaturally fast. Before it could find its mark, a flash of silver erupted from the gloom. Fu Huizhong, moving with the speed of an experienced man, deflected the blow with his ceremonial sword.

“GO, MY LADY!” Fu Huizhong roared, locking blades with the assassin, a tall figure in dark leather, “I WILL HOLD THEM!”

Zhangsun Miao hesitated for a heartbeat, then charged forward, trusting him. The clash of swords was a fierce symphony behind her.

But from the crumbling archway of the eastern gate, a second figure emerged—a brute with a massive two-handed axe, who lunged past the duel directly for her.

Zhangsun Miao drew her sword, meeting the axe with a desperate parry that sent a jarring shock up her arm. Her footing slipped!

The axe swung back for the killing blow, a cruel smile stretching across the second assassin’s face.

But this time, there was no warning. Only the whistle of the axe through the air.

THWACK!

A sharp, wet sound cut through the din. The brute’s triumphant smile froze, replaced by a grimace of agony. He stumbled, the great axe falling from his grasp as he stared down at the crossbow bolt buried deep in his thigh. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the wound.

Zhangsun Miao’s eyes darted to the source of the shot.

An Kang stood twenty paces away, already lowering his crossbow, his expression calm and focused, as if he were merely taking stock of inventory. He gave her a short, sharp nod, his duty done.

The professional distance between them shattered in that single, silent exchange. He had not acted as a mere supply officer, nor as the King’s detached observer.

In that moment of lethal certainty, An Kang had chosen a side, and it was unequivocally hers. The end was not upon her; a new, formidable ally was at her side.

^|>

FOOTNOTES:

^[26] _{zhuāzhōu (抓周) or “Pick Anniversary” is a traditional Chinese ceremony held on a baby’s first birthday to predict their future. Parents place an assortment of symbolic objects in front of the child, and the object the baby chooses is believed to foretell their future interests and capabilities, such as a paintbrush for artistic talent or a calculator for business. Zhangsun Miao’s zhuazhou was in chapter 6 of “Loss of History”.}

^[27] _{She meant Madam An, her foster mother.}

^[28] _{Bùdǎowēng (不倒翁) doll refers to a traditional Chinese roly-poly toy, similar to Japanese daruma dolls or Russian nevalyashka dolls. Literally the “old man (wēng) who can’t be knocked over”.}

^[29] _{Zhǐjiǎ tào (指甲套) or hù zhǐ (护指) was used by Chinese royals & nobles to protect their long nails.}

^[30] _{Eunuchs can be referred to as “gōnggōng” (公公), though the term also has other meanings, such as “husband’s father” or “grandpa”. Due to their close proximity to the royal family, they were sometimes addressed with this familiar term.}

A/N:

Hong'er’s flashback dream with Xie Lian was inspired by the revised TGCF version which further explained Hua Cheng’s obsession with turning people into budaoweng dolls.

Eunuch Meng’s debut was in chapter 16 of “Loss of History”.

Zhangsun Miao had never been introduced to An Kang, so she didn’t know that he was Madam An’s nephew.

Chapter Text

The battle for Xuli’s eastern gate was the breaking of a dam. What followed was a flood. With the brute assassin dispatched by An Kang’s timely shot and Fu Huizhong holding the elite duellist at bay, Zhangsun Miao seized the moment of chaos. Her voice cut through the din of battle, not a scream, but a point of pure, cold command that sliced through fear and confusion, “Third and fourth battalions, with me! Secure the square! Deputy Ren, your cavalry to the western gate, we catch them in a pincer! Captain Wu, your archers on the walls. No one escapes!” Her troops, galvanised by her presence, poured through the breach.

Having reloaded his crossbow, An Kang did not charge into the fray. Instead, he took a position by the crumbling archway, his eyes scanning the rooftops and alleyways. He became a silent guardian, directing squads of crossbowmen with sharp hand signals, his bolts finding their marks in enemy officers and standard-bearers with lethal precision.

Zhangsun Miao was a storm at the heart of the battle. Her sword was a blur of silver, her agility allowing her to flow through Xuli’s thinned ranks like water. She led the charge into the city’s main square, her personal guard at her back. The fighting was brutal and street-by-street, but the defenders’ morale, already eroded by weeks of siege, had shattered with the fall of the gate.

Fu Huizhong, his duel concluded, joined her an hour later, his left arm bound in a blood-soaked bandage. The first assassin lay dead, but the cost had been a deep gash to his forearm. He was weary, but his eyes burned with a fierce, victorious light.

By the tenth day of the siege, the battle was over. The last pockets of resistance in the governor’s citadel were overwhelmed. As the sun set, casting long shadows over the battered city, the last of Xuli’s cobalt blue banners was torn down. In its place, the crimson flag of Yong'an was raised, its brilliant colour a stark promise against the grey stone and smoke-stained sky. The victory was total, a conquest that would be sung of in tales for years to come.

In the captured governor’s hall, now her command post, Zhangsun Miao oversaw the consolidation of her victory. She imposed a strict curfew, secured the city’s granaries, and put her disciplined troops to work restoring order. Late that night, she met with her two most trusted advisors.

Fu Huizhong winced as a physician tightened the dressing on his arm, “You have achieved what many thought impossible, my lady,” He glanced at An Kang, who stood observing near the maps table, “The King chose his man well. Your shot saved her life, Colonel.”

An Kang inclined his head, his professional mask finally falling away in the relative privacy of the chamber, “I merely fulfilled my duty to His Majesty, and to his most valuable commander.”

He stepped forward, his voice low and urgent, “My lady, I must now deliver the King’s true message. He is a virtual prisoner in his own court, caught between the ambition of his regents. He told me that he trusts your judgment above all others, and that the forged edict was an act of treason by those who are meant to protect him. He needs allies he can depend upon.”

It was the confirmation of everything she suspected. Lang Yang was not weak; he was caged.

“Then he shall have one,” Zhangsun Miao said, her voice hard as iron. She took a fresh scroll, “The official report will be sent to the court with a public courier. It will detail our victory.”

She then looked directly at An Kang, “A second, private message will be sent to the King. It will go with your most trusted man. It will tell him that the capital is secure, and that his army in the east is his to command.”

The news finally reached the Yong'an court. A dust-covered military courier was granted an audience, kneeling before the Dragon Throne where young King Lang Yang sat, flanked by the Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya and Grand Chancellor Zhao on his left side, and Grand Consort Yiping and Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo on his right side.

“Report,” Lang Yang commanded, his voice steady despite the frantic beating of his heart.

“Your Majesty,” the courier announced, his voice ringing with pride, “Commandant Zhangsun Miao has broken the siege. The old royal capital of Xianle has been retaken! The eastern territories are secure!”

“...”

A stunned silence fell upon the court. Lang Yang felt a surge of fierce, incandescent pride. She had done it. She had not only defied the regents’ treacherous order, she had triumphed in the face of it. He had to school his features into a mask of regal calm, but inwardly, he felt his own power solidify. This was his victory as much as hers.

He glanced at his co-regents. Grand Chancellor Zhao’s face was a stone, utterly unreadable. But Wang Ya, for all her composure, could not hide everything. Her smile was a thin, brittle thing, and her fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the jade armrest of her seat. It was the only sign of the cold, black fury coiling in her gut.

“A… commendable victory,” she said, her voice like honey laced with frost, “Achieved, however, after acting against a direct edict sealed by His Majesty’s own hand. Her success is remarkable, but her insubordination sets a dangerous precedent.”

“Indeed,” Grand Chancellor Zhao added, his voice smooth as polished stone, “Her triumph does not erase her defiance. We must consider the implications for the discipline of the entire army.”

Lang Yang felt a surge of strength. “She achieved the impossible and restored a lost capital to my domain,” he declared, his voice ringing with a newfound authority that surprised even himself, “That is not defiance; it is the highest form of loyalty. Her actions have proven her worth a hundred times over. Lady Zhangsun will be rewarded, not censured.”

The finality in his tone left no room for immediate argument.

He had dismissed them. Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya and Grand Chancellor Zhao left the hall, their faces a mask of respectful deference that barely concealed their fury.

Lang Yang, left alone with the Grand Commandant Zhangsun and his mother, Grand Consort Yiping, felt the weight of their silent support.

“Zhangsun Bo,” Lang Yang confided, his voice low and urgent, “...your daughter’s success is our shield. Grandmother and Zhao Gao will not let this victory stand. They have already plotted against me with the forged retreat order, and now they will surely turn on Zhangsun Miao.”

Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo nodded, his brow furrowed. His loyalty was torn; his ambition for his son, Hao, clashed with the peril his foster daughter, Miao, now faced.

“My son,” Grand Consort Yiping said, her gentle voice cutting through the tension, “...we must shield Zhangsun Miao. The Grand Queen Dowager’s jealousy blinds her. This victory is not a threat, it is our greatest asset against them.”

...

..

.

That evening, in her private chambers, Wang Ya’s composure finally crumbled. She swept a priceless porcelain vase from its stand, letting it shatter on the floor.

“That woman is more than a soldier!” she hissed to Zhao Gao, who watched her with cold, calculating eyes, “She is a symbol... and the boy king uses her victory to sharpen his own teeth.”

“Her defiance has given him courage,” Grand Chancellor Zhao agreed.

Wang Ya turned, her eyes glittering with malice, “This wolf at the gate has grown fangs. We sought to discredit her, to paint her as weak or disloyal. Instead, she has returned as a conquering hero!”

Her voice dropped to a venomous whisper, “We must change our strategy. If we cannot remove her with politics and schemes, then we must find a chain strong enough to break her, or a poison sharp enough to still her heart for good.”

She sat down, her voice edged with malice, “Zhao, forge another edict; demand her immediate recall to the capital under the pretext of a fabricated imperial review, signed in the name of King Lang Yang himself, but ensure the seal bears a subtle flaw to mask its origin.”

Grand Chancellor Zhao nodded, his quill scratching parchment as he crafted the deceitful order, intending to lure Zhangsun Miao back where Wang Ya could discredit her publicly.

Minister Su, their loyal subordinate, smirked, “I’ll spread rumours among the nobles—whisper that her victory was luck, and her father’s influence a stain on the court.” His soft murmurs soon rippled through the aristocracy, sowing seeds of doubt.

In the heavenly realm, Mu Qing countered their treachery. In a dream wreathed in desert vines, his black-and-crimson form shimmered as he warned his daughter, “The court turns against you, my child. Trust Fu Huizhong’s counsel, but watch for shadows... betrayal lurks close.” His voice carried a mother’s love, guiding her through the storm.

Yet, Zhu An’s martial aura clashed with this aid, his divine presence manifesting as sudden storms that battered Tongguan’s supply carts, forcing Zhangsun Miao to adapt with Fu Huizhong’s strategic input to reroute resources.

These celestial tensions tested her resolve, balancing Mu Qing’s subtle support against Zhu An’s interference.

An Kang—dispatched by Lang Yang as a supply officer to spy on Zhangsun Miao—recognised her kinship to Madam An, his aunt. He aided her efforts, sharing tactical insights that helped breach the eastern tunnel, securing her victory. Yet, his loyalty remained split.

Torn between duty and family, he sent a coded message to Lang Yang via a trusted courier;

Lady Zhangsun is loyal and victorious, her leadership true, but treachery brews within the court. The Dowager’s hand may move again, guard against false edicts.

His report aimed to alert Lang Yang to Wang Ya’s schemes while vouching for Zhangsun Miao’s integrity, hinting at his growing allegiance to her cause despite his initial mission.

Meanwhile, Fu Huizhong had tracked down the courier who delivered the false edict to Zhangsun Miao’s camp. Through a combination of threats and promises, he had successfully extracted a written confession from the man. The confession identified the culprit; a clerk in Grand Chancellor Zhao’s retinue. The document, a damning piece of evidence, was now on its way to King Lang Yang, carried by a different, highly trusted courier. It was a race against time, a final piece of a dangerous puzzle falling into place.

The throne room of Yong'an buzzed with an uneasy silence as King Lang Yang ascended his jade-carved dais, his royal robes of deep crimson shimmering under the flickering light of bronze lanterns. His voice firm, “Explain these rumours and the recall order.”

Grand Chancellor Zhao, who stood flanked by nervous attendants. His scholarly robes were a stark contrast to the tension in the air as deflected with feigned ignorance, bowing, cupping his hands, “Your Majesty, mere court chatter—perhaps a misunderstanding.”

In his hand, Lang Yang clutched a coded scroll from An Kang, detailing Zhangsun Miao’s loyalty and the treachery brewing at court, alongside a sealed report from Fu Huizhong containing the courier’s confession—proof of the forged recall edict bearing a flawed seal. His gaze, sharp as a blade, fixed on Grand Chancellor Zhao.

“Zhao Gao,” Lang Yang’s voice rang with authority, “...you stand accused. This message from Colonel An and the courier’s words unveil your hand in forging an edict to recall Lady Zhangsun, a plot to undermine my rule. What do you say?” He tossed the documents onto a lacquered table.

Zhao Gao’s eyes widened briefly, but he swiftly composed himself, dropping to his knees with a theatrical bow, his forehead nearly touching the polished floor.

“Your Majesty,” he intoned, his voice trembling with feigned remorse, “...this humble servant is appalled. The edict was no act of mine, but a grave miscommunication by my subordinate, Minister Su. In my zeal to serve, I entrusted him with drafting routine orders, unaware of his overreach. I beg your forgiveness and offer to investigate this treachery, delivering Sū Hù (苏護)’s head as penance if proven guilty.” His words flowed like silk, deflecting blame while pledging loyalty, a calculated move to buy time.

Lang Yang’s fingers tightened on the throne’s armrest, his mind racing. The courier’s confession named a clerk in Zhao Gao’s retinue, yet Su Hu’s involvement remained unconfirmed, enough doubt to question the Grand Chancellor’s direct culpability.

Zhangsun Bo, standing nearby, narrowed his eyes, sensing the ruse, while Grand Consort Yiping whispered to eunuch Meng, “He twists the truth.”

Eunuch Meng stepped forward, his voice steady, “Your Majesty, the seal’s flaw suggests intent, but Su Hu’s role warrants scrutiny.”

Zhao Gao shot a sharp glance at Eunuch Meng, a flicker of betrayal in his eyes. Xiao Meng had been his student, a boy he had raised and mentored as his own son, yet now he dared to openly side with Lang Yang and defy him.

He prostrated lower, “Allow me to root out this cancer, Your Majesty. My life is yours to command if I fail.” His plea hung in the air, a masterful deflection that shifted focus to Su Hu, a convenient scapegoat.

Lang Yang’s jaw clenched, the evidence compelling yet insufficient for an immediate strike. To punish Zhao Gao without proof risked alienating his faction, while accepting the offer leaving the chancellor’s influence intact would potentially be a deeper trap.

“Rise, Zhao Gao,” Lang Yang commanded at last, his tone icy, “You will investigate Su Hu and report within seven days. Fail, and your head will adorn the gates.”

Zhao Gao bowed again, a faint smirk hidden beneath his sleeve as he retreated, the court’s tension unresolved. The seeds of treachery remained sown, and Zhangsun Miao’s victory at Tongguan now cast a longer shadow over the throne.

Once Zhao Gao was gone and the throne room was clear, Lang Yang turned to the eunuch Meng, “Send a private letter to Lady Zhangsun at once. Tell her the edict to recall her to the capital was a forgery orchestrated by Wang Ya. But tell her to obey it regardless. She must return here, bringing her troops with her, as instructed in the false edict.”

Wu Ming and Yinni were wandering through the labyrinthine passages of the mysterious cave, a chilling silence broken only by the echo of their footsteps.

Yinni, a wisp of a ghost with an inquisitive nature, suddenly broke the silence, “I’ve just realised... I never asked why the Kingdom of Xianle went to war. Did the Kingdom of Xuli attack them too? As I recall, Xianle was always a peaceful land that hadn’t seen conflict for centuries.”

Wu Ming, whose expression was a perpetual veil of calm, shifted his gaze to the gloomy path ahead. His voice was flat as he replied, “Xianle’s war was a civil one. Against Yong'an.”

Yinni blinked in confusion, “Yong'an? I’ve never heard of it. Where is that?”

“It was part of Xianle,” Wu Ming said, his tone growing colder, “A province to the west, I believe.”

“Why would part of the kingdom go to war against its own nation?” she pressed, her voice full of innocent curiosity.

Wu Ming’s jaw tightened, a barely perceptible tremor in his hands.

“Because the people of Yong'an suffered a terrible drought,” he said, the words strained and low, “...and they blamed His Highness, the Heavenly Crown Prince of Xianle, for it.”

Sensing the sudden surge of cold fury radiating from him, Yinni quickly fell silent. She didn’t want to upset him, unaware that his anger was directed entirely at the ungrateful people of Yong'an, not at her.

The rest of their journey continued in strained quiet.

Not long after, they came across a secluded grotto from which an overpowering aura of sickness and despair emanated.

A deep, hacking cough echoed from within.

Curiosity, mixed with a chilling dread, pulled them forward.

Once inside, they found a man sitting in the lotus position, shrouded in tattered, grimy robes that seemed to cling to his sickly form. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and his skin was a morbid, pale grey.

He slowly lifted his head, his dark eyes—pained yet sharp—settling on them.

“Visitors?” the man rasped, his voice a dry whisper that hurt to hear, “It has been an age since I had company. You are ghosts who seek to ascend... or perhaps you are simply lost?”

Wu Ming and Yinni exchanged a look of shock. The man’s words hung in the air, a chilling realization settling over them; he knew they were ghosts!

As they looked at him more closely, they saw it—the translucent shimmer of his form, the way the light seemed to pass through him. He was a spirit, just like them.

“We are seeking a way out of this mountain,” Wu Ming replied, his stance guarded.

The sickly ghost offered a weak, mirthless smile, “A path out? This mountain has no path. Only suffering. To leave this place, one must master it. To leave this place... one must conquer me—” He paused to cough violently, a rattling sound from his chest.

“...I am ‘The Sickness’, the very affliction that will one day claim all life. So, tell me, young ghosts. Do you have what it takes to face a truth you cannot outrun?”

Yinni frowned and Wu Ming fell into contemplation, but when the latter began to speak…

The ghost—who called himself ‘The Sickness’—did not wait for an answer. He simply gestured with his hand, and immediately the suffocating aura of sickness pressed down on them.

Yinni, who was not as strong as Wu Ming, staggered instantly; her body felt heavy and her soul began to erode. She hid behind Wu Ming, gasping for air.

Wu Ming remained silent, showing no pain on his face, but he could feel the filthy spiritual energy creeping all over his body, attacking every particle of his soul.

“This is not a place for the weak,” The Sickness’ voice was heard again, hoarse and full of authority, “If you cannot endure this, leave. I do not teach with words. I teach with suffering.”

Wu Ming did not waver. He did not let the aura penetrate his inner defences. He pulled Yinni behind him, shielding the girl from the horrific pressure.

“How will we learn?” Wu Ming asked, his voice remaining calm.

‘The Sickness’ simply chuckled softly, a sound that resembled the scraping of bones, “You do not learn. You endure. You allow this poison to become a part of you, and then you control it. You must find strength in this deadly weakness.”

...

..

.

And so the ‘training’ began...

Every day, ‘The Sickness’ would strengthen the aura of sickness in the cave.

Yinni suffered, and Wu Ming struggled.

He did not only endure the suffering for himself, but also for Yinni. He would use his spiritual energy to filter the air around Yinni, ensuring the girl was not completely eroded.

This process forced Wu Ming to understand the essence of sickness and weakness in depth. He learnt how to process corrupt energy, turning suffering into resilience.

The creak of wagon wheels and the clatter of armour announced Zhangsun Miao’s arrival at the capital gate, her entourage—Fu Huizhong, Colonel An Kang, Deputy Ren Hao, and Captain Wu—trailing behind, dust-stained from the journey.

The towering gate, adorned with carved dragon motifs, loomed ahead, its guards snapping to attention.

Stepping forward to greet her was Zhangsun Hao, her younger brother, resplendent in his Colonel of the City Gates uniform, his gentle eyes alight with pride.

Zhangsun Miao dismounted, and the siblings embraced warmly, the weight of her victories melting in his presence.

Hao pulled back, smiling, “Big sister, you’re safe! I heard of your triumph reclaiming the old royal capital, our family’s honour shines through you. I’m so proud.”

Miao’s face brightened, her fatigue easing. “Thank you, Dìdi.^[31] And you? How are you?”

Hao chuckled softly, leaning close to whisper, “I’m well, but truth be told, this post bores me to death.”

Miao smiled, replying in kind, “Honestly, you’d dislike my work too.”

Hao’s expression flickered with surprise, then realisation dawned—her role had thrust her into constant peril. Silently, he had prayed to Xuan Zhen for her, and now he murmured, “I’ve prayed to Xuan Zhen for you. Did the god guide you?”

Miao’s smile softened, tinged with a wistful longing. “Always…” she said, her gaze distant, as if recalling her mother’s divine whispers.

Their moment was cut short as Zhangsun Hao’s subordinates and Ren Hao called out in unison, “Colonel Zhangsun, Commandant Zhangsun—proceed, please!”

Zhangsun Hao laughed, apologising, “Duty calls. Let’s move.”

He turned to inspect the entourage’s orders, his guards rifling through their baggage—crates of maps, weapons, the captured enemies with the spoils of war, and the last jars of ‘steel porridge’—with practiced efficiency.

Satisfied, Zhangsun Hao gestured them through, “Welcome home, big sister. Enter in peace.”

The gate creaked open, and Zhangsun Miao’s party stepped into the capital, the air thick with the promise of new challenges.

...

..

.

The sprawling entourage of Zhangsun Miao rolled into the royal capital of Qiyi, a procession stretching beyond the horizon.

Bound enemy leaders from Xuli, their heads bowed in defeat, marched alongside carts laden with spoils of war; gleaming swords, ornate chests of gold, and, most strikingly, the sealed keys to the old royal capital, their bronze surfaces etched with ancient runes.

The streets erupted in celebration, the Qiyi populace thronging the avenues, their faces alight with awe. Crimson and gold banners fluttered from every rooftop, their vibrant hues catching the sunlight, while the air thrummed with the rhythmic beat of drums and the joyous shouts of the crowd.

A vanguard of drummers and musicians, clad in embroidered tunics, joined the procession, their flutes and gongs leading Zhangsun Miao and her retinue toward the palace with a triumphant melody.

Zhangsun Miao rode at the forefront, astride a magnificent steed whose black coat gleamed under polished armour. Her own armour, intricately crafted with silver inlays, reflected the morning light, a beacon of her strength.

Beside her rode Fu Huizhong, his royal envoy robes a stark contrast to the battlefield grime, his presence a symbol of royal endorsement.

The crowd’s roars swelled;

“LONG LIVE THE COMMANDANT! LONG LIVE THE KING!”

Their voices rose in a triumphant chorus that echoed off the city walls. Zhangsun Miao surveyed the joyous celebration, a broad smile on her face, and waved to the adoring crowd. As her gaze swept across the sea of faces, she spotted a middle-aged woman in a shabby red cloak smiling back at her.

Aunty Wen?

King Lang Yang stood waiting at the palace gates, his face alight with unconcealed pride. Flanking him were Grand Consort Yiping, her serene smile warming the scene, and Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo, his stern nod acknowledging his daughter’s feat.

Behind them, veiled but unmistakable, sat Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya, her placid expression masking eyes that flickered with cold calculation, a silent storm brewing beneath her composure.

The procession culminated in the main courtyard of the palace, where Zhangsun Miao and her entourage dismounted, the clink of armour mingling with the crowd’s fading cheers. They were ushered into the Grand Hall of the Ceremonial Court, a space of breathtaking opulence.

...

..

.

Towering pillars, painted with coiling dragons in vivid reds and blues, supported a ceiling adorned with intricate golden carvings that depicted celestial battles. The air, heavy with the rich scent of sandalwood incense and the rustle of expensive silks worn by courtiers, felt a world apart from the dust and blood of Tongguan, marking a triumphant yet precarious return to the heart of power.

Upon his grand dragon throne, Lang Yang sat with a stern countenance, his gaze fixed on the kneeling figure of Zhangsun Miao in the centre of the hall. Surrounding him, the officials of the court were arranged by rank, their elaborate robes a river of deep reds and greens. Wang Ya was present as well, a silent, imperious presence behind a gilded silk screen to the side of the throne.

Zhangsun Miao knelt before the King’s throne, “Your Majesty, by your grace and with the support of your loyal troops, the old royal capital has been retaken. This humble servant presents to you the city’s keys and the seals of the enemy ruler, symbols of its surrender.”

Lang Yang rose from his throne, “You have performed a service beyond measure! Your valour has restored honour to Yong'an!” He raised a jade sceptre, silencing the gathered nobles, Zhangsun Miao and her entourage before him.

Lang Yang’s voice boomed with regal authority, “For valour in reclaiming our heritage, we honour our warriors...”

He turned to Captain Wu, his weathered face alight with pride, “Captain Wu, your steadfast scouting elevates you to Lieutenant Colonel, with a generous grant of land in the southern plains, a purse of silver, and fine silks.”

Lieutenant Colonel Wu bowed deeply, accepting the embroidered decree.

Next, Commandery Deputy Ren Hao stepped forward, “Commandery Deputy Ren of Tongguan, your leadership merits the rank of Commandery Commandant of the reclaimed capital, accompanied by substantial gold, fertile estates, and a chest of jade ornaments.”

Ren Hao’s ambitious eyes gleamed as he knelt in gratitude.

Colonel An Kang followed, his posture resolute.

Lang Yang, “Colonel An, your courage earns you the title ‘General of the Left’, overseeing our armies, and the noble rank of Viscount,^[32] with lands and a treasury of treasures.”

An Kang’s bow was steady, his new status a testament to his dual role.

Then, the focus shifted to Zhangsun Miao, the hall’s breath catching.

Lang Yang, “Commandery Commandant Zhangsun of Tongguan, your brilliance crowns you ‘General’, with the noble title ‘Marquis^[33] of the Conquered City’, and vast rewards of gold, land, and rare artefacts.”

The crowd erupted, voices buzzing; “This elevates the Zhangsun lineage forever!”

Wang Ya, veiled in the shadows, clenched her fan in silent fury, her plans thwarted.

Zhangsun Bo, standing tall, nodded with pride and satisfaction.

But the greatest shock came last.

Lang Yang’s gaze softened on Fu Huizhong, “Fu Huizhong, my steadfast guardian, your military prowess and unwavering support in this conquest elevates you to ‘Royal Councilor’—an overseer with authority to scrutinise corruption, even among the highest ranks. You shall receive gold and gifts as a mark of my favour.”

The hall gasped.

The promotion’s weight was sinking in.

Grand Chancellor Zhao’s face darkened, his fists trembling beneath his scholarly robes. He struggled to mask his rage, his jaw tight as a drawn bowstring.

Wang Ya leaned close, whispering, “Is something amiss?”

Zhao Gao’s reply was a hissed murmur, “The Royal Councilor oversees corruption and can accuse even the Three Lords—myself included. This threatens all we’ve built.” Rising, he cupped his hands in a formal bow to Lang Yang, “Your Majesty, with all due respect, this elevation of a bodyguard to such a post may unsettle the court’s balance, risking discord among seasoned officials.”

Lang Yang’s eyes narrowed, his voice resonant with wisdom, “Chancellor Zhao, harmony stems not from rank alone but from merit and trust. Fu Huizhong’s deeds have proven his worth, and his oversight will cleanse corruption, strengthening our realm. Your concern is noted, but the decision stands.”

Zhao Gao’s retort faltered, his hands lowering as the king’s reasoning silenced him, the court’s tension simmering beneath the ceremony’s grandeur.

...

..

.

The subsequent feast was held in the magnificent Hall of Heavenly Purity. The space was filled with the sounds of traditional instruments, clinking porcelain, and the murmur of conversation.

King Lang Yang and the Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya were at the head table, surrounded by the highest-ranking ministers and members of the royal family.

As the new General, Zhangsun Miao was given a place of honour at the main table, a seat that visibly placed her among the most powerful warriors in the kingdom.

Further down the hall, the various factions were seated in their own groups. Grand Chancellor Zhao and his allies sat on one side, their expressions a mixture of forced smiles and wary glances towards Zhangsun Miao.

The Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo, the proud father of the new heroine, sat with a contented grin, receiving congratulations from all sides.

The feast was a lavish affair, with dozens of courses of rare delicacies and endless streams of wine.

Midway through the evening, Lang Yang stood, his golden cup raised, “Let us toast our new General, the Marquis of the Conquered City!” he announced, his voice carrying over the music, “May her future victories be as glorious as her last!”

The court rose as one, raising their cups in a chorus of cheers.

The feast was a celebration, but it was also a powerful political statement, a public anointing of the young king’s most trusted and capable ally in his quiet battle for power.

After some time, as Wu Ming honed his mastery of the art, ‘The Sickness’ rose from his seated position, his shadowy form stirring the damp air.

“You’re beginning to grasp the technique, young boy,” he rasped, his voice clearer than before, tinged with an eerie satisfaction, “Your movements flow with intent now. Come, I’ll lead you to something more.”

Yinni, still rubbing her arm from the sickly ghost’s earlier strike, grumbled, “That hurt, you brute! Must you attack me every time??”

‘The Sickness’ turned, his hollow eyes narrowing, “Quiet your babble and follow, unless you’d rather stay lost.”

Yinni rolled her eyes.

‘The Sickness’ guided them into a dark corridor behind its perch, the walls slick with moisture and etched with faint, glowing runes. The passage twisted downward, leading to a hidden cave where a faint, pitiful sobbing echoed.

Wu Ming’s steps faltered, his senses sharpening, while Yinni trailed, muttering under her breath.

Inside, the sight that greeted them was harrowing.

Several human children, trapped within the cave’s depths, bore bodies ravaged by grotesque wounds—jagged scars and blackened veins pulsing with the mountain’s spiritual energy. Their frail forms trembled, their eyes hollow with despair, teetering on the edge of death.

Yinni gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, heavens… these poor souls! How can such torment exist?” she whispered, her voice breaking, “They’re just children, there’s no hope left for them.”

The scene pierced Wu Ming’s heart, unleashing a flood of painful memories. His vision blurred, pulling him into a fleeting flashback...

Buyou forest, years ago, Xie Lian knelt amid the chaos of the human-face disease. The god prince’s hands, trembling yet resolute, tended to the afflicted, his voice soft as he murmured, “You’ll be cured, I promise.”

The memory of those unrescued faces, children abandoned to the disease’s wrath, mirrored the suffering before him now, igniting a deep, aching guilt.

“They are the true embodiment of The Sickness,” ‘The Sickness’ intoned, its voice a cold echo, “All suffering and weakness manifest in their flesh. If you truly wish to master this power, save them. Or you’ll become like those who never could—doomed to watch, powerless.”

Wu Ming’s eye flared, a blaze of anger igniting within. The sickly ghost’s words, striking at the failures and helplessness he’d witnessed, were the final spark. His fists clenched, spiritual energy crackling around him, as determination warred with rage.

The Grand Hall, with its luxurious and grand appearance, left behind an air of grandeur as people began to talk in low, quiet voices.

On his dragon-emblazoned throne, Lang Yang turned his gaze to the gathered nobles, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood incense and the rustle of silken robes.

The recent conquest of the old royal capital demanded a Grand Administrator to govern the newly reclaimed territory, a post of immense power to consolidate control. Behind a gilded screen, whispers of strategy swirled among the court’s elite.

In a secluded alcove, Lang Yang conferred with Zhangsun Bo and Fu Huizhong.

“We need a loyal hand to oversee the capital,” Lang Yang murmured, his voice firm, “Someone unswayed by rival factions—perhaps Governor Liang, a man of proven integrity from the western provinces.”

Zhangsun Bo nodded, his eyes calculating, “Liáng Bóyǔ (梁博宇)’s loyalty is steadfast, and his governance could secure the region against Xuli remnants.”

Fu Huizhong added, “His appointment would signal your strength, Your Majesty, especially with the people’s favour behind your triumph.”

Yet, across the hall, Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya, her silken veil barely concealing her scowl, convened with Grand Chancellor Zhao. “This is intolerable,” she hissed, her fan snapping shut, “Lang Yang seeks to entrench his power with a puppet. We must install Prefect Chen—a man indebted to me—to maintain our influence.”

Zhao Gao nodded, “Chén Míng (陳明)’s allegiance is ours, and his appointment could counter Liang Boyu’s rise.”

Their plan hinged on exploiting the court’s divisions, but the recent victory’s acclaim forced Wang Ya to temper her approach.

The debate reached its peak as Lang Yang rose, “Nobles of the realm, the old royal capital requires a Grand Administrator. After due counsel, I appoint Governor Liang to this office, tasked with restoring order and loyalty.”

The hall buzzed with approval, courtiers bowing as Liang Boyu, a stout figure in grey robes, stepped forward to receive a ceremonial scroll and a bronze seal, symbols of his new authority.

The crowd’s cheers filtered through the open windows, a testament to the king’s favour.

Wang Ya’s lips thinned, her fan trembling in her grip. She leaned toward Grand Chancellor Zhao, whispering, “This Liang Boyu will undo us, Lang Yang’s grip tightens.” Her eyes narrowed, a storm of resentment brewing beneath her placid facade, her ally’s defeat a bitter pill swallowed in silence as the ceremony’s grandeur masked her thwarted scheme.

Grand Chancellor Zhao spoke in a low murmur beneath the rustle of her silken veil, “Your Majesty, Lang Yang’s triumph and Liang Boyu’s appointment tighten his hold. We must act swiftly. I propose hastening Prince Lang Jun’s marriage to Princess Qi Ling of Zhaoyi, a union that secures Zhaoyi’s loyalty and bolsters your lineage. Further, we should press King Lang Yang into a betrothal with Grand Secretary Lü’s daughter, binding his rule to our allies.”

Wang Ya’s eyes gleamed with approval, her fan tapping her palm, “A shrewd move, Zhao. Lang Jun’s union will strengthen my bloodline, and Lü’s daughter will tether Lang Yang to our cause. Proceed with the arrangements—discreetly.”

Zhao Gao nodded.

...

..

.

The meeting of the Grand Administrator concluded, and the hall emptied, courtiers drifting away in a swirl of robes and whispered plots.

Only Zhangsun Bo and Fu Huizhong lingered near the throne, exchanging quiet words with Lang Yang.

As Zhao Gao turned to leave, his scholarly robes catching the lantern light, Lang Yang’s voice cut through the silence, “Chancellor Zhao, remain.” His tone was steel wrapped in silk, halting Zhao Gao mid-step. The king’s gaze, sharp and unyielding, fixed on him, while Zhangsun Bo’s stern presence and Fu Huizhong’s watchful eyes added weight to the moment, the air thickening with unspoken intent.

Lang Yang began, his voice dangerously soft, “Three days have passed since I gave you your directive. Where is the report on Minister Su? You swore you would investigate this treachery.”

“Your Majesty,” Zhao Gao cupped his hands and said, his head bowed low, “...this humble servant has been working tirelessly. The matter is complex; Su Hu’s loyalties run deep within the civil service. We are… unravelling the conspiracy, but it requires delicate hands. I will have a full report for you by the end of the week, I swear it on my ancestors’ graves.”

“...”

Lang Yang said nothing for a long moment, the silence heavier than any accusation, “See that you do. The gates of this palace await a new ornament should you fail.”

...

..

.

That evening, in a secluded and damp interrogation chamber deep within his manor, Zhao Gao stood before Su Hu, who was chained to a heavy wooden chair. The Minister’s face was a mixture of bewilderment and rising horror.

“You came for me yourself, Grand Chancellor,” Su Hu said, his voice hoarse, “I confess, I didn’t expect it. What treachery is this? Why am I here?”

Zhao Gao gestured to his guards to leave the room. He walked slowly around the man, his footsteps echoing on the stone floor. “I warned you, didn’t I, Su Hu? I told you not to be sloppy. Your little overreach with the edict has put us all in peril. And now, I must… clean up your mess.”

Su Hu was taken aback. Hadn’t the Grand Queen Dowager and Zhao Gao themselves ordered him to write that very edict!?

A dawning realisation swept over his face, a slow, agonising understanding of his fate.

“You… you are going to give me to the King. To save your own skin,” He began to laugh, a hollow, bitter sound that bordered on hysteria, “I have served you for fifteen years! I’ve been your shadow, your blade in the dark! And this is my reward?”

Zhao Gao’s face remained impassive, “It is not a matter of reward. It is a matter of survival. The King is like a caged tiger, and he smells blood. I must feed him a morsel to save the rest of the pack. I am sorry, old friend.”

Su Hu’s laughter ceased abruptly, replaced by a cold, burning hatred in his eyes. He strained against his chains, the metal groaning, “You call me friend? You are a viper! I will not beg for my life, Zhao Gao. I will take this to my grave. But hear me; the gods will see what you have done. You will die alone, choking on your own ambition. Your legacy will be one of shame and cowardice, and the ghosts of those you have betrayed will haunt your final moments. You will not have a peaceful end. I CURSE YOU! I CURSE YOU AND YOUR WICKED SOUL!”

A flicker of memory flashed in Zhao Gao’s mind as he watched him.

“ZHAO GAO!”

Wen Ruodong, his fellow agent of Zhaoyi, spat the name out, his eyes ablaze with rage at the betrayal.

“I WISHED I COULD CASTRATE YOU TWICE! MAY YOUR ‘TREASURE’ ROT BEFORE YOUR BURIAL!”

The elderly eunuch shook his head, pushing the memory away, then raised his hand to signal his guards.

The sight before Wu Ming was a mirror to his darkest past—those children, their bodies racked with pain, stirred memories of Xianle’s dying populace, their faces etched with despair. His anger surged, an inferno hotter than the flames that once consumed the Flower Crowned Martial God’s Temple, his fists trembling with suppressed rage.

A sudden creak of bones shattered the silence, emerging from the cave’s shadowed depths. Dozens of grotesque ghosts—emaciated, tattered figures with distorted faces and hollow, hunger-filled eyes—oozed from the walls. Their forms reeked of disease, a manifestation of the sickness that had devoured the souls of lost wanderers in this mountain. They lunged toward the helpless children, their claws dripping with a miasma that sought to devour the last vestiges of life.

Wu Ming shoved Yinni behind him, dropping into a fighting stance. Weaponless, he drew on the art taught by ‘The Sickness’, transforming his suffering into strength. With a surge of will, he wove a spiritual barrier around the children, forged from his unyielding resolve and the toxic essence he had absorbed.

The ghosts assaulted it, their claws scraping and eroding the surface, each touch spreading more disease.

Wu Ming gritted his teeth, holding firm as the barrier pulsed under the onslaught.

Meanwhile, Yinni knelt beside the children, her hands trembling as she sensed their human essence beneath the affliction. She asked softly, “What happened to you? How did you end up here?”

The eldest, a boy of about twelve, his voice weak but steady, replied, “I’m from Zhōucūn (週村). I don’t know these others, but I can tell you my story. I was flying a kite in the fields while my mother washed clothes by the river. A stranger approached, smiling kindly, and offered me candy. Trusting him, I took it, but he seized me, covering my mouth and dragging me away. I was thrown into a cart with other kidnapped children, all terrified, unsure of our fate.”

Beside him, a small girl of five whimpered, tears streaking her dirt-streaked face. An older boy, perhaps eight, soothed her, and Yinni suspected they were siblings.

The eldest continued, “We reached a noisy, dark place... hot, dusty, and smoky. It was my first sight of an iron mine. Life there was a nightmare. We were forced to dig ore from dawn to dusk in narrow, stifling tunnels. My hands blistered, my body ached, and rest was a luxury. One day, a commotion broke out outside. The guards left, and when they didn’t return, we dared to escape. There was a battle raging, and we fled, ending up here.”

A slightly chubby eight-year-old boy groaned weakly, clutching his stomach, “I’m so hungry…”

Yinni turned to the eldest, “How long have you been trapped here?”

He thought for a moment, “About two days, I think.”

She pressed further, “And these sicknesses... how did they start?”

He frowned, “We’re not sure. Since we hid in this cave, one by one, we fell ill... some strange affliction from the air or the walls.”

Their conversation halted as Wu Ming staggered back, a powerful blow from a ghost sending him reeling, the barrier flickering under the renewed assault. He surged to his feet, no longer content to merely endure. He attacked with ferocity, his bare hands a blur of motion as he struck the grotesque ghosts. Each blow, infused with the purifying energy he had mastered from ‘The Sickness’, shattered their forms, reducing them to ash that drifted like mournful snow.

The battle was relentless, Wu Ming moved like a shadow, leaping over clawing limbs, dodging miasmic tendrils, and countering with precise strikes, all while channeling energy to sustain the flickering spiritual barrier around the children.

One by one, the ghosts fell, their screeches fading as the cave’s air grew faintly cleaner, the oppressive weight lifting.

As Wu Ming paused, chest heaving, a sinister presence erupted from the darkness. It was no mere ghost but a manifestation of pure hatred.

A towering figure clad in the tattered robes of a king, its face a horrific mask melded from thousands of screaming visages.

The first Yong'an king, whose curse had birthed the human-face disease that ravaged Xianle. His eyes glowed with malevolent intent, and the air around him pulsed with a suffocating spiritual force, far beyond the ghosts Wu Ming had vanquished.

Lang Ying!

FOOTNOTES :

^[31] _{Dìdì (弟弟) is the Chinese word for ‘little brother’. It’s also used as an affectionate term for a younger brother or even a younger male.}

^[32] _{Zǐ (子): "viscount", "master", "unratified lord".}

^[33] _{Hóu (侯) : Marquis. In the ancient Zhou dynasty, the title 侯 (hóu) was one of the five ranks of nobility (公 侯 伯 子 男), often translated as Duke, Marquis, Count, Viscount, and Baron, respectively.}

A/N:

Wen Ruodong’s flashback was a scene from chapter 17 in ‘Loss of History’.

P.S.:

I found a powerful image here on X (twitter).

May this crisis soon pass. 🤲🏻

Chapter Text

^|> 

“You protect them,” Lang Ying’s voice echoed through the cave, filled with derision, “Just like him… His Royal Highness the Heavenly Crown Prince of Xianle, who sanctimoniously protected his people, and yet failed. You cannot escape my destiny. This plague is my legacy, born from the suffering of my countless people!”

Seeing Lang Ying’s figure before him, a flash of memory appeared in Wu Ming’s mind;

Staggering, Xie Lian pressed a hand to his bleeding neck, his once-white pristine robes now a tattered mess of blood and dirt. Cold sweat trickled down his trembling body until he finally collapsed to the ground.

Several metres in front of him, Lang Ying stood victorious, his armour covered in the scratches of battle. He raised his sword in triumph and was greeted with cheers by his Yong'an men.

At the sight of this sickening scene, Hong'er acted without hesitation. He ripped the sabre from its scabbard, leapt forward and charged, intent on a relentless attack against Lang Ying.

But Lang Ying’s heavy fist slammed into his chest, halting him in his tracks.

Hong'er refused to give up and attacked him again, but Lang Ying kneed his gut, sending him stumbling to the ground, where he began to lose consciousness.

“FINISH HIM!”

“THAT BRAT IS A PAIN IN THE ASS!”

“HE’S A THREAT TO US!”

“WHAT A MONSTER!!”

“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him! ...”

Hong'er hurriedly got up, and their swords clashed.

Then, a blade set to thrust right into his heart!

Hong'er fell, the blood gushed from his wound in torrents. He began to lose control of his breathing and his heartbeat was slowing down.

He felt his body being dragged, then kicked until he lay flat on his back, facing the sky.

The tip of Lang Ying’s sword plunged into his chest again.

Again and again.

Repeatedly.

But when the blows stopped, he only saw Xie Lian’s panicked, hysterical face, and both of his hands gently pressing down on his chest.

What a truly happy death... to fall with honour on the battlefield, defending your kingdom...

And to see you as I drew my final breath, I died with a smile...

The view instantly changed. The sky clouded over and the battleground became a palace hall, where Lang Ying sat feebly on a golden throne, his hands massaging the two faces plastered to his chest.

“Kill me. I welcome it. Death will free me, reunite me with them. Do it, Xie Lian. End me. You’ll only grant what I’ve craved!”

Xie Lian stood before him, and in a flash, he drew the black sword, plunging it into Lang Ying’s chest. He pulled it out, stabbed again, pulled it out, and stabbed again and again until the King of Yong'an was a wretched, unrecognisable corpse.

Wu Ming longed to quell the burning in his heart, to heal the deep wound within. He looked at Xie Lian, who was panting, his mind in turmoil.

Wu Ming approached him and said softly, “Dianxia… it is done.”

But then, he heard Xie Lian whisper his name faintly...

“Hong'er...”

“It seems you failed to reunite with your family, and instead of being freed, you are trapped here,” Wu Ming finally said.

The cavern around them, the mountain’s very belly, felt like a pressure cooker of unreleased memories.

“What do you think you know?” Lang Ying hissed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the stone. “I am not trapped here. I am here by my own will! I am the curse, and I will sacrifice you all to get my family back. You believe you can stop me? Just like him, you are naive, foolish, and weak!”

“Naive? Foolish? Weak?” Wu Ming retorted, the words sharp as splintered bone, “You speak of yourself! You are too blind with your hatred to see that you are the only one trapped here, in the prison you built for yourself. You can tear Xianle or the world to shreds...”

He clicked his tongue, “...but you will never find the peace you crave, because you refuse it! What good is ‘reunion’ if you only want to drag them into your darkness?”

“SILENCE!” Lang Ying screamed, a sound that cracked against the cavern walls like a falling stone, “You know nothing of my suffering!”

He lunged, his power not merely that of a common ghost, but the very essence of the plague itself. He fired a volley of putrid, festering energy orbs that gnawed at Wu Ming’s defensive barrier, eroding it in an instant.

“Don’t bother raising your family again,” Wu Ming called out as he dodged, his voice cutting through the swirling rot, “They’ll only kill themselves once they find out their patriarch has become such a foul creature.”

“YOU—” A guttural roar tore from Lang Ying’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury. The air around them curdled and became thick with a sickening stench.

“SHUT UP!” he shrieked, his form contorting with rage. He lunged at Wu Ming with a newfound ferocity, a living embodiment of the plague. He was no longer just attacking to win; he was attacking to utterly obliterate, to snuff out the voice that had dared to speak the unspeakable truth.

Wu Ming tried to retaliate, but every strike he launched was swallowed by Lang Ying’s aura of pestilence, consumed and converted into the very thing he fought against. He realised then that he could not fight the source of the epidemic with power born of the same source.

The barrier he had erected began to crack.

The children cowered, their whimpers rising, while Yinni clutched the little girl, her face pale.

The ghosts he had defeated were stirring back to life, their plague-ridden miasma growing stronger.

Wu Ming glanced at the terrified children huddling behind him, and a cold certainty settled in his being. He knew what he had to do; he couldn’t win this in a conventional manner. He faltered, his movements slowing as confusion and doubt clouded his mind under Lang Ying’s relentless assault.

The cursed king’s spectral claws raked the air, forcing Wu Ming to dodge and parry with waning strength, the spiritual barrier around the children flickering precariously.

From the shadows, The Sickness’ voice cut through the chaos, “You need a weapon to defeat him, young one.”

Gritting his teeth, Wu Ming deflected a vicious swipe from Lang Ying, his voice strained, “Then give it to me!”

The barrier shuddered as he braced against the impact, his resolve teetering.

The Sickness’s tone grew grave, “It’s not that simple. Lang Ying enacted this—trapping living children, spreading disease as a sacrifice for his family and legacy. To counter him, you must craft a weapon born of your own sacrifice!”

Its words hung heavy, a cruel riddle in the dim light.

“HA HA HA HA,” Lang Ying’s laughter boomed, a cacophony of tormented voices, “Do you have the stomach for it, boy? Your kind always crumbles under true cost.”

His attacks intensified, spectral tendrils coiling around Wu Ming, pinning him deeper into the fray.

The cave trembled, the children’s sobs mingling with the undead king’s mockery.

‘The Sickness’ continued his guidance, “The children behind you and the useless ghost lady, you could sacrifice any of them for your ultimate weapon.”

“Why must I sacrifice someone to defeat him?” Wu Ming demanded, his voice laced with frustration, “Can’t you simply help me vanquish him yourself!?” He instantly regretted the outburst, a chilling thought taking root in his mind; perhaps ‘The Sickness’ was not a mentor at all, but a disguised enemy playing a cruel game.

‘The Sickness’ simply shook his head. “I cannot,” he stated, and to prove his point, he threw a bolt of sickly energy towards Lang Ying.

The attack, however, was met not with resistance but absorption; its energy swirled into him, igniting a deeper glow within him.

“Nonsense!” Wu Ming scoffed, his initial fear turning to anger, “Did you not just bombard us with what you called ‘the aura of sickness’!?”

“Indeed,” ‘The Sickness’ replied, a hint of impatience in his voice, “My attack worked on you and that girl because you are young ghosts, still searching for the identities that will one day define you. But alas, my aura of sickness will not work on him. He is a ghost who embodies sickness and curses themselves. It would be the same as me feeding him.”

“THE FUCK!” Wu Ming cursed, the damn sickly ghost had thrown his bolt of sickly energy at Lang Ying, which meant he’d just made the matter worse by strengthening him.

Realising there was no other way, he began to fall into a deep contemplation.

Do I have to sacrifice them?

Trapped and battered, his memory raced back to Meizhou, amidst the ruined temple of Heavenly Martial Crown Prince.

When the riot erupted between the lost travellers and the locals afflicted with the human-faced disease.

When Xie Lian sat motionless upon the altar, and Bai Wuxiang cast the black sword into his lap.

When Bai Wuxiang returned to unleash the human-faced disease upon the locals in Lang'er Bay.

Wu Ming knew that Xie Lian would always sacrifice himself first, above all else.

His eyes locked with Lang Ying’s, then shifted to the children, and finally, in his mind’s eyes, he saw the face of the Crown Prince he so admired.

“You think I’ll do it?” Wu Ming let out a cold, mirthless chuckle, “...the sacrifice?” His voice cut through the cave’s oppressive air.

‘The Sickness’ responded with an icy tone, “It is a path you cannot evade.” His shadowy form loomed, unyielding in his decree.

Lang Ying’s mocking laughter echoed, “Of course you won’t, you weak Xianle whelp! What do your kind know of sacrifice? You can’t even fathom the price we paid for our triumph!” His spectral claws gleamed, poised to strike again.

Wu Ming’s eyes narrowed, a fierce retort rising. “Seems the rumours of Yong'an’s disdain for learning hold true... that a king like you can’t even distinguish ‘selflessness’ from ‘selfishness’!” His words stung, a challenge to the cursed monarch’s pride.

Lang Ying’s eyes now blazed with a murderous intent. The audacity of Wu Ming’s words, a direct insult to his people and his very legacy of Yong'an, fueled a burning rage within him. The urge to silence the boy forever was almost overwhelming, as he saw him plunge a hand toward his face.

Suddenly, Wu Ming did something that defied all reason and common sense.

With a soundless groan of agony, he gouged and yanked out his right eye.

The act froze the cave in stunned silence.

Yinni gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, tears welling. He was tearing himself apart for them… How could he bear that pain? Her heart ached, torn between admiration and horror at his sacrifice.

Blood poured freely from the wound, yet Wu Ming did not falter. He chewed his own eyeball, grinding it down with a horrifying, crunching sound as if it were his favourite street-side snack.

‘The Sickness’ recoiled, his hollow voice trembling, “That was gross but... impossible! To offer such a piece of his soul so readily?” That child defied all that he had ever seen! His form wavered, caught off guard by the depth of Wu Ming’s resolve.

Lang Ying staggered back, his multi-faced mask twisting in shock. A Xianle cur wielding such determination? This changes everything—the boy’s spirit burned brighter than he had anticipated! His laughter faltered, replaced by a flicker of unease.

Slowly, a radiant silver light began to emerge from between his lips. He pulled, slowly, and a long, slender, curved scimitar slid from his mouth, its surface gleaming with an ethereal light.

A weapon born of his own sacrifice, ready to face the cursed king.

The sword blazed with a light so brilliant it pained Lang Ying’s eyes.

Quicker than lightning, Wu Ming swung it, the blade cleaving through the ghosts and their plague-ridden miasma that Lang Ying had controlled, obliterating them in a single, fluid motion.

With every foe that fell, Wu Ming’s own energy surged, growing stronger.

“You’re indeed a king...” Wu Ming said, his voice a low, mocking hum, "...but you’re a pathetic one."

The air around him grew heavy with spiritual energy, and the very ground seemed to tremble under his feet. He gestured to the curved silver scimitar in his hand, its single, crimson eye-like jewel gleaming menacingly.

He raised the scimitar, letting the light catch its polished surface, “This is È-Mìng (厄命)... a fitting name, don’t you think?” His gaze darkens, a flicker of cold amusement in his eye, “It means ‘Disastrous Fate’ or ‘Misfortune’s Life’.”

Lang Ying scoffed, “How dramatic. You name your weapon after your own sorrow?”

“Sorrow?” Wu Ming laughed, a sharp, bitter sound, “No, this isn’t sorrow. This is a declaration. My entire existence has been a disaster. My life has been marked by misfortune, betrayal, and pain. I was born under a cursed star, abandoned and tormented.”

The crimson eye on the scimitar’s hilt blinked slowly, as if listening intently to its master.

“But I do not lament it,” he continued, his voice now a chilling whisper, “I embrace it. I wear my disastrous fate like a crown. E-Ming is not a name born of weakness, but of strength. It is a reminder that no matter what disaster fate throws at me, I will conquer it.”

“Body in the abyss... heart in paradise...”

“...and today, your fate is to become just another part of my long, disastrous journey.” With that, Wu Ming’s smirk returned, and with that sword in his hand, he advanced, his gaze fixed on the tragic, spectral form of Lang Ying that pulsed with a chilling aura of decay.

Lang Ying met him with a silent scream, a ripple of corrupt energy that turned the very air to dust.

Wu Ming deflected the attack, the scimitar’s polished surface glowing faintly as it absorbed the rot.

They lunged at one another, a silent dance of light against shadow, the desperate thrusts of Wu Ming’s blade met only by the evasive, sorrowful movements of his adversary. The air crackled between them, thick with the weight of ancient grievances.

Finally, with a decisive surge of power, Wu Ming charged, his feet kicking up dust as he drove forward. He raised his sabre high, the blade glowing with a blinding, purifying light, and with a single, furious slash, sent a wave of energy rippling through the air.

The blinding wave struck Lang Ying, not with the force of a weapon, but with the searing pain of absolute purity. It cleansed the diseases that clung to the air, scoured the very stone of the cavern, and at last, drove the tormented figure of Lang Ying from the cave in a final, agonised wail.

That was E-Ming, a weapon not born of hatred, but of love, sacrifice, and pure resolve.

The barrier shielding Yinni and the afflicted children vanished instantly, and with it, the grotesque wounds and diseases plaguing the children melted away.

The eldest boy blinked, his face lighting up with relief, a shaky smile breaking through. “We’re… free?” he whispered, his voice trembling with joy. The younger ones giggled, their frail bodies suddenly buoyant, clutching each other in disbelief and delight as the pain lifted.

Before they could fully rejoice, a blinding white flash seared their vision, followed by a deafening thunderclap that rattled their ears!

As the echoes subsided, the eldest boy cautiously opened his eyes.

Familiar fields stretched before him, and disbelief widened his gaze.

Blinking rapidly, he confirmed it, he was mere metres away standing at his home. With a cry of “A-NIANG!” he bolted forward.

A woman emerged from the doorway, tears streaming down her face as she swept her son into a warm embrace, her sobs mingling with laughter.

Elsewhere, the other children, too, found themselves reunited with their families, the air filled with the sound of joyful reunions.

Back in the cave, the blinding lightning dimmed, and Yinni’s vision cleared. Confusion washed over her as she found the sick children and Wu Ming gone. Turning to ‘The Sickness’, she demanded, “Where are they!? What happened to the children... and Wu Ming? They’re gone?!”

The Sickness’ hollow voice rasped, “Be not worry, the children have returned to their homes, restored to health. As for Wu Ming, he has been summoned by the Heavenly Emperor, his ascension to the divine realm is complete, earned by the sacrifice he offered.”

Yinni frowned, still puzzled.

The Sickness elaborated, “His act of gouging his eye, forging a weapon from his essence, transcended mortality. He has become a god, his spirit recognised by the heavens.”

Yinni fell silent, her heart feeling empty. Her enigmatic companion was now gone.

The Sickness’ voice, a dry whisper, continued, “There is no need to fret. On the contrary, if he has ascended and become a god, perhaps he will elevate you to become his deputy.”

“Deputy?” Yinni echoed, the word a fragile hope in the cavernous gloom, “Does that mean I would go to Heaven too?”

“Of course,” The Sickness replied, his tone almost glib, “...and that is far better than residing in this dark, damp cave, wouldn’t you agree?”

Suddenly, Yinni’s face brightened, filled with a hopeful light. She had been trapped here for so long... years, if Wu Ming’s words were to be believed. The prospect of freedom, of leaving this suffocating cave behind, was a sudden and intoxicating thought.

Meanwhile, Wu Ming felt his body lift, an ethereal lightness carrying him upward through swirling mists and vibrant clouds of gold and violet. He emerged onto a plane of soft clouds, where distant palaces of gold and jade gleamed under celestial light. Most would gape in wonder, transitioning from curiosity to awe, but Wu Ming’s expression remained composed, though a flicker of admiration danced in his single obsidian eye.

A majestic voice, resonant as if woven from a thousand stars, boomed, “The path you chose was the hardest, yet your endurance and sacrifice have been acknowledged by the Heavens. You are worthy of ‘ascension’, my child.”

Wu Ming turned toward the source, where a figure clad in pristine white armour approached, flanked by a retinue of radiant deities. Stepping forward, Wu Ming asked, “Where are the children?” And Yinni, he thought silently.

The armoured figure, the Heavenly Emperor Jun Wu, replied with a serene nod, “They have been returned to their families, restored and safe, their suffering ended.”

“Ascension...” Wu Ming murmured, his voice soft as he processed the Heavenly Emperor’s words. Relief washed over him—those lost children were safe, returned to their families, their suffering ended. To ascend as a god, like The Heavenly Crown Prince Xie Lian, should have been a crowning honour for an outcast like him, a boy once scorned and shunned since childhood. Yet, the thought gnawed at him; was it worth it now, without Xie Lian by his side? His single eye dimmed with doubt as he weighed the glory against the absence of the one he revered.

Lost in thought, Wu Ming’s gaze drifted to the deities flanking Jun Wu. One wore a striking ensemble of black and crimson, his elegant robes flowing with majestic grace, his high ponytail swaying like a banner of authority. The other donned earthy brown armour beneath a deep blue cloak, his stance steady and commanding.

Recognition struck Wu Ming like a blade—these were Xie Lian’s deputies from the Xianle civil war, now ascended as martial gods! His heart sank. These two, once Xie Lian’s loyal shadows, had risen to the heavens while Xie Lian wandered the mortal realm, lost and forsaken.

The irony stung—a bitter betrayal, especially from the black-and-crimson clad figure. Wu Ming’s cold stare settled on Feng Xin, then shifted to Mu Qing, a blaze of anger igniting within as memories of their treachery flooded back.

A dusty battlefield during the Xianle civil war. 

As a volunteer soldier, he faced Mu Qing in a sabre duel. The deputy’s blade danced with ruthless precision, battering him until he crumpled, blood staining the earth.

“The army doesn’t need trash like you!” 

“You have no talent at all!”

Words that echoed with the earlier insult before Xie Lian, where Mu Qing had branded him a liar in front of his revered prince, shattering his pride.

Then in the Crown Prince Summit, a grand hall of celestial marble, where Mu Qing clashed with Xie Lian in a heated duel.

“Your parents don’t deserve worship, they’re no different from corrupt royals, nothing more!”

The words had lashed Xie Lian, his face crumpling in anguish as the gathered gods murmured, the shame of his beloved family laid bare. Wu Ming, watching helplessly, felt the same wound reopen, Xie Lian’s broken spirit a mirror to his own despair.

He had seen it all. The ferocity Xie Lian had unleashed, a person of remarkable gentleness, had defended the kunze’s honour with a fury he never knew existed inside him, a furious outburst at the moment Lang Ying revealed his vile transgression against Mu Qing.

And he had the audacity to be so ungrateful!

Wu Ming’s fists clenched, his newly forged scimitar humming with suppressed rage. The honour of ascension paled against the sting of Mu Qing and Feng Xin’s self-serving rise, their abandonment of Xie Lian a wound that burned deeper than any battle scar.

Jun Wu’s voice thundered with regal benevolence, “Young warrior, your courage has stirred the heavens. You vanquished a supreme ghost with your own hands and saved innocent lives. The skies have chosen you. Your name shall be etched among the divine. You will become a martial god, a guardian against mortal plagues.” He extended the offer, his tone laden with praise.

A guardian against mortal plagues? The words echoed in Wu Ming’s mind, a subtle, discordant note in the grand fanfare. He was stunned, not by the sheer weight of the offer, but by a stinging, almost imperceptible undertone of insult. It wasn’t directed at him, not explicitly, but at a disgraced god—a fallen one who had failed to protect his followers from a calamity born of ‘plague’.

A ripple of hushed whispers swept through the Martial Hall;

“A martial god? Another one?” a voice murmured, barely audible over the clatter of silk robes.

“Isn’t that position already full?” another wondered aloud. The chatter grew bolder as speculation mounted.

“Will they have another martial god sharing a domain, like Xuan Zhen and Ju Yang?” The prospect was met with frowns from a number of officials, but none more so than Zhu An and Sun Wenyi. Their faces, already grim, darkened further.

“Perhaps he’ll share with Ming Guang in the North?” Sun Wenyi suggested, his voice low, yet hopeful, “That’s currently the largest unshared domain.” The silent, resentful tension from the two generals was palpable.

Ling Wen stepped forward, cupping her hands, her expression carefully neutral. “My Lord,” she began, her tone respectful yet firm, “Perhaps it would be more fitting to bestow upon him a rank as an elemental god? There are many vacant positions, such as the lord earth master or fire master as of now.”

But Jun Wu dismissed the suggestion with a regal wave of his hand. “No,” he declared, his voice firm, “The manner of his ascension, the power with which he fought, is not suited to an elemental god.”

“But surely,” Ling Wen countered politely, “...his ascension was similar to that of Lady Rain Master?”

A murmur rippled through the gathered gods, and Feng Xin chimed in, “That’s right, now that you mention it, their paths to ascension were both ‘sacrifices’.”

Jun Wu, however, was quick to dismiss the comparison. “No, it is different,” he insisted, “Lady Yushi made her sacrifice for her people without engaging in direct combat. This young man, on the other hand, endured a bitter struggle before he was made to sacrifice for his victory. A prestigious rank as a leading war god is perfect for him,” he turned to Wu Ming, “...such glory awaits you, young warrior.”

Wu Ming, however, saw no glory, only the figures before him. He knew this path, bound by heavenly rules and arrogance, was not his. The power that had transformed Xie Lian’s former deputies into their current selves held no appeal. “Do you truly believe me worthy?” he asked, his voice icy, rejecting the honour outright.

Jun Wu smiled, undeterred, “Your strength and sacrifice are extraordinary. You are worthy. What name shall you take?”

Wu Ming lifted his head, his gaze unflinching, “I desire no name.” He longed only to emulate the Xianle Heavenly Crown Prince he knew; loyal, selfless. The only way to honour that ideal was to refuse. He bowed, not in reverence, but in resolve, “...and I will not ascend.”

A stunned silence gripped the Martial Hall. The assembled gods stared, incredulous that anyone would spurn the Heavenly Emperor’s offer.

Liang Wei stepped forward, his tone dripping with disdain, “You reject the Heavenly Emperor’s grace? Do you not grasp this honour’s worth? Millions would kneel for a mere moment here.”

Wu Ming ignored him, his focus solely on Jun Wu, “I slew that ghost and saved those humans not for divinity. I did it inspired by one far nobler than any god...” His words hung heavy, a challenge to the celestial order.

Liang Wei’s eyes widened, but Feng Xin, ever blunt, interjected, “Who do you mean? Is there a god mightier than The Heavenly Emperor?”

“He is no longer a god,” Wu Ming glared at him, yet his voice thick with reverence and sorrow, “He fell. Yet even in ruin, he shone as a beacon in darkness. He alone cared for the common folk, even when they betrayed him.”

Feng Xin and Mu Qing froze on the spot, the nameless newborn god’s words striking them silent. The fallen god he spoke of truly reminded them of someone they once knew—the martial god and crown prince they had once served.

Now that they thought about it, the nameless youth’s accent was of central Xianle, the same as their own. Could he be someone they knew from the past? Or was he simply a former citizen of Xianle who was once a devout follower of the Heavenly Crown Prince Xie Lian?

The air thickened with tension. Zhu An, who had listened with a faint smile, stepped forward, his haughty presence filling the void. “Young one,” his smile faded, eyes cold, “...do not let your misfortunes sway you to folly.”

Wu Ming met his gaze, his voice steady, “It is because I know misfortune can change that I won’t kneel here. I recall someone once said the Heavenly Crown Prince’s presence brought ill fate, disrupting some minor gods’ cultivation, driving him out. But what followed? You all saw, he bore that suffering alone. The ill fate was yours, not his, for rejecting him.”

Zhu An’s face froze, his smile collapsing into shame and rage, as he fully understood the insult was meant for him.

Feng Xin, initially puzzled, suddenly recalled with a jolt. So what Ling Wen once told him about what Zhu An did to Xie Lian was true… His inner realisation deepened the hall’s unease, the weight of Wu Ming’s words echoing among the divine. His gaze shifted to Mu Qing, and he remembered the kunze involvement in driving out Xie Lian. He wondered if there was any change in his expression, any hint of guilt on his face now, but all he caught was a pair of cold, unreadable stares that only pissed him off.

Zhu An’s lips curled into a sneer, “So this is about the Xianle Crown Prince? That misfortune god with his unlucky aura? He was a disgrace to heaven and earth! I never thought a fool like you would still revere him.”

Wu Ming met Zhu An’s gaze, his expression laced with biting sarcasm, “Fascinating how ‘wise’ gods still cling to a man’s unlucky aura, as if it could taint your grand cultivation.” He then cast a sharp look at Mu Qing, a movement that did not escape Feng Xin’s attention.

Zhu An’s face darkened with rage, the nameless youth’s words struck like a whip, challenging his pride. But before he could retort, Jun Wu raised a hand, his gesture silencing the hall.

“That’s enough,” he commanded, his voice calm yet heavy with authority. His weary, wise eyes settled on Wu Ming, “We should not judge one who has borne a tragic fate. The Xianle Crown Prince had a noble heart, but he strayed. His naivety led him to defy a destiny even gods cannot alter.”

Wu Ming stood firm, his voice a sharp whisper brimming with conviction, “Perhaps he never sought to defy destiny. He only did what was right. Maybe the fault lies not in his path, but in the destiny itself.” His words hung, a quiet rebellion that shifted Jun Wu’s thoughtful gaze, hinting at an unspoken understanding.

Wu Ming’s young face, now etched with cold despair, turned to the Heavenly Emperor, “Is a destiny imposed by others truly fate? Is it just to blame fate on one betrayed and abandoned?” His voice faded to a near-breath, carrying the weight of his pain.

“...”

Jun Wu fell silent, a flicker of disappointment crossing his eyes. He had glimpsed immense potential in Wu Ming, yet the youth chose to cling to the past, obsessed with a deity who had self-destructed.

Ignoring the tension, Wu Ming stared ahead, “I reject your offer. I will return to the mortal realm. My purpose is one—to find him and protect him, no matter the cost, and to become stronger than any god. I will be his shadow, his sword, his shield.”

With those words, Wu Ming cast himself downward, plummeting back to the mortal realm.

The Martial Hall fell into stunned silence, the gods frozen as Jun Wu gazed at the empty golden lotus platform where Wu Ming had stood, his expression a mix of suppressed anger and regret.

Because deep within, Jun Wu harboured a secret motive; Wu Ming’s ascension was meant to avert a new calamity. A ghost king born of such deep obsession and devotion could threaten the heavenly order, challenging Jun Wu’s supremacy in ways he could not foresee.

And just as Sun Wenyi had hoped, Jun Wu intended to place the youth in the northern domain alongside Pei Ming, to contain the ever-growing power of the Xuli general.

...

..

.

Back in the cave, Yinni paced restlessly beside ‘The Sickness’, her eyes alight with excitement at the prospect of becoming a graceful deputy goddess, a dream she clung to despite her lowly ghost status.

Suddenly, the cave’s ceiling crumbled with a deafening roar, dust and debris choking the air. Both coughed as the haze settled, revealing Wu Ming brushing dirt from his tattered robes.

Yinni rushed toward him, beaming. “How did it go? Can I come with you?” she asked eagerly.

Without warning, Wu Ming shoved her back with a rough hand, drawing E-Ming from its sheath in a flash. With a single, precise swing, he severed the spectral chains binding her wrists.

Yinni bristled at first, but as understanding dawned; her newfound freedom—her eyes sparkled with gratitude.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice softening.

‘The Sickness’ let out a low, mocking laugh, drawing their attention, “You refused it? Most unusual.” It needed no explanation; he sensed the fleeting heavenly energy that had touched Wu Ming, now vanished.

Yinni frowned, confused, “Refused what?”

A rare, satisfied smile curved The Sickness’ lips. “Intriguing...” he whispered, his voice like a wind from the grave, “You’ve returned. That means you shunned the easy path.”

“The easy path is an illusion,” Wu Ming replied coldly, “They’re all deceivers. I’ll never be part of such a place.”

‘The Sickness’ nodded slowly, his hollowed eyes narrowing, “I knew it from the start. Your spirit doesn’t stem from heaven, but from the earth, from dust, from suffering.”

Yinni’s confusion cleared as she grasped Wu Ming’s rejection of ascension. Frustration flared, and she pummelled his shoulders. “Why did you refuse?!” she cried, her voice pouty, “I thought you’d bring me there! I wanted to see Heaven too, you know!”

Wu Ming floundered, caught off guard, but once he regained his composure, he simply rolled his eyes. “It’s boring. There’s nothing there,” he said flatly.

“LIAR!” she cried, her voice cracking with fury.

A condescending smirk touched his lips. “Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed, “Even if I’d ascended, I wouldn’t have made you my deputy.”

Yinni’s face flushed with betrayal and shame, her mouth opened to cry out, “YOU—” but before the word could escape, ‘The Sickness’ cut their argument short with a sneer, “...yet this piques my curiosity, youth. You rejected divinity, what do you seek?”

“I want to become stronger than any god,” Wu Ming declared, “A shield for the one I cherish. For that, I need more power.”

“Who is it you cherish?” Yinni asked, her voice filled with curiosity, but Wu Ming simply ignored her.

The Sickness chuckled—not in disappointment, but in admiration, “Excellent. You’re in the right place. The path you’ve chosen is that of the broken, not the ‘saved.’ Since you’ve embraced my way, I’ll grant you a final gift.”

He lightly coughed and continued, “The Sickness isn’t my name. I am Wáng Jiànjìng (王健淨), a deputy general from an age long past, from a kingdom erased from history.” He glanced at Yinni, then back to Wu Ming, “I was the first to refuse death, becoming a wandering spirit. But I can’t sustain this state forever, for I need release from my torment.”

Wang Jianjing’s gaze locked on Wu Ming, “I’m done. My purpose ends here... and yours begins.” Suddenly, his form cracked and shattered—not from pain, but from liberation. His body dissolved into glittering sand, merging with the cave’s stones.

As the last grains of sand settled, a sudden jolt shook the cavern, sending Yinni stumbling against Wu Ming. Yinni instinctively grabbed for him, her voice frightened, “Is that… is it an earthquake!?”

Where Wang Jianjing stood, a mound rose, growing from a small heap... to a hill... then a miniature mountain, leaving a single corridor as the only path forward.

“He’s gone…” Yinni murmured, releasing her grip on Wu Ming, her eyes wide with awe.

“He’s given us a way,” Wu Ming said, staring at the corridor. “A path ahead. Go, Yinni! You don’t have to follow me.”

Yinni scoffed, “Oh, that’s rich! Just like that? After all the trouble I’ve gotten into with you, only to end up missing out on Heaven, you think I’d just walk away!?” She shook her head vehemently, “I’m not leaving you. I want to see what happens. And I still want to know why I’m not a deputy god!”

Wu Ming sighed, relenting.

Together, they ventured into the corridor.

The deeper they went, the more moss and creeping vines adorned the walls. The air grew damp, carrying the earthy scent of wet soil.

At the corridor’s end loomed a massive stone pillar gate etched with ancient carvings. A few paces ahead stood a mysterious hunched figure, leaning on a staff, awaiting their arrival.

As Jun Wu dismissed the deities from the Great Martial Hall, Feng Xin wandered the ethereal corridors, his mind churning.

Who was that brash youth who dared reject ascension?

He had caught the boy’s glare, laden with anger and resentment toward him and Mu Qing. 

Did Mu Qing recognise him?

Feng Xin pondered, his steps aimless. More than a decade of cold silence had passed between them, their exchanges limited to formalities or professional necessity. Yet, the question gnawed at him, urging him to seek answers.

Lost in thought, Feng Xin jolted as a mellow voice called from behind.

“Feng Xin...”

He turned, startled, to see Mu Qing approaching, his robes swaying gracefully.

Mu Qing’s gaze was steady, “That nameless boy... Do you know him?”

So, this was troubling him too...

Feng Xin, regaining his composure, adopted a formal tone, “I don’t know, and even if I did, I don’t recall.” He paused, then added with a hint of intrigue, “But one thing stands out—he knew His Highness.”

Mu Qing let out a cold chuckle, folding his arms, “Knew him? That’s an understatement. He’s more like an obsessive devotee—a creep.”

Feng Xin fell silent, his brow furrowing as he processed this. Shifting the topic, he said, “By the way, that youth mentioned the Crown Prince Summit.”

Mu Qing’s smug expression tightened instantly.

Feng Xin’s face grew judgmental, “Is it true you, Zhu An, and the others drove His Highness out that day?”

Mu Qing felt his heart stop.

After over a decade of silence, this was the brunette’s first topic?

He dropped his arms, his stance challenging, “What do you think?”

Feng Xin cut straight to the point, “Seriously? Why would you do that?”

“It’s none of your business!” Mu Qing snapped.

Feng Xin’s frustration boiled, Mu Qing’s repeated dismissal, especially on a matter involving Xie Lian, was intolerable. He was his former bodyguard, so obviously this was his business too! Hesitant at first to mention the letter Shen Shen had hinted at, Feng Xin pressed on, seeing Mu Qing’s uncooperative stance, “Is it tied to… that letter? The one you gave His Highness before driving him out?”

Mu Qing’s anger flared, though controlled, “Letter? How do you know about that?”

“From Shen Shen,” Feng Xin replied bluntly.

Mu Qing laughed derisively, “Zhu An’s deputy? They’ve clearly poisoned you…” His irritation grew, knowing Feng Xin’s occasional closeness with Zhu An’s circle, his bullies.

Feng Xin faltered, doubting the letter’s existence. He pressed harder, “Answer me, Mu Qing! Did you give him a letter and then exile him?”

Mu Qing stepped close, his voice a defiant challenge, “Yes, I did. So what!?”

The air crackled with tension, Feng Xin’s eyes narrowing as Mu Qing’s admission hung between them, a gateway to buried truths.

Feng Xin pressed on, his voice firm, “I understand Zhu An and the others exiling Xie Lian over cultivation concerns, but you… we knew His Highness far longer! His kindness, his sincerity, how he lifted you from the squalor of those narrow alleys—”

Mu Qing’s fists clenched, his teeth grinding as he cut in, fury blazing, “After his parents plunged us into poverty and disgrace, sacrificing my father and driving us out, stealing my father’s hard-earned wealth to hand it to that clueless prince born of his mother’s scandal!” His voice trembled with rage, each word a dagger.

“MU—” Feng Xin recoiled, stunned by Mu Qing’s outburst. The mention of ‘prince’ and the venomous insult sparked his own anger, but realisation dawned—Mu Qing meant Prince Xiao Jing, Xie Lian’s cousin.

Softening, he asked, “Is… is all that true? Where did you get such ideas?” He paused, then added, “...does it tie to that letter?”

Mu Qing scoffed sharply, “Figure it out yourself!” He snapped, turning to leave. But Feng Xin, determined not to lose this chance to uncover the truth, grabbed his arm.

“Explain! Is it linked to that letter?” His tone was insistent.

Mu Qing yanked his arm free with a harsh jerk, “And if it is, what of it??”

“Where is that letter now!?” Feng Xin demanded, “What was written? Who gave it to you?”

Mu Qing sneered, “Tch, I gave it to Xie Lian. He needed the truth... and a memento to remember his mother.” With that, he stormed off, and this time Feng Xin couldn’t stop him, only shouting after him in vain.

“MU QING!”

“...”

Feng Xin stood frozen, the weight of Mu Qing’s words sinking in. At last, he realised the only path to pierce this mystery’s veil was to find Xie Lian himself.

^|> 

A/N:

The flashback with Xie Lian that Hua Cheng remembered was in chapters 16 and 32 of ‘Loss of History ’, and the flashback with Mu Qing was in chapters 12 and 39 of ‘Loss of History ’.

The scene where Hua Cheng gouged out his eyes and devoured it is a reference to the infamous lore of Xiahou Dun based on Luo Guanzhong’s novel; ‘Romance of the Three Kingdoms’.

P.S.:

RIP Alan Yu (Yu Menglong) and justice for him 🤲🏻

Chapter Text

^|>

Across a rolling hillside, where lush green grass swayed, dotted with wildflowers and alive with the dance of butterflies, dragonflies, and buzzing insects, a zither’s melody wove through the air, a gentle harmony guiding the rhythm of nature.

A young man approached, clad in worn maroon hemp robes, tattered with small tears and rough patches, his hair combed back and partially braided into a high ponytail. He bowed respectfully, cupping his hands, “Master, forgive my interruption of your playing. I have a question to ask,” he said with polite deference.

Mei Nianqing paused his zither, clearing his throat. His beard had grown slightly longer since last seen, though not a single wrinkle marred his ageless face, his high-collared robes concealing most of his neck. With a gesture, he invited the youth to sit, “Speak. What do you wish to ask?”

“Master, permit me to inquire,” the youth began, his tone earnest, “After years of meditation and inner qi cultivation, I still ponder one thing. In our teachings, what is the ultimate measure of wisdom and success in cultivation? Is it attaining Immortality and ascending to the Heavenly Realm, earning a name among the gods?”

“A fine question, Wēn Dí (温迪)...” Mei Nianqing removed his nail guards, placing them beside the zither, and fixed his disciple with eyes honed by millennia of experience, “It’s a natural ambition for any cultivator. On the surface, yes—Immortality and a place in Heaven are deemed the highest achievements. The world sees it so. But true wisdom… lies in a deeper choice.”

Wen Di raised an eyebrow, “A choice, Master?”

Mei Nianqing rose, stepping toward the hillside with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Ask yourself; does glory lie in the rank you attain, or in the integrity you uphold?” He paused, gazing at the horizon, “A few days ago, Heaven witnessed a rare event. A youth, fresh from the torment of Mount Tonglu, was summoned by the Heavenly Emperor himself to claim a place as a new martial god.”

“What?!” Wen Di leapt up, closing the distance to Mei Nianqing, his face a mix of shock and fascination, “Invited directly? That’s an honour beyond precedent!”

Mei Nianqing turned slightly, nodding gravely, “Indeed. This youth displayed unimaginable sacrifice, vanquishing a horrific curse’s manifestation. Yet before the throne, he refused. He spurned immortality, a divine name, and godly status. He returned to the mortal world, back to the mountain’s darkness.”

Wen Di frowned, perplexed, “Why would he refuse, Master? Was he unworthy, or fearful of the responsibility?”

“No, Wen Di. Quite the opposite. He refused because he deemed himself ‘more’ than that place,” Mei Nianqing stroked his beard thoughtfully, “He saw impurity among the ruling gods—betrayal and selfishness. He realised his purpose wasn’t a heavenly title, but to be an unbreakable shield for one he cherishes. He rejected the highest honour for unrivalled loyalty.”

Mei Nianqing fully faced his disciple, his voice lowering with profound weight, “The true aim of cultivation is to forge a soul into untainted gold, impervious to greed, power, or vanity. That youth proved the ultimate measure isn’t residing in Heaven, but preserving a pure conscience and resolve—even if it means defying the most coveted fate. Wisdom is knowing what to reject.”

Wen Di cupped his hands and bowed deeply, his eyes now alight with newfound understanding, “This disciple comprehends, Master. True success lies in the inner strength to forsake glory for principle and a greater purpose. I will hold this lesson dear.”

Mei Nianqing patted his shoulder approvingly, “Good. Now go. A balanced energy and soul require a strong body. Don’t neglect your schedule.”

“Yes, Master. This disciple bids farewell to train his body. Until we meet again,” Wen Di turned and departed, his steps purposeful toward the training grounds.

No sooner had Wen Di departed than Mei Nianqing sat alone, the zither’s silence settling over the hillside. Within, a quiet turmoil stirred. He had failed to guide Xie Lian aright, for he was late in teaching him the harsh realities of the world. This time, he hoped not to falter with Wen Di. Yet, a shadow of concern lingered—external influences might sway the youth, and that could unravel all his efforts…

His reverie broke as a middle-aged woman approached, her shabby red cloak fluttering in the breeze. She bowed slightly, her voice tinged with hope, “Master, how is my son?” she asked.

Mei Nianqing regarded her with a measured nod, “Your son progresses steadily, his wisdom blossoming with each passing day,” he replied, his tone reassuring.

The woman smiled, a flicker of pride lighting her weary face, but it soon faded into worry. Memories surfaced of Mei Nianqing’s words at Wen Di’s birth...

In a dimly lit room, its walls lined with rough-hewn timber, she cradled her newborn son, her face etched with the exhaustion of labour.

Mei Nianqing, standing by her side, his voice solemn, had spoken, “Wen Ruodong, your late husband, through his progeny will carry a clan destined for the highest glory, yet it shall be the first to fall. To avert this, I will take Wen Di as my disciple, to forge a path against this prophecy.”

“You promised to shield my lineage from ruin. Reassure me, Master,” she pressed, her eyes searching for him for certainty.

Mei Nianqing inclined his head, “I affirm my vow, Wen Xiang. I strive to mould Wen Di with integrity,” yet, a warning followed, “...but I perceive a flaw... you, his mother, harbour grand ambitions for your family and clan’s resurgence. Such desires may yet sway him from the path I set.” He took a few steps forward, then paused, turning back to face her once more, “...And one more thing; cease attempting to use Zhangsun Miao for your own schemes.”

He offered a nod, a slight flick of his wide sleeve, a final gesture of dismissal, before departing. “Pardon me, I must attend to a personal need,” he said, stepping away to relieve himself.

“...”

Left alone, Wen Xiang stood silent, her mind adrift.

A deep-seated grudge simmered within her, a resentment toward Zhao Gao, who had betrayed her husband, her family, and brought the Wen clan to its knees. Her thoughts darkened, the weight of her past fuelling a resolve she could scarcely suppress.

The cave where Wu Ming and Yinni currently stood was much more expansive, filled with deep green moss that glowed faintly. However, the only way forward was blocked by a low stone bench, upon which an old man sat.

The old man possessed a unique appearance; long, unruly white hair, a beard that hung like the roots of an ancient tree, and eyes that showed the depth of history—they looked like a pair of black marbles that had seen a thousand years pass. His attire was nothing more than a shabby, dull green hemp robe with a pair of drab, earthy brown trousers beneath it.

“Welcome, young ones,” the old man greeted them, his voice dry as autumn leaves, “You’re looking for the way out, are you? It’s simple. All I require are your names.”

Yinni, ever reckless, immediately answered with enthusiasm, “My name is Yinni! May I pass now, Grandpa?”

The old man offered a slight smile, nodded, and waved a hand to the side, “Go on, little girl. Your path is clear.”

Yinni was surprised by the ease of it, but she didn’t wait. She stepped around the old man and looked back at Wu Ming.

Now it was Wu Ming’s turn. He stepped forward, gripping the hilt of his scimitar, E-Ming, which was forged from his own eye, “I am Wu Ming.”

The old man nodded again, seeming satisfied. He was about to allow Wu Ming to pass, yet just before Wu Ming took a step, he suddenly winced, as if only just now realising something.

He extended his wooden staff, the shaft easily stopping Wu Ming’s shoulder from advancing.

“Hold on, boy,” the old man said, his tone shifting to one of full scrutiny, “I asked for your name. Not a description of yourself.”

“‘Wu Ming is my name,” Wu Ming replied, a flicker of annoyance in his voice.

The old man laughed, a sound like a dry cough. “Nonsense! ‘Wu Ming’ means ‘nameless’.^[34] I cannot allow an entity without a name to pass me. Why have you no name?”

“A name is not important,” Wu Ming returned coldly, “It is just words. Power is what matters.”

“Oh, it’s very important!” the old man stood up, swinging his staff in the air, “A name is history. A name is destiny. If you have no name, you have no past, and you have no future! So, tell me. Who are you?”

Wu Ming glared, “If you want me to answer your question, then tell me your name. I will not tell a nameless person who I am.”

The old man jumped with delight, “I have a name!” He then pointed his wrinkly finger at Wu Ming, “...but I won’t tell you until you answer mine! You stubborn boy!”

Out of sudden, The Old Man moved with a terrifying speed that utterly contradicted his aged appearance.

Wu Ming drew E-Ming, and the silver blade hummed, radiating a light that sliced the darkness.

They exchanged blows in a flash. The Old Man deftly used his staff, every attack aimed to merely touch E-Ming, not to destroy it, but to test it.

“Beautiful!” The Old Man cried amidst the fighting, his eyes gleaming with interest. “This scimitar blade of yours is splendid! I can feel it’s made of your pure misery... Tell me, what is its name?”

“E-Ming!” Wu Ming answered, swinging the sabre with full force, clearly proud of the name he had given it.

At that moment, The Old Man made an unexpected move. His staff spun, not to parry, but to wrap around Wu Ming’s arm, and in a heartbeat, he effortlessly wrenched E-Ming from Wu Ming’s grasp.

For a flicker of a second, Wu Ming was frozen, his mind reeling from the sheer, incomprehensible speed of The Old Man’s counter. Before he could react further, The Old Man shoved the staff into his stomach, driving the breath from his lungs and sending him sprawling onto the ground.

The Old Man then tread down on Wu Ming’s back, pressing him firmly against the dust and sand of the ground, all while holding the precious scimitar.

“How is it you thought to name your weapon when you yourself have no name?” The Old Man asked, fixing E-Ming with a judgemental stare.

The scimitar’s single red eye glared defiantly back at him.

The Old Man’s eyes widened, a sudden flicker of understanding crossing his face as his gaze settled on the scarlet orb embedded in the blade’s hilt.

“AH!” he grinned, his voice now laced with profound awe. “This is no ordinary blade. This weapon was forged by sacrifice—I know that eye. Tell me, boy,” he continued, a deep furrow in his brow, “...why did you choose that uniquely beautiful eye? Why not your common black one?”

Wu Ming remained silent, but internally, a wave of cold resentment rose. Beautiful? All his life, that unique scarlet eye had been seen as nothing but a curse and a harbinger of misfortune. It was the source of countless instances of inhumane treatment he received.

The hatred for that eye was ingrained deep within his bones.... Of course he hated it.

Yet, he couldn’t lie to his own heart. A strange, profound warmth stirred within him. This was the first time anyone had ever praised his red eye instead of condemning it—a startling compliment, even if it had been delivered by the mouth of this insufferably annoying old man.

Wu Ming momentarily wondered; if Xie Lian were to see it, would he offer praise too? He had always kept the eye deliberately concealed beneath his bandages.

The elder shattered his momentary reverie, “Well... You grant history to your sword, yet you deny your own. A name is a foundation. Without a foundation, even a scimitar as powerful as this will lose its way!”

Wu Ming tried to rise, attempting to reclaim his weapon, but The Old Man drew a long breath, and the entire cave suddenly felt heavy, as if a thousand years had settled upon Wu Ming.

The Old Man tossed E-Ming back near him and said, “I will teach you what time and history are. Before I teach you how to live eternally, you must possess an eternal identity. You must have a name.”

He then lifted his foot, releasing the pressure that had been pinning Wu Ming’s back to the stone floor.

Wu Ming rose, clutching E-Ming tightly, its cold, silver blade humming faintly in his grip, as though it sensed the gravity of the moment.

The Old Man’s eyes, those ancient black marbles, seemed to pierce through Wu Ming’s very soul, searching for something that wasn’t there... or perhaps something Wu Ming had long buried.

Yinni, who had been watching from a safe distance, shuffled forward nervously. “Um, Grandpa...” she said, her voice trembling slightly, “...why does it matter so much? Names are just… Well, names! Can’t we just pass through? We’re in a bit of a rush, you know.”

The Old Man’s gaze flicked to her, softening for a moment, like sunlight breaking through a storm. “Dear girl,” he said, his voice now a low rustle, “...a name is not just a word. It’s a tether to the world. It’s the story you carry, the mark you leave. Without it, you’re a shadow, drifting through time, unclaimed by fate.”

He turned back to Wu Ming, his expression hardening, “This one here, he rejects his tether. And that makes him dangerous.”

Wu Ming’s jaw tightened, “I’ve survived without a name. I don’t need one to keep going.”

The Old Man chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone, “Survived, yes. But living? That’s another matter entirely. You’re strong, boy. That scimitar of yours sings with power. But strength without purpose is like a river with no banks—it spills everywhere, destroys everything, and goes nowhere.”

Wu Ming’s grip on E-Ming tightened, his knuckles whitening, “Enough riddles. If you won’t let me pass, then fight me properly. No tricks!”

The Old Man scoffed, a dry, rattling sound that was more of a wheeze than a laugh. He leaned heavily on his staff, his eyes twinkling with disdain.

“Fight you properly? Didn’t you just lose to me, boy? Even with that fancy blade of yours—E-Ming, right? You couldn’t beat my old, worn-out stick!” he cackled, tapping the wooden shaft against the rock floor with insulting slowness. “You challenge me? Such youthful arrogance!”

Wu Ming’s jaw clenched. The humiliation stung, but the sheer absurdity of The Old Man’s claim, that he had ‘lost’ to a walking stick, ignited a cold fury in his chest. “I lost nothing,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low, “Your distraction was a dirty trick, and you know it. State your terms, or move aside!”

The Old Man raised an eyebrow, clearly amused with the boy’s reaction. “A duel, is it? Very well. But not with blades. I propose a different kind of challenge,” he tapped his staff lightly on the moss-covered ground, and the cave rumbled softly. The glowing moss pulsed brighter, casting eerie shadows that danced like spectres on the walls.

“A test of truth. Answer me this; what is the one thing you fear most?”

Yinni gasped, her eyes wide, “That’s not fair! You can’t just ask something like that!”

The Old Man ignored her, his gaze locked on Wu Ming, “Speak, nameless one. Tell me your fear, and I’ll let you pass. Lie, and you’ll stay here… forever.”

Wu Ming’s expression remained cold, but a flicker of unease passed through his dark eye. He opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. The cave seemed to hold its breath, the air growing heavier still. E-Ming’s hum grew louder, almost like a warning.

“I fear nothing,” Wu Ming said finally, his voice steady but laced with defiance.

The Old Man’s smile vanished. He raised his staff, and the cave shook violently. The moss dimmed, and a chilling wind swept through the chamber, carrying whispers of voices long forgotten.

“LIAR,” The Old Man said, his voice now a thunderous growl, “You fear something. Everyone does. Even the nameless carry burdens!”

Frightened by the sudden chaos, Yinni scrambled for stability, finally sinking onto the floor and clinging tightly to the worn stone bench The Old Man had vacated before.

Wu Ming took a step back, his hand instinctively moving to E-Ming’s hilt, “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, but I do,” The Old Man replied, his eyes glinting with something ancient and knowing.

“I’ve seen a thousand souls like you—lost, unmoored, running from their own shadows. You fear being known. You fear the weight of a name because it would bind you to a past you’ve tried to erase.”

Yinni, trembling now, rose and tugged at Wu Ming’s sleeve, “Just tell him something! Anything! We need to get out of here!”

But Wu Ming remained silent, his gaze locked with The Old Man’s. The air crackled with tension, as if the cave itself were waiting for his response.

“...”

The silence was not empty...

It was a physical, crushing weight that squeezed the air from his lungs, yet he would not yield...

The Old Man spoke of shadows and cowardice, but Wu Ming’s true terror was not the common human fear of disgrace, nor the cold certainty of death or ruin. His terror had a face; a desolate, crimson-stained, tormented face.

It was the crushing memory of Xie Lian, and the relentless, brutal cascade of misfortune that had systematically stripped away his divinity and sanity, driving him into the abyss of the dark side.

To accept a name given by this ancient entity was to risk binding himself again to fate, to allow destiny another lever to crush what little he had salvaged. He needed an identity free from that calamitous past. He needed his own definition.

Finally, Wu Ming spoke, his voice low and deliberate, “If I must have a name, then let it be one I choose. Not one given by someone else. Not by you, not by anyone.”

The Old Man tilted his head, intrigued, “A bold answer. But choosing a name is no small thing. It’s a vow to the world, a promise to yourself. Are you ready to make that vow?”

Wu Ming’s eye narrowed, “Try me.”

The Old Man grinned, his jagged teeth glinting in the dim light, “Very well, boy. I’ll give you a chance to prove it. Beyond this cave lies a trial—a place where names are forged in fire and shadow. Survive the trial, and you may claim a name worthy of your strength. Fail, and you’ll remain Wu Ming forever—a ghost without a story.”

He stepped aside, gesturing to the dark tunnel ahead. The moss parted, revealing a path that seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

Yinni hesitated, glancing at Wu Ming, “Are we… really going in there?”

Wu Ming didn’t answer. He sheathed E-Ming and strode forward, his steps resolute. Yinni scurried after him, casting a wary glance at the old man, who watched them go with a knowing smile.

As they disappeared into the tunnel, The Old Man’s voice echoed behind them, soft but piercing, “Choose wisely, nameless one. A name is a heavy thing to carry… but heavier still to live without.”

The tunnel stretched endlessly before Wu Ming and Yinni, its walls shimmering with veins of crimson crystal that pulsed like a heartbeat. The air was thick with a strange, floral scent. It was sweet yet sharp, like blood mixed with jasmine.

Wu Ming’s hand rested on E-Ming’s hilt, the scimitar’s low hum a constant reminder of the danger lurking ahead.

Yinni clung close, her usual chatter subdued by the oppressive atmosphere. “Do you think the old man was serious?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the faint dripping of water somewhere in the distance, “...about the trial… and the name thing?”

Wu Ming felt a surge of genuine confusion. Why had she ended up following him into this trial? He frowned, “Why did you come in? Didn’t the old man already give you permission to pass?”

Yinni’s face tightened, a look of hurt rejection flashing across her features. “Just instinct!” She snapped, “It all happened so quickly... I got confused.”

Wu Ming let out a short, dismissive snort, “Fine, then, just try your best not to be a burden!”

Yinni nodded but pouted visibly.

Wu Ming scanned the tunnel, every shadow a potential threat.

The tunnel opened into a desolate cavern, its jagged walls streaked with frost and illuminated by a faint, icy glow. The air was bitter, carrying a metallic tang that prickled Wu Ming’s senses.

At the cavern’s heart stood a cluster of snow chrysanthemums, their delicate white petals shimmering like fresh snowfall, rooted in a frozen pool that gleamed crimson under the dim light. The flowers stood defiant against the cold, their beauty stark and unyielding.

Shivering, Yinni moved closer to Wu Ming. “Those flowers… they’re gorgeous, but this place gives me the creeps,” she muttered, her voice hushed, oblivious to the deeper significance of the flowers. To her, it was just a strange plant in a stranger place.

Wu Ming didn’t answer. His hand rested on E-Ming’s hilt, the scimitar humming with anticipation.

The old man’s words echoed in his mind;

“...choosing a name is no small thing. It’s a vow to the world, a promise to yourself.”

He’d never cared for names, but the sight of the snow chrysanthemums stirred something deep within him—a memory of sacrifice, of a figure in white who’d once stood against a tide of despair.

“Survive the trial, and you may claim a name worthy of your strength.”

He felt the weight of it, the challenge to become something more than a nameless ghost. But what was this trial?

The answer came with a guttural roar. From the horizon, a horde of zombies surged forward—rotting soldiers clad in tattered armour, their eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Their flesh hung in strips, their weapons rusted but deadly, and their numbers seemed endless, a tide of death that churned the ground into mud. The air grew thick with a sickly red mist, as if the earth itself were bleeding.

Yinni yelped, scrambling behind Wu Ming as he strode forward to stand with his back to the flowers.

“What are those things? They’re disgusting! Are you supposed to fight all of them?”

The zombie soldiers were clad in a gruesome patchwork of armour from disparate factions, Wu Ming recognised some as belonging to the armies of Yong'an, Xianle, and Xuli.

“The cursed remnants,” Wu Ming said coldly, drawing E-Ming, its silver blade singing as it caught the light, eager for battle. “Stay behind me, Yinni!”

The zombies surged forward, their movements jerky but relentless, aiming not for Wu Ming but for the snow chrysanthemums.

The flowers trembled, their glow dimming as the undead closed in, tainting the frozen pool.

Wu Ming’s eye snapped wide, he knew instantly why the flowers mattered; their fragile white petals and subtle, cool luminescence mirrored a face that was etched into the very core of his being. A wave of fierce, blinding protectiveness—an instinct deeper than survival—overwhelmed him, tied to the memory of...

Taizi Dianxia...

The flowers he had always given him, blossoms symbolising his grace and purity.

Wu Ming charged, E-Ming a blur of silver as it cleaved through the first wave of zombies. Heads rolled, limbs scattered, and crimson blood sprayed, staining the cavern floor.

The air grew thick with the stench of decay, and soon, the blood fell like rain, a crimson deluge that coated Wu Ming’s dark robes and dripped from E-Ming’s blade.

He fought with ruthless precision, each swing a declaration of defiance, carving a path through the endless horde.

Amidst the fierce battle, Yinni slowly realised that Wu Ming was fighting not to protect her, but rather for the white chrysanthemum flowers beside her. She immediately huddled near the flowers, her hands trembling as she tried to shield them from the splattering blood.

“WHY ARE YOU FIGHTING SO HARD FOR THESE FLOWERS?!” she shouted over the chaos, “...THEY’RE JUST PLANTS!”

“THEY’RE NOT JUST PLANTS!” Wu Ming growled, slicing through a zombie’s torso. “THEY’RE… HIS.”

“WHOSE?!” Yinni demanded, ducking as a stray arm flew past her.

Wu Ming didn’t answer. His mind flashed to a warm figure in white, offering a gentle smile amidst a world of ruin.

The zombies kept coming, wave after wave, their numbers swelling until the cavern was a writhing sea of undead. Wu Ming’s breath came in sharp gasps as he kept slaughtering them, his body pushed to its limits, but he didn’t falter.

E-Ming sang louder, its blade now glowing with a faint crimson hue, as if drinking in the blood rain.

As the last zombie fell, its head severed cleanly by E-Ming, the cavern grew silent. The blood rain slowed to a drizzle, pooling around the snow chrysanthemums, which stood untouched, their glow brighter than ever.

Wu Ming stood panting, his dark robes soaked, E-Ming dripping crimson.

Yinni stared at him, wide-eyed, the carnage around them a testament to his ferocity.

“YOU’RE INSANE!” she shouted, “ALL THAT FOR SOME FLOWERS??”

Wu Ming ignored her, his gaze fixed on the chrysanthemums. In their delicate petals, he saw a reflection of something he’d lost.

A purpose...

A devotion....

A name is a vow.

He’d fought not just for the flowers, but for the memory they held, for the one who’d given him a reason to exist when he was nothing.

A figure emerged from the blood-soaked pool, not a zombie but a shadow clad in red, a woman with long, flowing black hair whose face was obscured by a crimson veil. Her voice was soft, yet it carried the weight of a thousand battles, and her very presence caused the air to thicken and the remaining blood to churn.

Yinni, who had been fearfully observing the aftermath, clutched Wu Ming’s tattered sleeve. “Oh, by the Heavens,” she whispered, her eyes wide, “Is that a Bride Ghost? A Crimson Bride? Beautiful, yet... terrifying.”

“You’ve protected the snow chrysanthemums,” the woman said, her voice like distant silk, “...but at what cost? You have no name, no tether to this world. Why fight for something you cannot claim?”

Wu Ming’s grip on E-Ming tightened. “I fought for him,” he said, his voice low but unwavering, “...for the one these flowers belong to. I don’t need a name to know that.”

The figure tilted her head, a gesture of amused curiosity, “How quaint. A meaningless ghost fighting for a forgotten god. And yet, a name is what you must claim. You’ve spilled blood enough to drown a kingdom. Let it forge something new. Who are you, nameless one?”

“I am Wu Ming!” he retorted, his voice sharp with finality, “...and I refuse to be anything else. A name is a chain. I have no time for chains.”

The Crimson Veil sighed dramatically, “Such stubbornness. It seems I must force you to acknowledge your own existence.”

With a sudden, explosive movement that shocked Yinni into silence, the woman conjured a golden halberd forged from solidified blood and spiritual energy, it crackled with malevolent power.

“Oh no! No no no! She’s not a bride! SHE’S A WARRIOR!” Yinni shrieked, scrambling behind a broken piece of rock.

The woman lunged, the halberd slicing the air with a deafening whoosh.

Wu Ming met the attack with E-Ming, the silver and the crimson clashing in a shower of sparks.

The woman’s movements were fluid yet devastatingly powerful, forcing Wu Ming to rely purely on instinct and the raw, untamed power gifted by Wang Jianjing.

“You dodge well, Nameless,” she taunted, driving him back, “...but your defence is weak. A person without a name is merely a wandering spirit, ready to be consumed. You must claim your anchor! Claim your identity!”

Wu Ming pushed back, desperation fueling his swings, “My identity is my vow! My name is irrelevant to my purpose!”

The woman swept the halberd, knocking E-Ming out of his hand, sending it skittering across the bloody ground. She placed the tip of the halberd directly over his heart, pinning him against a rock face.

Wu Ming was utterly defeated, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

“You are defeated,” she stated simply, “...your strength is immense, but your refusal to name yourself is a weakness I could exploit endlessly. Look at the blood you’ve shed, it is enough to form a City of Flowers of its own. It speaks of power and beauty forged in tragedy.”

She lowered her voice to a soft, compelling murmur, “Don’t discard that sacrifice. Give it a title.”

Wu Ming looked past the halberd’s tip to the fragile snow chrysanthemums, their soft glow cutting through the crimson haze.

He thought of the figure in white...

...of the endless, painful years...

...of the blood he’d shed...

...of the vow he’d silently made to protect what mattered.

The woman was right; the sacrifice deserved a name.

He finally whispered, the name rising from his chest like a flame...

“Huā Chéng (花城)...”

A City of Flowers, built on a foundation of ash and love, dedicated entirely to his beloved, a defense against the ruin that haunted him.

The woman froze instantly. She gave a soft, pleased chuckle behind her crimson veil, and the halberd instantly dissolved into mist.

“Hua Cheng...” she echoed, the name tasting like destiny on her tongue. Her form began to dissolve into the thick, blood-tinged fog. “The Crimson Rain Sought Flower, hmph... It suits you well, boy. Now, go. Your path awaits.”

The blood rain ceased entirely, and her form vanished completely, leaving only the scent of wet earth.

The snow chrysanthemums pulsed, their light enveloping the cavern, and Wu Ming—now Hua Cheng—felt a weight settle in his soul, not heavy but grounding.

A name...

A vow...

A promise to carry forward.

Yinni initially peered around nervously, wary that the crimson veiled woman with the halberd might reappear and launch another attack. 

Once she was sure of the cave’s calm atmosphere, she scrambled to his side, staring at the flowers, “Hua Cheng, huh? Sounds… fancy. Nice to meet you—So, what now?”

Hua Cheng sheathed E-Ming, the scimitar’s hum now calm. He plucked a single chrysanthemum flower, tucking it into his robe.

As he tucked the flower, his fingers brushed against something else. His brows furrowed, and when he withdrew the object, it was a small, glittering red bead.

Hua Cheng’s gaze fixed on the bead. Old memories surfaced; a day when Xie Lian had lost a pair of earrings—red beads he had worn during the Shang Yuan Heavenly Ceremonial Procession. Hong'er, still a child then, had apparently taken one, secretly keeping it as a precious treasure.

In the years since his death, having been reduced to a formless, weak ghost orb countless times, he had assumed the bead was long lost, and had simply forgotten it existed.

But here it was. In his hand, the bead now felt warm and pure, a stark contrast to the cold energy of The Old Man’s cave.

“It is... his,” he whispered.

It was the only physical reminder he had of Xie Lian...

Too precious to hide it away...

Hua Cheng swiftly took a strand of his long, dark hair from the right side of his face. With a deft, careful motion, he braided it into a small plait, and tied the red bead securely to the tip.

“We move forward,” he said, his voice steady with newfound purpose.

Yinni, who had been quietly watching him staring blankly, immediately hurried to follow, falling into step behind him.

The tunnel ahead glowed faintly, the path clear at last.

The cavern’s crimson haze dissolved as Hua Cheng and Yinni staggered out of the trial’s tunnel, the metallic scent of blood rain still clinging to their clothes. Hua Cheng’s robes were soaked, E-Ming’s blade dripping crimson, but the snow chrysanthemums’ glow lingered in his mind, a quiet anchor to his newly forged name.

Yinni, clutching her arms against the chill, looked rattled but alive, her eyes darting nervously as they returned to the moss-lit chamber where The Old Man waited.

The Old Man was there, perched on his stone bench, but now he was practically dancing with glee, hopping from one foot to the other like a child who’d stolen a sweet. His tangled white hair flopped wildly, and his staff clattered against the ground. “Ho ho ho!” he crowed, clapping his hands, “Back from the slaughter, are we? Splendid show, boy! Now, tell me, what’s the name you’ve carved out of all that blood?”

Hua Cheng’s eyes narrowed, his hand resting on E-Ming’s hilt. The Old Man’s smugness was like a splinter under his skin, especially since he’d yet to share his own name. “It’s none of your concern!” He said, his voice cold as the cavern’s frost, “You’ve not earned the right to know.”

Before The Old Man could reply, Yinni, ever the loose-lipped girl, blurted out, “His name is ‘Hua Cheng’!” She grinned, her two pointy fingers pointing at him, oblivious to the storm brewing in Hua Cheng’s gaze. “Pretty awesome, right?”

Hua Cheng shot her a look that could’ve shattered ice.

The Old Man threw his head back and cackled, his staff thumping the mossy floor. “Hua Cheng? ‘Flower City’? Ha! Sounds like the name of a tea shop run by a lovesick fool!” He leaned forward, his black-marble eyes glinting with mischief, teasingly playing with the small braid where Hua Cheng had just attached the red bead, “What’s next, boy? Going to put those chrysanthemums into your braid and sing ballads to the moon?”

Hua Cheng’s fingers twitched, itching to draw E-Ming and silence The Old Man’s mockery. “Keep talking,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “...and see how long that tongue of yours lasts.”

The Old Man waved a dismissive hand, still chuckling, then turned to Yinni with a theatrical frown.

“And you, little miss!” he said, his tone shifting to a flirty scold as he wagged his staff at her, “Why in the heavens did you join into that trial? You’ve got a perfectly lovely name—Yinni, sweet as a southern breeze! You should’ve stayed here, keeping this old man company.” He winked, leaning closer with a grin that showed too many teeth, “I could’ve spun you tales of forgotten kingdoms, far better than dodging zombie guts!”

Yinni’s cheeks flushed, and she shuffled back, flustered, “I–I just wanted to help! I wasn’t that useless, was I?”

Hua Cheng snorted, folding his arms, “You were a burden. Tripping over corpses, shrieking loud enough to wake the entire army. I should’ve left you here to bore him to death.”

The Old Man’s eyes flashed, and he swung his staff with startling speed, jabbing it toward Hua Cheng’s chest.

“Oi, you! Hush, you insolent brat!” he barked, his voice sharp but still tinged with that infuriating playfulness. “This girl has more guts than you give her credit for. And frankly, more charm than a flowery fool like you!”

Hua Cheng bristled, but before he could retort, Yinni pouted, her earlier embarrassment giving way to curiosity, “Wait, hold on! That woman in the trial... the one in the red veil. Who was she? She was so tall and beautiful, but her voice… It sounded like she was in her thirties. I thought she was a bride at first, but then she fought with that halberd, all fierce like a warrior. Who is she?”

The Old Man’s jovial expression faltered, his hopping ceasing as a shadow crossed his weathered face. He leaned heavily on his staff, his eyes drifting to the glowing moss, as if it held ghosts of the past. He sighed, a sound like wind through barren trees, and ran a hand through his tangled beard.

“She wasn’t a warrior,” he said softly, “...though her soul burned like one,” He paused, tracing a finger along his staff’s gnarled wood, his gaze distant, “She was a royal, from a dynasty long crumbled to dust. A crown princess who carried her people’s hopes… and their ruin.”

“A crown princess?” Yinni gasped.

Hua Cheng’s eye narrowed, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—stirring in his chest, though he couldn’t place it. “What dynasty?” he asked, his voice quieter now, probing.

Yinni, ever nosy, leaned forward, “Yeah, what’s her name? Why was she in the trial? Was she testing us or what?”

The Old Man’s lips twitched into a sad smile. “Curious lot, aren’t you? Her name… that’s a tale for another day. You’ll learn of her, and others, if you stay here long enough. This place—” he gestured to the cavern, its moss pulsing faintly, “—is a vault of forgotten histories. And I’m its keeper. You’ll uncover her story, and many others, under my guidance.”

Hua Cheng scoffed, his patience fraying, “Stay here? You’re delusional if you think we’re lingering in this mouldy cave with you. We’re leaving. Now.”

The Old Man’s eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and defiance. “Oh, you can’t leave,” he said, wagging his finger like a scolding parent. “Impossible! Utterly impossible!” He waved his staff for emphasis, the air rippling with a faint, oppressive energy, “This place is a labyrinth of time and memory. You’ll wander in circles for eternity unless you learn its secrets... and those, my dear boy, you’ll only learn from me.”

Hua Cheng’s hand moved to E-Ming’s hilt, his voice icy, “I don’t take kindly to cages. Step aside, old man, or I’ll carve my own way out.”

Yinni glanced between them, her pout replaced by nervous energy, “Uh, maybe we should listen to him? I mean, he’s creepy, but he seems to know stuff…”

Hua Cheng shot her a glare that could’ve frozen the cavern solid, “Not helping, Yinni.”

The Old Man however, simply chuckled, the sound brittle and dry. He ignored Hua Cheng’s threat and instead tilted his head, scrutinising the pair.

“Fighting is useless, flower boy...” he calmly stated.

Hua Cheng’s frustration mounted with every second this crazy old man insulted his chosen name and casually bestowed ridiculous nicknames upon him.

The Old Man continued, “You’ve only just scraped past the Trial of Naming, and look at you. You’re caked in the blood and gore of that vile battlefield! You reek of despair and unspent malice! We are in the Vault of Ages now, and one does not enter history looking like a gutter rat.”

Yinni self-consciously smoothed down her dress, “Oh, he’s right. I feel absolutely sticky! All that ghastly zombie blood and muck from the soldiers—it clings so!”

Hua Cheng rolled his eye, “So, what? Are you going to conjure a mystical stream for us to jump in?”

The Old Man tutted, shaking his head slowly, “How pedestrian. We are ghosts, boy. We shed the need for mortal water the moment we shed our mortal shells. Ghosts do not bathe with water; we cleanse ourselves with Intent and Energy. We perform an ‘Astral Cleansing’.”

He waved his staff towards a smooth, crystalline pool of dimly glowing energy in the centre of the cavern. “Your body is merely an astral vessel for your spiritual power and memories. Every fight, every trauma, every vile spiritual contagion you encounter leaves behind residue. To grow stronger, you must not only absorb power, but purify what you are now. Only by scrubbing away the emotional and spiritual filth can your true form emerge.”

The Old Man then instructed them on the complex ritual. He had them sit opposite the glowing pool, demanding intense focus. The cleansing was an exercise in pure willpower; they had to push all the clinging spiritual grime—the lingering fear, the sickness, the blood, the memory of defeat—out of their astral forms and into the energy pool.

The Old Man stood. “I’ll leave you to it for now, so you can concentrate independently. When you are finished, meet me at my throne,” he said, pointing to the familiar stone bench he’d occupied earlier.

Yinni struggled initially, the mental effort leaving her exhausted. Yet, driven by the thought of appearing magnificent, she pushed through. As she performed the cleansing, her tattered robes melted away, replaced by shimmering silks in rich crimson and silver. The outfit featured a fitted crimson bodice and a long, flowing silvery skirt that billowed with her slightest shift. Her black hair was styled into twin buns high on her crown, secured by ornate silver combs. Below them, thick braids cascaded down her back, giving her the arresting, refined look of a high-born spirit who desperately craved attention.

Hua Cheng’s process was more challenging. His own spiritual grime was mingled with centuries of profound sadness and loyalty, stripping away the ‘Wu Ming’—the nameless, forgotten ghost—so that the ‘Hua Cheng’ could fully emerge. As he forced the residual spiritual filth out, his appearance refined itself; his simple, ragged clothing melted away, replaced by robes of impeccable, sharp tailoring in jet-black and vivid crimson.

When he was done, Hua Cheng stood tall and pristine. His long, thick black hair was no longer bound in a ponytail, but flowed down his back like a midnight cascade. He wore the magnificent black boots, the billowing crimson inner robes, and the intricate black outer jacket that befitted a rising power. His right eye socket, previously obscured by falling hair, was now covered by a sleek, black eyepatch etched with delicate, barely perceptible patterns. The sole red bead in his meticulously braided sidelock pulsed with intense, pure energy, now perfectly complemented by his refined attire. He was no longer a desperate ghost; he was a Calamity in the making—elegant, powerful, and utterly devoid of anything superfluous.

With their new appearance, Hua Cheng and Yinni rose, quickly heading back to meet The Old Man, who was again sitting on his usual bench.

Upon arriving, Hua Cheng challenged, “Is that all, old man?”

The Old Man didn’t answer with words. He sprang to his feet with a shocking burst of energy, his eyes lighting up. He clapped his hands together once, the sound echoing sharply through the cave. “Magnificent! Truly magnificent! Look at the pair of you, all feathers and flame! Like a pair of proud, noble peacocks—now that is style!”

Yet, his praise was cut short by a sharp, dismissive snort. His smile vanished, replaced by a deep scowl. He jabbed his staff at Hua Cheng, “A shame! All that beautiful silk and polish, and beneath those fine robes, you’re still empty as a beggar’s purse! You look like two glorified scarecrows—all show and zero skill!”

Yinni instantly pouted, but Hua Cheng was growing accustomed to the taunts. He fought down the urge to react, and instead of granting The Old Man the satisfaction of his anger, he countered, “Why then, with all your immense power, do you choose the appearance of a beggar? Are you simply poor in taste?”

Behind him, Yinni struggled to suppress a fit of giggles.

But instead of annoyance, The Old Man cackled, hopping back onto his bench with surprising agility, “Oh, I like you two!” He leaned forward, his black-marble eyes glinting with mischief.

“Especially you, flower boy! From the way you argue and snap, you’ve got a sharp mind buried under all that brooding,” he said, pointing his staff at Hua Cheng, “A deep intelligence, I’d wager! You’ve certainly got a mouth on you, too—you were bold enough to leave even the Heavenly Emperor speechless! Now that takes talent.”

The mention of the Heavenly Emperor confirmed it; The Old Man knew of Hua Cheng’s encounters with the heavenly officials. Given his power thus far, it was hardly surprising.

The Old Man rummaged in his tattered robe and pulled out a cracked oracle bone, its surface etched with strange, angular symbols. “Here’s a test for you. Read the question written on this, and answer it!”

Hua Cheng frowned, his gaze narrowing at the bone. The symbols were utterly alien, a jumble of lines and curves that meant nothing to him.

Yinni, peering over his shoulder, was equally stumped and, true to form, blurted out, “What kind of writing is that, Grandpa? I’ve never seen scribbles like these in my life!”

The Old Man gasped, clutching his chest in mock horror. “What? You don’t know? Can you two even read!?” His voice dripped with exaggerated disbelief, his staff waving dramatically.

Yinni’s face flushed, and she puffed out her cheeks. “I can read!” she protested, shaking her head, “Just… you know, normal stuff! Not whatever that is!”

Hua Cheng remained silent, his expression darkening. Truth be told, he rarely read anything. The few characters he knew—simple ones, like those for ‘flower’ or ‘rain’—came from the fleeting moments Xie Lian had patiently taught him, long ago, in a life that felt like a half-forgotten dream.

He glanced at Yinni, who seemed to deflate, her own admission dawning on her. As a country girl from Yushi, her knowledge was practical, not scholarly; she knew just enough characters to get by, much like Hua Cheng.

The Old Man’s eyes gleamed, catching their hesitation. He jabbed his staff at them, grinning like a fox.

“Aha! Can’t read, can you? Come on, admit it!” he crowed, hopping from foot to foot, “Two grown brats, dressed fabulously but illiterate as stones!”

Yinni’s face turned beet red, and she mumbled something incoherent, her hands fidgeting.

Hua Cheng’s jaw tightened, his hand twitching toward E-Ming’s hilt, but before he could snap back, a sudden thwack made The Old Man yelp.

He spun around, muttering a string of garbled curses, only to find a pale, ghostly boy standing behind him, grinning cheekily.

The boy, about eleven years old, had hair meticulously styled in a short, neat topknot, secured with a small jade clasp—a clear sign of his affluent upbringing in his lifetime. His robes, though now ghostly and faded, still hinted at their original fine silk and intricate embroidery, perhaps once a vibrant sapphire blue. His skin was ashen like a spectre’s, but across his chest, several dark, puncture-like wounds—the grim marks of a blade that had ended his young life—were starkly visible. He giggled, unfazed by the old man’s glare.

“What’re you doing, Gramps?” the boy asked, his voice light but edged with a teasing lilt.

The Old Man swatted the boy’s head with a light thump, his staff clattering. “You little pest! Sneaking up on me like that!” he grumbled, though his tone held more fondness than anger.

He scooped the boy onto his lap, settling back on his stone bench, “I’m testing these two big siblings here, seeing if they can read. But they’re hopeless!”

The boy tilted his head, eyeing Hua Cheng and Yinni with a smirk, “What, reading? They can’t read?” His tone was just mocking enough to make Hua Cheng’s eye twitch and Yinni’s pout deepen.

The Old Man, loving every second of their discomfort, clapped his hands. “Hopeless, I say! Utterly embarrassing! What do you think, 'lil boy?” he said to the boy, “Why don’t you show them how it’s done?”

The boy’s eyes lit up, and he leapt from the old man’s lap with a flourish, strutting over to the oracle bone. He peered at it with all the confidence of a scholar, his chest puffed out.

But as he studied the symbols, his smug grin faltered, replaced by a furrowed brow. “Gramps,” he said, scratching his head, “...what kind of writing is this? I’ve never seen these characters in my life!”

The Old Man’s jaw dropped, his theatrics in full swing. “What? You don’t know either?” He snatched the bone back, flipping it over with a dramatic flourish, then froze. His eyes widened as he peered closer, muttering to himself, “Well, I’ll be… This is a Wuyong script! Ancient as this mountain!”

He looked up, his expression shifting to genuine curiosity, “Where are you from, anyway?”

Yinni, eager to shift the focus, piped up, “I’m from Yushi!”

The boy and Hua Cheng answered almost in unison, “Xianle.” Hua Cheng’s response was sharper, laced with irritation, while the boy’s was casual, almost proud.

They both froze, staring at each other, the shared origin hanging in the air like a sudden spark.

Hua Cheng’s eye narrowed, studying the boy. “Xianle?” he repeated, his voice low, as if testing the word.

The boy grinned, unfazed, “Yep! Xianle, born and raised! Well, sort of raised.” He patted his scarred chest, chuckling darkly.

The Old Man didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening. “Well, well! A Xianle reunion, is it? How touching!” He clapped his hands, his staff clattering against the bench, “Two lost souls from a fallen kingdom, bumbling around my cave. This is getting interesting!”

The Old Man’s eyes twinkled with mischief as he leaned forward, his staff tapping the mossy ground rhythmically.

“Alright, since you’re both from Xianle,” he said, his voice dripping with playful challenge, “...let’s see if you can read these characters.”

With a flourish, he swept his staff across the ground, carving a series of intricate symbols into the dirt. The moss pulsed faintly around them, as if the cavern itself were watching.

Hua Cheng stared at the characters, his brow furrowing. Despite The Old Man’s earlier blunder with the Wuyong script, these new symbols were still unfamiliar. He recognised a few strokes, piecing them together with effort, his lips moving silently. “Rain… Flower…” he muttered, his voice low and halting, drawing from the sparse lessons Xie Lian had given him long ago—simple characters elegantly brushed during fleeting moments of kindness.

Before he could finish, the ghostly boy beside him, his pale face lit with smug confidence, piped up. “Crimson Rain Sought Flower!”^[35] he declared, puffing out his scarred chest.

The Old Man clapped his hands, hopping with glee. “Correct! Absolutely correct!” he crowed, his tangled beard bouncing.

He spun toward Hua Cheng, his grin widening, “Oi, young man, how’s a scrappy youth like you losing to a kid? Pathetic! Try this one!” He swiped his staff across the ground, erasing the previous characters and carving new ones with a flourish. Turning to the boy, he wagged a finger, “You, little pest, keep quiet! No help!”

The little boy nodded while tightly closed his mouth.

Hua Cheng glared at the new symbols, his frustration mounting. The characters taunted him, their shapes teasingly familiar yet elusive. He recognised the first stroke, his voice barely a whisper. “Flower…” he mumbled, but the rest refused to come. His hands clenched, E-Ming’s hum at his side growing sharper, as if mirroring his irritation. He’d faced a horde of zombie soldiers without flinching, but this... this simple act of reading felt like a wall he couldn’t breach.

Shifting nervously beside him, Yinni squinted at the characters. After a long pause, she ventured hesitantly, her voice soft, “Flower Crown... Martial God?”^[36]

The Old Man’s eyes lit up, and he clapped again, nearly toppling off his bench in his excitement. “Brilliant! Spot on, my lovely girl!” He turned to Hua Cheng, his grin turning mocking, “What’s wrong with you, eh? Can’t read a lick? And yet those hands of yours...” he nodded toward E-Ming, its silver blade glinting faintly, “...can work miracles! A scimitar like that, humming with power, and you’re stumped by a few scratches in the dirt?” With a dramatic flourish, he pulled a tattered scroll from his robe and tossed it at Hua Cheng.

Hua Cheng caught it, his grip tight, his eye flicking away as a shadow crossed his face. The weight of the scroll felt heavier than it should, a reminder of everything he’d never had. “I… I was never taught,” he said, his voice low, almost brittle, “I was born to a poor family. Ignored. Abandoned. I didn’t even have a proper name. How was I supposed to learn to read?” He had almost acquired it from Xie Lian, but the time they had was far too brief.

The cavern fell silent, the moss’ glow dimming as if in respect. Yinni’s eyes widened, her usual chatter stilled, while the boy tilted his head, his smirk fading.

Hua Cheng was, in truth, slightly surprised by his own vulnerability, especially in front of this annoying Old Man. He had never been this open with anyone, not even with Song Xiao, whom he considered his first, and only, friend in his entire life.

The Old Man’s jovial expression softened, and he let out a long sigh, like the creak of ancient wood. He leaned on his staff, his black-marble eyes studying Hua Cheng with a new weight.

“Exactly,” The Old Man said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle, “That’s precisely why... the greatest strength of a man lies in knowledge, and knowledge needs words. If you want to be ‘Flower City,’ you must learn to cultivate those flowers with your hands and protect them with your mind.”

Hua Cheng’s gaze dropped to the scroll in his hands, its worn edges fraying under his fingers. The snow chrysanthemums’ glow flickered in his memory, tied to a figure in white who’d once shown him kindness—a figure who’d taught him the few characters he knew.

He thought of ‘The Crimson Rain Sought Flower’, and ‘The Flower-Crowned Martial God’. The names felt like threads, weaving together a past he’d tried to forget and a future he wasn’t sure he could claim.

Yinni, breaking the silence, shuffled closer. “So… what’s in the scroll, Grandpa? Is it going to help us get out of here?”

The boy snorted, folding his arms. “Probably more scribbles they can’t read,” he teased, dodging a playful swat from The Old Man’s staff.

The Old Man chuckled, but his eyes remained on Hua Cheng, “Open it, boy. Those words... they’re not just names. They’re keys. Learn them, and you’ll start to see the way out of this maze. But ignore them, and you’ll wander forever.”

Hua Cheng’s fingers tightened on the scroll, his frustration warring with a spark of curiosity. He didn’t trust The Old Man, but the weight of his new name felt like a vow he couldn’t ignore. He glanced at Yinni, then the boy, their shared Xianle roots a quiet tether in the cavern’s gloom.

“Fine,” Hua Cheng said, his voice steady but sharp, “I’ll read your damned scroll. But don’t expect me to stay here playing your games.”

The Old Man grinned, hopping back onto his bench, “That’s the spirit, Flower City! Now, let’s see if you can live up to that name.” His gaze bore into Hua Cheng, his staff resting lightly on the mossy ground as the cavern’s glow pulsed faintly.

“Strength without knowledge is just a blunt tool,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, “You want to protect, don’t you? Then you must learn what’s worth protecting and what’s worth destroying.”

Hua Cheng’s eyes locked onto The Old Man’s, a flicker of something raw passing through them. “I was never taught,” he said, his voice low, almost a confession, “I… I never knew how much it mattered.”

“That’s precisely the problem,” The Old Man sighed, his tone softening but still sharp. “You come from a fleeting mortal world, where history is easily forgotten, and people would rather blame the gods than understand their own fate.”

Hua Cheng’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. The snow chrysanthemums’ glow lingered in his mind, tied to Xie Lian’s quiet kindness, and a burning need to understand—not just his world, but Xie Lian’s—drove him. 

...

..

.

Under The Old Man’s relentless tutelage, Hua Cheng learned quickly. The Wuyong script, once incomprehensible, began to yield its secrets.

Within days, he could decipher the ancient characters, his fingers tracing the strokes with a precision that mirrored his swordplay.

Yinni, meanwhile, hovered nearby, her country girl practicality making her a slower but earnest student, muttering complaints about ‘fancy squiggles’.

The Old Man, pleased but never satisfied, thrust an ancient scroll into Hua Cheng’s hands one day, its leather brittle with age. “Read this,” he commanded, then unfurled a rough map drawn on animal hide, its edges frayed. He pointed at Yinni, who was eavesdropping as usual. “You and this girl...” he jabbed his staff toward her, “...still think you’re in some ordinary cave, don’t you?”

Yinni stepped forward, her eyes wide with curiosity, “Well, yeah! It’s just a big, cold cave!”

The Old Man shook his head, his dry laugh echoing like rustling leaves, “How shallow. The place where you stand, where you fought ‘disease’ and witnessed ‘decay’—this is no mere cave. These are the last ruins of an ancient civilisation.”

He tapped the map, his gnarled finger tracing a jagged outline of mountains, “This kingdom was once the grandest, the mightiest, the most prosperous on earth. We called it Wuyong. Our nation revered cultivation and the arts, led by a Crown Prince… unmatched in his brilliance.” His voice wavered, a mix of pride, anger, and unutterable sorrow crossing his weathered face.

Yinni gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, “Wuyong? I’ve never heard of it!”

“Of course not,” The Old Man said, his tone heavy with gloom. “Wuyong vanished long ago. Buried under rubble, cursed, and forgotten by the heavens. This mountain...” he gestured to the cavern’s walls, the moss pulsing like a heartbeat, “...this is Wuyong’s tomb.”

Hua Cheng felt a chill settle in his chest, as if the cavern’s air had turned to ice. The suffering he’d endured here—the blood rain, the zombies, the weight of the snow chrysanthemums—wasn’t his alone. It belonged to an entire kingdom, its pain etched into the stone.

The Old Man’s eyes gleamed as he revealed the mountain’s true name. “Mount Tonglu, the Copper Furnace,” he said, his voice low and resonant, “We, the last deputies of Wuyong, were buried here, beneath the ashes of our ruin. I teach you this history, Hua Cheng, not to mourn, but to give you perspective.”

“Perspective on what?” Hua Cheng asked, his voice quiet but sharp, his grip tightening on the scroll.

The Old Man’s gaze pierced him, unyielding. “That history repeats itself. The Crown Prince of Wuyong, so noble, fell and shattered, betrayed by his fate. Learn our history, and you’ll see that the Crown Prince you revere...” his eyes flicked to Hua Cheng, as if reading his soul, “...is not the first. All great heroes fall. Strength and honour rot with time’s decay. Only by understanding this cycle of ruin can you find a way to break its fate. Only then can you become an eternal shield for him.”

Hua Cheng’s breath caught, the image of Xie Lian—his gentle smile, his pristine white robe, his quiet strength—flashing in his mind. The snow chrysanthemums, The Crimson Rain Sought Flower, and The Flower Crown Martial God—they weren’t just names. They were promises, tethers to a purpose he’d only begun to grasp.

The young boy, sitting cross-legged on the bench, watched silently, his earlier teasing replaced by a strange solemnity, as if he too felt the weight of Wuyong’s fall.

Yinni, less reverent, piped up, “So, what, we’re stuck in a dead kingdom’s grave? How does that help us get out?”

The Old Man chuckled, but it was a hollow sound, “Patience, girl. The map, the scrolls—they’re your keys. Learn Wuyong’s story, and you’ll find the path through Mount Tonglu. Ignore it, and you’ll wander its shadows forever.”

Hua Cheng unrolled the scroll, his eyes scanning the ancient script with newfound clarity. The words spoke of Wuyong’s rise, its art, its pride, and its catastrophic fall. Each line felt like a warning, a mirror to Xianle’s own ruin. He glanced at Yinni, then the little boy, their shared Xianle roots, a quiet bond in the cavern’s gloom.

“I’ll learn,” Hua Cheng said, his voice steady, E-Ming humming softly at his side, “...but not for you, old man. For him.”

The Old Man grinned, leaning back on his bench, “That’s the spirit, Flower City. Now, let’s see if you can carry that name through history’s furnace.”

Thus began Hua Cheng’s study of Wuyong’s history, transforming him not just into a warrior of unmatched strength, but a scholar of suffering and collapse, forging a path to protect the one who mattered most.

In the opulent halls of Yong'an’s imperial palace, Wang Ya and the cunning Grand Secretary Lü had been pressing Lang Yang to wed Lü’s daughter, a match that would tighten his grip on the throne.

Yet, Lang Yang deftly sidestepped the proposal, citing the escalating crisis at the kingdom’s borders. Yong'an’s armies were locked in a relentless campaign against Xuli, once the mightiest and vastest nation, now reduced to a shrinking shadow under Yong'an’s advance. 

At the forefront of this conquest was the young general Zhangsun Miao, whose name was becoming legend.

Zhangsun Miao led her forces with unrelenting precision. Her troops pushed Xuli’s armies eastward, reclaiming territory city by city, each victory chipping away at Xuli’s dwindling dominion. Where Xuli had once dominated with unmatched power, it now teetered on the brink of annihilation, its borders shrinking like a flame starved of air. Zhangsun Miao’s triumphs were the talk of Yong'an, her banners flying high over conquered lands, but amidst the clash of steel and strategy, a quieter spark kindled.

An Kang, the nephew of Zhangsun Miao’s adoptive mother, fought at her side, his steady presence a contrast to her fiery resolve. Stolen glances during strategy meetings turned to lingering conversations by campfires, and a cautious, unspoken affection bloomed between them, a fragile flower amidst the chaos of war.

Meanwhile, in the Heavenly Realm, tensions simmered in the gleaming halls of the Xuan Zhen Palace.

Zhu An stormed in with his two deputies, Jin Lin and Shen Shen, their robes billowing with righteous fury. His eyes blazed as he confronted Mu Qing, who stood calmly at the centre of his palace, flanked by his own deputies, Chen Yang and Song Xiao.

Zhu An’s voice echoed like thunder, “Your daughter’s conquests are no coincidence, Mu Qing! Zhangsun Miao’s victories—city after city falling to Yong'an—reek of your meddling! You’ve overstepped your divine authority, manipulating mortal wars beyond your domain!”

Mu Qing’s expression remained serene, though his obsidian eyes glinted with a sharp edge. He adjusted his sleeves, his deputies standing firm behind him.

“Zhu An,” he said coolly, “...you’re quick to accuse, but slow to manage your own territory. If Xuli crumbles, perhaps it’s because you’ve failed to hold it together, not because of some imagined interference from me.”

Zhu An’s face reddened, his fists clenching. He stepped forward, his voice rising, “Don’t play coy! Your daughter’s every move screams divine influence! You think I don’t see it?” He paused, his hand twitching toward his sword, tempted to challenge Mu Qing to a duel as he had fifteen years ago.

But the memory of that crushing defeat, when Mu Qing’s technique outmatched him in a humiliating clash—stilled his hand. Instead, he jabbed a finger at Mu Qing, “I’ll report this to Jun Wu! You’ve violated the boundaries of your authority, and the Heavenly Emperor will banish you for it!”

Mu Qing’s lips curved into a faint, almost mocking smile. “Go ahead, Zhu An. Prove it. If you can,” his voice was smooth, but beneath the calm, a flicker of unease stirred.

He knew his influence over Zhangsun Miao’s campaigns was subtle—guidance whispered in dreams, a nudge of fate here and there—but proving it would be difficult. Still, the threat of Jun Wu’s scrutiny sent a prickle of worry through him.

Zhu An glared, his deputies exchanging uneasy glances behind him. “This isn’t over,” he spat, turning on his heel and storming out, Jin Lin and Shen Shen trailing behind. 

Mu Qing watched them go, his calm facade unshaken, though Chen Yang leaned in, whispering, “He’s desperate. If he goes to the Heavenly Emperor—”

“He won’t find proof,” Mu Qing cut in, his voice firm, “But we’ll need to be careful, if Zhu An fails, there is a strong possibility he will try to harm my daughter.”

^|>

FOOTNOTES:

^[34] _{Wú‌ (‌無‌) : None, Míng‌ (名‌) : Name.}

^[35] _{Xuè Yǔ Tàn Huā (血雨探花), though the word Xuè (血) is actually ‘Blood’ than ‘Crimson’.}

_{Although both were from Xianle, the ghost little boy came from a more privileged family.}

^[36] _{Huāguān Wǔshén (花冠武神).}

A/N:

Wen Xiang’s debut was in chapter 4 of ‘Loss of History’.

Zhu An’s domain is not actually only in Xuli, but more precisely in the eastern part of the Central Plain, but the majority of his worshippers are indeed from Xuli.

Chapter Text

Two years had passed in the mortal realm, but within the timeless confines of Mount Tonglu, Hua Cheng’s transformation was profound.

The Old Man sat on his moss-covered throne, observing Hua Cheng, who was currently attempting a complex, archaic martial stance with his scimitar. The silver blade, E-Ming, sliced through the dense air, leaving faint trails of crimson light. The air was thick with the dust of ages and the faint scent of decaying wood.

The Old Man and Yinni were several feet away. He mused, stroking his long, white beard, “Two years, and yet he is nearly twice the ghost he was when he arrived. This aging realm is peculiar. It causes time to flow for those of us who possess physical forms.”

He leaned forward, his voice a dry rasp directed at Yinni, “Outside, a ghost might merely hover as an ethereal wisp or an orb, and even with a stable physical form, its appearance would freeze at the age of death. But here, we are bound to the suffering we embody, and we continue to develop alongside our power. He, Hua Cheng, is currently in a state of rapid evolution,” his wrinkled fingers wavering as they pointed toward Hua Cheng.

Yinni, who was perched beside him, instantly interrupted with a whine of annoyance, “Well, why haven’t I grown? I’m still just... this!” She gestured dramatically at her petite form.

The Old Man gave her a knowing, mischievous look, “Because you are not growing, little girl. You are merely following the flower boy—” he caught himself before fully saying it, a familiar glint in his eye. “Your progress is stagnant because you refuse to face your own afflictions. Only those who truly strive to grow will change. You are stagnant.”

Yinni pouted furiously, her cheeks puffing out, “Good! I don’t want to be old and hideous like you!” she retorted, sticking out her tongue. Nevertheless, deep down, she was somewhat relieved that she would be spared the fate of actual ageing.

“You should know,” The Old Man replied with self-assuredness, “...that ageing is the ultimate symbol of wisdom, just like me.” He chuckled, patting his chest proudly, causing Yinni to simply pull a deeper sulk.

“I still don’t want it, though!” Yinni muttered under her breath, “Ugly, wrinkly, and smelly too?”

“What was that you said? Smelly?” The Old Man asked, cupping a hand to his ear as if deaf.

Yinni, “And deaf too!”

“Young lady, that’s rude!” He then let out a booming breath in her direction, “BWAAAH!”

“Blech—” Yinni made a dramatic gagging gesture, covering her mouth. “GROSS!”

Meanwhile, Hua Cheng had undergone a drastic physical shift. He had grown significantly taller, his frame was now lean, muscular, and exceptionally graceful, reflecting his escalating power. His face had shed the gaunt lines of his impoverished past, developing into sharp, captivating features that held a dangerous, alluring beauty.

...

..

.

The Old Man’s martial arts training was an erratic, frustrating, and brilliant ordeal. One moment, he would be sipping tea, the next he would be attacking Hua Cheng with the speed of a striking viper, using only his worn wooden staff.

“Slow! Too slow, flower boy!” The Old Man barked, having just swept Hua Cheng’s legs out from under him, then stood on his chest with one foot, adjusting his shabby robe. “Your speed comes from your hatred, but your hatred is only fast! It has no weight! It has no history!”

Hua Cheng, though frustrated, would never show it outwardly. He rose immediately, E-Ming flashing out of instinct, “If my hatred is fast, then I shall refine its speed.”

“Rubbish!” The Old Man cackled, jumping off Hua Cheng’s chest to land in a perfect split. He tapped the scimitar’s blade with his staff so lightly that it barely vibrated. “You cannot refine speed. You must refine patience! A strike is not just the moment it hits; it is the hundred years it took you to decide when to strike! Now, drop the sword and grab a bucket of water. Try to balance on one finger on that loose rock over there! Do it for three months! If a single drop spills, you start the clock again!”

Hua Cheng’s eye twitched. “A bucket of water, old man? We are ghosts. I could simply pass through the rock and the water,” his voice was dry, dripping with sarcasm, “Perhaps you’d prefer I spend three months attempting to re-materialise the entire history of Wuyong using only the condensation on the cave ceiling? It would be far more tedious, and therefore, surely more effective.”

The Old Man merely grinned, his ancient eyes twinkling, “A fine suggestion! But let’s start small. I want you to dissolve completely into your ashes. All of you!” He jabbed a bony finger at Yinni, who stood several metres away.

Yinni let out a loud sigh of complaint but finally walked forward to obey him.

The Old Man gestured towards a shimmering pile of spectral dust, the disintegrated essence of a thousand lesser ghosts that Hua Cheng had conquered in a recent skirmish, “Now, take that pile of spectral dust and try to maintain the shape of a perfectly formed agate ring for seven days. If a single mote scatters, you start again! And if you so much as think of reforming into your elegant, crimson self, I’ll hit you with this staff. Now go, become dust!”

Hua Cheng surveyed the ancient, dull pile of dust and then The Old Man. For the first time since receiving his new name, a hint of his old, brash contempt surfaced.

“An agate ring?” Hua Cheng drawled, his eye fixed on The Old Man, “How terribly antiquated. Why not something with a little more flair? Something that defies gravity and time, instead of just being a dusty trinket of the past.”

“Hmph, just so you know!” The Old Man retorted, spinning around with a lecturing finger pointed dramatically skyward, “Agate ring was known by the ancients to possess great power. Legend has it... a powerful genie is sealed inside it!”

Hua Cheng rolled his eye, clearly unconvinced.

“Furthermore,” The Old Man’s eyes flashed with irritation, “Because the past is what holds you together, you arrogant pup! Now stop questioning your mentor and become the ring!” he snapped, rapping Hua Cheng sharply with his staff.

Hua Cheng winced, bringing his arms up to shield his face, he scoffed but before he could obey, the spectral dust began to move of its own accord.

It didn’t form an agate ring; instead, the dust began to swirl rapidly around Hua Cheng himself. His entire body, robes and all, was encased in the swirling essence, shrinking, condensing, and fusing into a new form.

In the space where Hua Cheng stood, there was now a perfectly balanced, weighted budaoweng doll. It was roughly the size of a mortal child’s head, weighted at the bottom so that it instantly sprang back upright whenever the spectral winds of the cavern attempted to knock it over. Its painted face was an austere, unyielding silver-white, a quiet reflection of devotion and unbreakable perseverance.

Simultaneously, Yinni began to glow. Her whole form shattered, not into dust, but into a swarm of thousands of tiny butterflies, with silvery-white wings that glittered brilliantly, their surfaces etched with intricate, complex patterns. They were breathtakingly beautiful.

The butterflies weren’t born of the training, but of her inherent nature; ephemeral, beautiful, and utterly driven by vanity and a desire for attention.

The Old Man stared, but instead of offering praise, his jaw slack as he waved his hands, “Well, I’ll be damned! I told you an agate ring! Not... not a cursed, self-righting toy!”

The silver butterflies flitted around the budaoweng doll. Yinni’s voice, now multiplied into a thousand tiny whispers, echoed the length of the cavern.

“Seriously, Hua Cheng? A budaoweng doll?” the voices mocked, “Your spiritual essence is a chunky, childish toy? I am a swarm of luminous, silver butterflies! I look like something a real Supreme would send into battle! You look like a baby’s rattle!”

The budaoweng doll, representing Hua Cheng, remained motionless but immediately rocked back to attention after being gently buffeted by the swarm.

I may be a doll, but I can never be knocked down.

It was a lesson...

A stubborn, enduring strength—first introduced, taught, and demonstrated by Xie Lian, even in his absolute lowest moments.

The Old Man recovered quickly. He slammed his staff against the ground, shattering the illusion of the smooth, controlled training environment.

“ENOUGH, BOTH OF YOU!” he roared, “The mountain has spoken! The trials you face next will be manifestations of your true nature, not my dusty old trinkets!”

The Old Man turned to the swarm of butterflies, “And you, Yinni! You are now bound to him. Your vanity is his accessory. If you stray more than ten paces from him, your form will shatter back into useless dust. Now learn to be useful, instead of merely beautiful!”

And so, the bizarre new phase of training began; the budaoweng doll of devotion enduring endless blows from The Old Man’s staff, its accompanying swarm of silver butterflies flitting around it, simultaneously complaining about the crude appearance and admiring the perfect, unyielding resilience of the doll.

Hua Cheng knew this bizarre, nonsensical discipline—this forced deconstruction of his own spectral form—was the key to understanding the lost martial ways of Wuyong. It was less about fighting and more about integrating his spirit with time and space, forcing his chaotic essence to yield to pure, disciplined will.

...

..

.

When The Old Man was not training them, Hua Cheng and Yinni often wandered through the remnants of the dead city, part of the lost kingdom of Wuyong.

Hua Cheng frequently paused to examine the surviving statues, tracing the weathered carvings with a thoughtful hand, while Yinni’s gaze lingered on the faded murals adorning the crumbling walls, her curiosity piqued by their ancient hues.

Behind them, a young noble—or perhaps a wealthy merchant’s son from Xianle, as Hua Cheng suspected—occasionally trailed their steps. He had grown slightly taller since their first meeting.

Hua Cheng, the first to notice, narrowed his remaining eye and called out, “Jiāo Shù (驕樹)?” His tone carried a hint of suspicion.

That was the boy’s name, and Jiao Shu grinned mischievously, nodding as he sauntered closer.

Yinni huffed, hands on her hips, “You’ve been following us? Why not join from the start?”

“Not my level,” the boy quipped, strolling toward them.

Hua Cheng and Yinni exchanged irritated glances, and Jiao Shu pressed on, “What are you two searching for among these old stones? Lost coins? It’s been thousands of years, even the rocks have turned to dust here.”

Yinni bristled, her voice sharp, “Do you take us for beggars!?”

Jiao Shu chuckled, “Your aura suggests it.”

Yinni’s fist rose as if to strike, but Hua Cheng interjected, his fingers brushing a statue of a general. “Are you not drawn to this lost culture?” he asked, his voice calm yet probing.

The boy shrugged, “What’s the use? It’s just the past.”

Hua Cheng murmured softly to himself, recalling The Old Man’s words from a past lesson...

“Because the past is what holds you together, you arrogant pup!”

Aloud, Jiao Shu added, “I know a place more intriguing than this ruined shrine. I know ghosts who can tell you anything—events beyond here, even in heaven. But their knowledge comes at a price. And I hear you just refused the Heavenly Emperor’s offer. That makes you very interesting.”

Hua Cheng suspected the boy’s information stemmed from The Old Man.

Jiao Shu darted ahead with a playful run, Hua Cheng and Yinni followed, curiosity piqued.

Soon, they arrived at a concealed spot—a small Ghost Market nestled within a larger cave. Here, resilient ghosts traded spiritual remnants, bones, talismans, and whispers of secrets, their ethereal stalls casting an eerie glow in the damp darkness.

Hua Cheng and Yinni meandered through the Ghost Market’s stalls, their eyes darting over the spectral wares. Midway down the path, a ghost approached, his form shimmering with a faint mist.

“I am a master of illusion and concealment,” he declared, his voice smooth yet eerie. He eyed Hua Cheng’s mysterious aura with admiration, “I’m keen to learn from you, how to become an unseen threat.”

Hua Cheng raised an eyebrow. “You know me?” he asked, his tone guarded.

The ghost nodded, casting a sidelong glance at Jiao Shu. “Nearly everyone here has heard of you,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Hua Cheng’s mind churned, discovering Jiao Shu as the gossipmonger behind this.

Keen to move on, Hua Cheng and Yinni pressed forward, but the ghost, dubbing himself The Mist Weaver, trailed them persistently, his presence growing irksome.

They paused at a stall brimming with handcrafted items and ancient artefacts. The stall’s ghostly keeper warmly greeted them, “Welcome, honoured guests! I mend artefacts, alter appearances, or craft talismans. My skills are yours to command.” His gaze fell on E-Ming, gleaming at Hua Cheng’s side, clearly impressed.

Meanwhile, Hua Cheng’s attention settled on a life-sized statue crafted by the ghost. It depicted a strikingly handsome young man, dressed in elegant, refined robes befitting a gentle high-ranking scholar. His long, wavy hair was tied in a graceful ponytail, yet a peculiar detail caught Hua Cheng’s eye.

A massive sword protruded from the figure’s back... A sabre...

On closer inspection, the likeness struck him—

It resembled Mu Qing! Xie Lian’s former deputy he despised most.

The ghost, introducing himself as The Crafter, noticed Hua Cheng’s interest. “Are you taken with it? Shall I craft one for you?”

Hua Cheng tilted his head, “Who commissioned this?”

“A woman ordered this statue of Xuan Zhen,” The Crafter replied, “They say he’s a martial god and protector of children. She believes worshipping him will help her find her lost child.”

Hua Cheng nodded disinterestedly, while Yinni beside him gasped, “So beautiful…” Her mind drifted to her missed chance at becoming a deputy goddess. Turning to Hua Cheng, she pressed, “Do you know him?”

Hua Cheng glanced down at her, suddenly realising she only reached his chin now. He distinctly remembered her height previously coming up to about his ear.

The Old Man was right... he has grown.

Yinni continued, her voice rising, “You must have met him up there, right? Infuriating! If you hadn’t refused ascension, I could’ve met him myself!” She pinched Hua Cheng’s arm lightly, her irritation bubbling over.

Hua Cheng’s patience waned, waving his arm away, “I’ve told you, don’t get ahead of yourself. I’d never take someone useless like you as my deputy!”

Yinni’s face darkened, her hands mimicking a desire to devour him in frustration.

Hua Cheng retorted, “Besides, he’s not that refined…” Only a tenth of Xie Lian’s grace, he thought bitterly.

The Crafter interjected, “So, sir, lady, are you interested…?” But before they could respond, Hua Cheng’s mind sparked with an idea. 

“Do you offer classes in sculpting?” he asked, his tone shifting to curiosity.

Just then, a commotion erupted.

Rushing outside, they found a gang of ghost ruffians wreaking havoc in the market, their brutish laughter disrupting the fragile order.

Some leered at a ghost lady standing nearby, their spectral hands reaching out. The woman recoiled, her gorge rising as those wretched, translucent hands clawed the air near her face.

Jiao Shu stepped forward, his voice sharp, “Oi, you lot—back off, you filthy wraiths! With your face, don’t ever dream of getting a girlfriend!”

The gang bristled, one of them snarling, “You little brat, you’ll regret that!”

The boss then raised a clawed hand, growling, “We’ll devour every ghost in this market!”

His cronies cheered;

“A feast!”

“Free nutritious grub—” but then he suddenly stumbled and fell, as though an invisible wind had kicked his legs out from under him.

Honed by The Old Man’s training, Hua Cheng acted with terrifying speed and precision, his movements devoid of reckless aggression.

The gangsters, realising they were under attack, roared, “GET HIM!”

Hua Cheng parried a swinging claw with a deft twist, his body flowing like water as he sidestepped a lunging strike.

With a single flick of his wrist, he disarmed one ghost, sending its weapon clattering, then swept another’s legs, toppling it helplessly. His control was masterful—each motion a lesson in restraint.

Finally, Hua Cheng plunged E-Ming into the ground. A surge of pure energy rippled outward, locking the gang in place. They trembled, powerless under the sword’s radiant force, their forms quaking yet intact.

Hua Cheng had subdued them without destruction, a display of overwhelming superiority.

As the gang slumped, their leader rasped, “Why didn’t you devour us?”

Hua Cheng blinked, perplexed. “Devour? You mean finish you off?” he asked.

Yinni, The Mist Weaver and The Crafter hurried over, drawn by the spectacle.

A gang member croaked an explanation, “In Mount Tonglu, ghosts must consume each other to gain strength and survive.”

Hearing this, Hua Cheng’s mind drifted to The Old Man’s teachings. His gravelly voice echoed in his mind;

“Patience, boy. History teaches us the cost of haste—kings fell not by swords, but by their own impatience. Spare where you can; strength lies in mercy, not slaughter.”

The lesson, though subtle, had shaped Hua Cheng’s approach; if he slaughtered every nuisance, it would be mere brute force. Subduing them without killing showcased precision, dominance, and control—proof he could destroy but chose not to. Recalling The Old Man, a general who lost his kingdom, Hua Cheng realised that building something lasting required more than bloodshed.

Aloud, he began with a sardonic edge, “You lot aren’t worth devouring—scarcely my level. I seek true power, not petty market thugs.” Then, softening, he added, “But know this; true strength builds, not breaks. Follow that, and you might rise above this chaos.”

The gang stared, awestruck.

Their boss, humbled, stepped forward. “I’ll follow you!” he declared.

The Crafter and The Mist Weaver, already impressed, nodded eagerly, their admiration deepening as they joined the newfound allegiance.

...

..

.

The Old Man had forbidden Hua Cheng from studying under more than one master at a time, a rule enforced with a swift, comical thrashing, blows raining down with the exaggerated flair of a mad hermit, though no name was uttered. His reasoning, absurd yet laced with wisdom, rang out; “Too many cooks spoil the broth, flower boy! A single path hones the blade; multiple muddy the steel. Focus breeds mastery, not confusion!” The logic, though peculiar, carried a strange clarity.

Hua Cheng fumed, the restriction feeling ridiculous, especially recalling the exquisite Xuan Zhen statue in the cave, a reminder of the ex-deputy he loathed. Driven by frustration, he sought solitude, stumbling upon a secluded nook in the ruins.

The spot boasted a smooth slab of grey limestone, weathered yet sturdy, flanked by a natural overhang shielding it from the elements, perfect for sculpting.

He gathered a chunk of coarse sandstone, its grain suited for rough shaping. Using his spiritual power, Hua Cheng conjured a carving tool and hammer, their edges gleaming with ethereal energy.

Hesitant at first, he began slowly, chipping away with tentative strokes. The quiet of the area emboldened him, and soon he carved with earnest focus.

His mind painted Xie Lian, the Heavenly Crown Prince’s beauty; a golden crown adorned with flowers, white robes accented with elegant gold and red, a celestial sash draping his graceful form.

Time slipped away....

As his first statue neared completion, a snickering laugh broke the silence. Hua Cheng turned slowly, only to find Jiao Shu giggling with a wizened, grey-bearded ghost, his clothes dusted with ghostly wood shavings.

They whispered mockingly, “Look at that lumpy mess, barely a reject!” the bearded ghost jeered.

“He thinks he’s an artist with that crooked nose!” Jiao Shu added, stifling a laugh.

Hua Cheng’s anger flared, but he swallowed it, recalling The Old Man’s lessons on restraint. 

Moments later, The Old Man arrived with Yinni. She tilted her head, curious, “So, you’ve been skiving off here... what are you up to?”

Jiao Shu pointed at the statue, cackling, “Look, sis, he made a… a deformed relic!”

The Old Man studied it gravely, stroking his chin.

The statue was a crude attempt; the face was misshapen, one eye too high, the crown lopsided, robes a tangled mess of uneven lines, the sash a drooping blob. It was a far cry from grace.

“Who’s that…?” The Old Man asked calmly. Not far behind him, Yinni was visibly struggling to stifle her laughter, clamping both hands over her mouth.

Hua Cheng smiled with pride, “The Heavenly Crown Prince of Xianle... A vision of elegance and virtue...”

The Old Man nodded slowly...

“...”

Yet soon, he burst into mocking laughter, and Yinni immediately joined in.

“That thing isn’t even a tenth as good as the statue of the god we saw back in the market,” Yinni managed to gasp out between peals of laughter.

Unbeknownst to her, that comment was a personal, sharp blow that wounded Hua Cheng deeply.

“Elegance? That’s a lump of mud with pretensions! You’ve carved a troll, not a prince!” The Old Man’s comment was no less insulting.

“This is your fault for banning me from that craftsman’s tutelage!” Hua Cheng’s irritation boiled over.

The Old Man’s mirth turned stern, jumping and whipping his arms, “It’s part of your training! I want you to grow through self-reliance, not handouts.” He pointed at Hua Cheng, “This prepares you for Tonglu’s trials, where skill born of struggle outlasts borrowed power. Now, sculpt more of that prince in your spare time, alongside our sessions. Refine it!”

...

..

.

Later, Hua Cheng laboured tirelessly, chiselling statue after statue of Xie Lian. Each varied; some with flowing hair, others with detailed crowns, improving with each attempt. The lopsided features smoothed, robes gained elegance, and the sash flowed naturally. 

Time flowed with his craft, his skill sharpening under the weight of determination.

In the eastern reaches of Yong'an, where the borders of the once-mighty Xuli crumbled under relentless conquest, the banners of Yong'an’s generals flew high.

Each commander carved their name into the annals of victory, but none shone brighter than Zhangsun Miao, the Marquis of the Conquered City. Her tactical brilliance and unyielding spirit had turned her into a legend among Yong'an’s military ranks. Soldiers whispered her name with awe, and civilians sang of her triumphs in taverns, her reputation growing like wildfire across the kingdom.

With every Xuli city that fell, her star rose higher, a beacon of Yong'an’s dominance over a nation that had once ruled unchallenged.

Meanwhile, in the Heavenly Realm, the halls of Xuan Zhen Palace hummed with divine energy. Mu Qing’s deputy; Chen Yang and Song Xiao sorted through an influx of prayers, their voices rising over the soft clink of incense burners.

The prayers came not from warriors or nobles, but from children and parents, their pleas written on fragile paper slips or whispered in candlelit shrines;

A mother begged for her son’s safety as he wandered war-torn fields, her voice trembling, “Protect my boy from the bandits who plague our village.”

A group of children, huddled in a ruined Xuli town, prayed for courage, “Give us strength to hide from the soldiers who burn our homes.”

An elderly father, his hands worn from labour, pleaded for his daughter’s health, “Keep my little one from the fever that’s taken so many.”

“...”

And in a nameless place, shrouded in the shadows, a mysterious woman whispered a desperate plea, her eyes fixed on the Xuan Zhen statue before her, “Bring my son back to me, wherever he may be lost.”

Song Xiao’s furrowed, he relayed the reports to Mu Qing, who sat in silent contemplation, his fingers steepled.

“Most of these prayers,” Song Xiao said, his tone careful, “come from the eastern regions of Yong'an, former Xuli territories. The shrines there are new, but the faith is spreading fast.”

Mu Qing’s gaze was distant, his thoughts churning.

The prayers stirred a memory, a conversation from years ago with Pei Ming. He had once persuaded the Martial God of the North to open his minor domain in Yong'an, allowing him a glimpse of his daughter, Zhangsun Miao, as she grew in the mortal realm. Pei Ming, ever the opportunist, had done more than just look. He confessed that he had already sent a dream to Zhangsun Bo— Miao Miao’s adoptive father, instructing him to build a Xuan Zhen shrine and pray to him as a child protector god.

Hearing those prayers, Mu Qing thought the north general’s meddling had taken root. The eastern shrines, built in the shadow of Xuli’s fall, were calling his name, tying his divine power to the children caught in the war’s aftermath.

...

..

.

Far below, at a military camp on Yong'an’s easternmost border, the night was quiet save for the crackle of a campfire.

Zhangsun Miao and An Kang sat close, their shoulders brushing as they stirred a pot of steaming soup, its savoury aroma mingling with the faint scent of snow chrysanthemums carried in the wind.

Their conversation was soft and intimate, a rare moment of peace amidst the war.

“Have you ever thought about settling down?” An Kang asked, his voice teasing but warm, his eyes catching the firelight, “You know, after all this conquering.”

Zhangsun Miao laughed, nudging him with her elbow, “Settle down? With you following me around like a lost puppy? I’d never get any rest.” Her smile softened, though, and she added, “Maybe one day. Somewhere quiet, with fields of those chrysanthemums you keep picking for me.”

Before An Kang could reply, a small figure approached, clutching an empty bowl.

A village boy, no older than ten, with dirt-streaked cheeks and wide eyes, stood hesitantly at the fire’s edge.

“Um… can I have some?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Zhangsun Miao’s expression warmed, and she ladled generous scoops of soup into his bowl, her movements gentle. “Here you go,” she said, smiling, “Eat up, it’s warm.”

The boy mumbled a shy “Thank you” and turned to leave, but An Kang called out, “HEY, WAIT! Why don’t you eat with us?” He patted his knee, inviting the boy to sit.

The child hesitated, then climbed into An Kang’s lap, clutching his bowl tightly as he sipped the soup, his eyes darting between them.

Zhangsun Miao leaned forward, her voice kind but curious, “What’s your village like, little one? Is it safe?”

The boy shook his head, his spoon pausing, “Not really. Bandits come sometimes, stealing food. And there’s Xuli soldiers... deserters, I think. They’re like thugs now, scaring everyone. My sister’s afraid to go outside.”

Zhangsun Miao’s brow furrowed, her heart tightening. She glanced at An Kang, then back at the boy, her voice softening further, “Listen, there’s someone who can help. His name is Xuan Zhen, a god who protects children like you. He watches over the weak, keeps them safe from harm. If you and your family pray to him, build a small shrine—just a stone with his name carved on it, some incense if you have it—he’ll hear you.”

She stooped and, using a small stick, wrote two characters on the dusty ground—‘Xuan Zhen’—her lips silently forming the meaning; Enigmatic Truth. “Tell your parents, and your friends. Xuan Zhen’s power grows when you believe in him, and he’ll guard your village.”

The boy’s eyes widened, a spark of hope flickering. “A god? For kids like me!?” He clutched his bowl tighter, nodding eagerly, “I’ll tell Ma and Pa! We’ll make a shrine, I promise!”

An Kang ruffled the boy’s hair, grinning, “Good boy. Now finish that soup before it gets cold.”

As the boy scampered off, his bowl empty but his spirit lifted, Zhangsun Miao leaned back, resting her head gently against An Kang’s shoulder, her gaze drifting to the stars.

...

..

.

In Xuan Zhen Palace, Mu Qing stood, his calm facade masking a growing unease.

The prayers were a double-edged sword—proof of his growing influence, but also a beacon that could draw Jun Wu’s scrutiny.

He turned to Song Xiao, “Keep monitoring the eastern shrines. If Zhu An pushes his accusations, we’ll need to tread carefully.”

In the sprawling territories of Yong'an, where the borders of the once-mighty Xuli now lay in ruins under the weight of conquest, the ambition of a new era burned bright.

King Lang Yang, second ruler of Yong'an, surveyed his expanding domain and saw the title of ‘King’ for what it had become; a relic, worn thin by the petty monarchs he’d toppled. The defeated rulers of Xuli and other vassal states still clung to their crowns, their titles diminished by Yong'an’s relentless advance.

To cement his unmatched authority, Lang Yang resolved to forge a new title, one that would echo through history as a testament to his supremacy.

The main hall of Yong'an’s imperial palace was a sea of tension and anticipation. Hundreds of high-ranking officials, battle-hardened generals, and grey-haired scholars filled the vast chamber, their silk robes embroidered with Yong'an’s golden dragon emblem catching the flickering light of jade lanterns.

Among them stood Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo, his stern face unreadable; Grand Consort Yiping, her elegance masking sharp ambition; Royal Councillor Fu Huizhong, ever calculating; Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya, her eyes glinting with intrigue; Grand Chancellor Zhao, stoic and wary; and Grand Secretary Lü, whose thwarted marriage schemes simmered beneath his composed exterior. They stood in perfect rows, silent as stone, the air heavy with sandalwood incense.

A low rumble of massive drums shook the hall, the vibrations reverberating through the marble floors. The colossal doors behind the throne creaked open, revealing Lang Yang, the second King of Yong'an, now master of nearly all Xuli.

He stepped forward, his black-and-gold robe shimmering with embroidered dragons, a jade crown glowing faintly atop his head. His face was resolute, his eyes sharp with an authority that commanded the room.

He did not sit on the throne. Instead, he paused several paces before it. Turning, his gaze swept over the bowed heads of his court.

The silence was absolute, as if the hall itself held its breath.

Lang Yang’s voice broke the stillness, clear and commanding, “Nineteen years ago, my late father, Lang Ying, founded Yong'an with blood and sacrifice. Our people fought for their rights, clawing back our lands from the old royal capital, halting Xuli’s aggression, and turning the tide against our enemies.” His words carried the weight of history, each syllable deliberate, “Even after our kingdom rose, the battles never ceased. We reclaimed our birthright, crushed Xuli’s might, and forged a new era.”

The officials raised their heads slightly, their eyes filled with awe.

Lang Yang’s presence seemed to fill the hall, his voice growing stronger, “I was born to elevate Yong'an’s name beyond what any have dared. Blood has been spilled, and great sacrifices made, all for one purpose; Yong'an’s supremacy!”

He clenched his fist, his gaze sweeping every face in the room, “The title of ‘King’ belongs to the rulers of inferior realms, to those I have vanquished. It is an outdated mantle, too small to encompass the breadth of my power!”

Grand Queen Dowager Wang Ya leaned toward Grand Chancellor Zhao, her whisper barely audible. “He’s building to something monumental,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing with curiosity.

Grand Chancellor Zhao nodded, his expression unreadable but tense.

Lang Yang’s voice rose, resonant with authority, “Henceforth, I am no longer a mere King! I shall unite the majesty of legendary rulers with the divinity of ancient dynasties!”

Gasps rippled through the hall, eyes widening as the weight of his words sank in. Some officials staggered back, the implications dawning like a storm.

With a voice that thundered through the chamber, Lang Yang’s eyes blazed, “From this day forward, I am THE EMPEROR!”

The silence that followed was profound, laced with reverence and fear.

Lang Yang continued, his tone unyielding, “As the first to unite Yong'an in this manner, I declare myself the First Emperor of the Lang Dynasty of Yong'an!”

He strode to the throne, turning with deliberate grace before seating himself with an air of absolute authority. Every movement radiated power, as if the heavens themselves acknowledged his claim.

“My rule is ordained by the heavens,” he declared, his voice final, “and it shall endure for ten thousand generations! The Lang Dynasty of Yong'an will be eternal!”

The hall erupted as every official, general, and scholar dropped to their knees, their foreheads touching the floor. Their voices rose in unison, a thunderous chorus of devotion, “Long live the First Emperor! May the Yong'an Empire endure for ten thousand years!”

In that moment, the Kingdom of Yong'an was no more, and The Yong'an Empire was born.

...

..

.

Far to the southeast, in the rugged heart of Yuechang, Qie Mo, the formidable King of Yuechang, his dark hair now streaked heavily with grey, his face etched with deeper lines of worry and age than before. He sat upon his throne of polished dark camphorwood, its sweeping backrest carved to resemble cresting river waves and inlaid with mother-of-pearl that shimmered like fish scales.

The grand hall of his palace was a stark contrast to Yong'an’s magnificent minimalism—its walls lined with dark, polished teakwood panels and intricate latticework screens that filtered the daylight into soft, dappled pools. The air was heavy with the humid scent of blooming orchids and damp earth, and the space was dominated by a vast inlaid marble floor depicting swirling river currents and graceful fish.

High above, long silk banners embroidered with recurring motifs of stylised lotus blossoms and drifting clouds hung from the rafters, while the carved wooden support beams were detailed with patterns of heavenly clouds that seemed to float just beneath the ceiling.

Before him, a handful of court officials stood, their faces etched with unease. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows, amplifying the tension that gripped the room.

A spy, sent by Crown Prince Qie Shun, had just returned from a perilous journey through northwestern borders. He knelt before Qie Mo, his face pale not from the cold but from the weight of his news, his breath ragged from the haste of his travel.

Qie Mo leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, his voice a low growl, “Speak, Hè Lí (賀黎)! What news do you bring from Yong'an? Is that onion-reeking king plotting another invasion?”

He Li swallowed hard, his hands trembling as he steadied himself. “Your Majesty, it’s worse. King Lang Yang…” He drew a tense breath, his voice faltering, “…he no longer calls himself King. In a grand ceremony at his palace, he has taken a new title... one that surpasses royalty.”

Qie Mo’s grip tightened on the armrests of his throne. “What title?” he demanded, his voice cutting through the hall like a blade.

He Li’s eyes flickered with fear, “He calls himself Emperor. They proclaim him the Son of Heaven, a ruler equal to the ancient gods. All the lands under his dominion are now an Empire.”

Qie Mo’s usual calm and commanding presence faltered, a faint crease forming on his brow. “Emperor? An Empire!?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried a dangerous edge, “So he claims not just the lands north of the river, but all beneath the heavens—including our domain?”

He Li nodded grimly, “Indeed, Your Majesty. The title of Emperor implies universal dominion. To them, there are no equal powers, only the Emperor, and all others are vassals or ‘barbarians’.”

Grand Secretary Ōuyáng (歐陽), a former magistrate of Huaiji with a flowing white beard, stepped forward, his tone dripping with disdain, “Empty claims! Does a title make their arrows fly swifter? Let him call himself ‘Son of the Moon’ or ‘King of Worms’—it means nothing against our kingdom! He declares himself Emperor, but will he dare name us his subjects?”

Qie Mo’s gaze shifted to He Li, his eyes piercing, “Has this ‘Emperor’ sent envoys with ‘mandates’ or demands for tribute, as the feudal kings of old did?”

He Li shook his head, “No, Your Majesty. Quite the opposite. He has ordered his most feared general, General Zhangsun, to mobilise three hundred thousand Yong'an soldiers to our northern border. His new title is merely the prelude to his actions; he sees us not as equals, but as enemies to be crushed!”

Qie Mo’s anger flared, his composure shattering. This was an insult beyond measure. After failed diplomatic overtures and political marriages, Yong'an’s declaration of an empire placed Yuechang on a lower rung, as if they were mere pests to be swept aside. He rose from his throne, his heavy boots slamming against the stone floor, the sound echoing like a war drum.

“If he is an Emperor,” he roared, “...then we shall show him the true might of Yuechang! I will never bow as his subject! He may have crushed Xuli, but here, I will unite the Southern Plain! Let every official here immediately quadruple their offering to Ju Yang’s temple! We will demand his blessing for victory!”

With a swift motion, he drew the golden sword that rested beside his throne, its blade gleaming in the torchlight. He raised it high, its edge catching the fire’s glow.

“We will rally every tribe, every warrior! We will not mimic his title, but we will match his strength! From this moment, the Yong'an Empire has one purpose; to destroy their so-called Emperor! We will show this pretender that Yuechang kneels to no Mandate of Heaven but our own!”

The hall erupted in fervent cheers, the officials and warriors raising their fists, their voices a unified roar of defiance, “FOR YUECHANG! FOR THE SOUTHERN PLAIN!”

As time passed following Emperor Lang Yang’s bold declaration of his imperial title, the generals of Yong'an pressed their campaign into the eastern territories of Xuli. City by city, they carved through the once-mighty nation until the entire eastern expanse of the Central Plain bowed under Yong'an’s banners.

The campaign culminated in a triumphant conquest of the city of Cangshan, led by the indomitable General Zhangsun Miao, the Marquis of the Conquered City, whose name now resonated like a war drum across the empire.

In the palace hall, cold morning light pierced the intricately carved windows, casting golden motes of dust that danced in the air. Emperor Lang Yang, newly ascended to the divine mantle of the First Emperor of the Lang Dynasty, sat upright on his dragon throne, his gaze sharp and brimming with fervour.

At his side, behind a shimmering curtain of jade beads, Grand Empress Dowager Wang Ya presided, her presence as cold and unyielding as frost, her eyes watching every move in the court with predatory precision.

The atmosphere crackled with tension, but for Lang Yang, this was a day of affirmation. He had reclaimed the ancient capital and crushed Xuli’s resistance. Now, he would bind the loyalty of his Supreme Commander to the throne.

“The time has come,” his voice boomed, echoing through the silent hall, “After the glory of our eastern victories, I have made a decision that will secure the future of the Lang Dynasty of Yong'an. A decision that will unite the throne and our defence for eternity.”

Before the throne knelt Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo, the Supreme Commander, his face a stoic mask, though his wife, Madam An, stood beside him, her posture rigid with barely concealed dread.

At their side stood General Zhangsun Miao, freshly returned from the battlefield of Cangshan.^[37] Her light armour gleamed beneath a dark military robe, the dust of travel and the faint metallic tang of battle still clinging to her.

Summoned urgently from the frontline, she had been given no hint of this audience’s purpose. Her stance was resolute, but her thoughts drifted to An Kang, the courageous General of the Left awaiting her at the southern border.

Lang Yang’s lips curved into a faint smile, his eyes fixed on Zhangsun Miao, “General Zhangsun Miao,” he called, his voice softening with a personal warmth that sent a ripple of surprise through the court, “You have brought victory to Yong'an. Your courage has preserved the honour of our dynasty.”

A powerful, nearly physical wave of relief washed over Lang Yang. He had longed for this moment, for this sight of Zhangsun Miao, safe and intact, back in the palace hall. The constant worry had been a heavy cloak; he hated having to push her into battle, forcing her into danger, but the political necessities demanded it; her position had to be elevated so she could finally return to this very room, this very presence.

Zhangsun Miao stepped forward and knelt on one knee, her voice steady but deferential, “I merely fulfilled my duty, Your Majesty. This victory belongs to all our soldiers.”

“No,” Lang Yang countered, rising from his throne, his black-and-gold robe shimmering like liquid starlight, “This victory is yours, and I shall honour you with the highest distinction. By my decree; General Zhangsun Miao shall become the Empress of Yong'an, consort to the Dragon Throne and Mother of the Empire!”

The hall fell silent, as if the air itself had frozen. Not a breath stirred, not a bead clinked. The weight of the decree hung like a thundercloud over the court.

Lang Yang smiled, at last, the moment had arrived when he could claim her as his own.

Madam An swayed, her face draining of colour until it resembled winter frost. Her eyes met Zhangsun Bo’s in a wordless exchange of horror and desperation. They shared a deadly secret; Zhangsun Miao was not their blood daughter. She was the child of Lang Yang’s biological mother, the Xianle concubine erased from Yong'an’s official annals, entrusted to the Zhangsun family as a political shield.

Zhangsun Miao and Lang Yang were half-siblings, bound by maternal blood! A truth that, if revealed, would stain the throne with an unforgivable scandal and topple the dynasty.

A soft clink of beads broke the silence. Behind her curtain, Grand Empress Dowager Wang Ya sat motionless, her face instantly drained of colour. She knew the secret. She had schemed to install her own candidate as empress, but Lang Yang’s decree was a catastrophe. If this marriage occurred and the secret was exposed, it would pollute the Imperial bloodline, ruin the young Emperor’s image as the ‘Son of Heaven,’ and force her to admit that she had failed to safeguard the purity of the Palace under her watch.

Zhangsun Miao felt the floor lurch beneath her, her breath catching like a snapped bowstring. The honour did not shock her; it was the truth clawing at her soul. She knew the secret of her birth, shared only by her adoptive parents and a handful of old palace confidants. She loved Lang Yang as a brother, but her heart belonged to An Kang, whose quiet strength awaited her at the southern border. 

“Your Majesty!” she gasped, her voice breaking. She tried to rise, but her knees trembled, weak under the weight of the impossible choice. To accept was to betray her heart and blood; to reject without cause risked exposing the scandal.

In the corner, Empress Dowager Yiping^[38] hid a faint, calculating smile behind her sleeve. Years ago, she had planted this secret as a hidden dagger. Should Wang Ya attempt to derail the marriage for political gain, Yiping could threaten to unveil Zhangsun Miao’s true parentage, plunging the court into disgrace and chaos.

Grand Chancellor Zhao, standing among the ministers, stepped forward, his face a mask of cold protocol. He had to act swiftly to avert disaster. “Your Majesty!” he knelt, cupping his hands, his voice firm yet respectful, “I beg your pardon! This decree cannot stand!”

Lang Yang’s eyes narrowed, blazing with fury. “You dare defy the will of the Son of Heaven?” His voice thundered, shaking the golden dust in the air.“

I defy not your authority, Your Majesty, but protocol...” Zhao Gao replied, his head slightly bowed in calculated deference, “The selection of an empress requires the ritual of divination, the approval of the Three Lords, and the ratification of the Grand Empress Dowager. A sudden decree violates our ancestral laws. For the stability of the throne, I beseech Your Majesty to reconsider!”

A wave of relief washed over Wang Ya. Internally, she offered silent thanks for Zhao Gao’s swift action in averting the disaster of this marriage. The servant had proven his worth by placing dynastic protocol above all else, confirming himself as a reliable and loyal operator of the system that she currently controlled.

As Zhao Gao wielded the law as a shield, Grand Commandant Zhangsun Bo saw an opening to save his daughter and their honour. With tears that seemed genuine but were steeped in calculation, he stepped forward, cupped his hands and knelt, his voice trembling.

“Your Majesty,” he pleaded, “...my daughter, Huiming,^[39] is but a rough general, accustomed to the dust of battle and the clash of blades. She is a qianyuan, unfit to be the mother of the nation! I offer my heartfelt plea; I have another child, Zhangsun Hao, a kunze raised in the arts and ceremonies of the court. Let my other child, the worthy one, take this honour. Please, do not burden our Huiming with such a lofty role.”

Zhangsun Bo formally rejected his own daughter, cloaking his true motive, preventing incest and disgrace behind the guise of her unsuitability.

Zhangsun Miao, her face pale as frost, bowed deeply, endorsing her father’s refusal. It was their only escape, though her heart ached with the weight of the secret and the betrayal it forced upon her.

Lang Yang stood frozen, his fists clenched, his jaw tight with wounded pride. He gazed at Zhangsun Bo, his trusted military ally, now rejecting his decree.

He saw Grand Chancellor Zhao, once again obstructing his will.

But worst of all, he saw Zhangsun Miao, the woman he admired, acquiesce to the refusal.

Truthfully, he knew Zhangsun Hao quite well, having always regarded him as a prospective confidant who would, in the future, take over his father’s role as Grand Commandant, but he never expected him to be presented as a kunze. The scent of him at the time... it should have been obvious, especially given how Zhangsun Bo had repeatedly tried to draw Miao away and push Hao closer to the Emperor. But why?

Wouldn’t it be beneficial for the Zhangsun family, regardless of which child he would take as his Empress?

Why the strange insistence?

Behind the curtain, Grand Empress Dowager Wang Ya’s beads clinked softly, her silent victory complete. Without raising her voice, she had forced the Emperor to falter, humiliating his ally in the process.

Yet Lang Yang was not one to yield easily. His pride burned, but he knew defying ancestral law without preparation could spark dissent among his court.

“Very well,” he said at last, his voice low but resonant with barely restrained authority, “I accept Grand Commandant Zhangsun’s offer of his kunze son, Zhangsun Hao, as a candidate for Empress. However...” he raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that began to ripple through the hall, “...this matter requires further deliberation. The rituals of divination and the approvals of the Three Lords and the Grand Empress Dowager must be observed. I decree a postponement until the omens are clear and the court is fully prepared.”

The hall exhaled, the tension easing but not dissipating. Zhangsun Miao remained bowed, her heart pounding with a mix of relief and dread. She had escaped a catastrophic fate, but the secret of her birth hung like a blade over the dynasty.

Grand Chancellor Zhao rose and stepped back, his expression unreadable, while Zhangsun Bo and Madam An exchanged a glance of fragile hope.

Wang Ya remained immobile behind the silk screen, her sharp gaze cutting through the shadows as the Grand Commandant hastily put forth his kunze son as a replacement. Though an annoying concession, Zhangsun Hao was a tactical indemnity she could exploit. She would allow the offer, knowing the shamefully indebted Zhangsun Bo would sweat in the waiting.

The boy, she decided, would arrive at the palace months before the marriage for rigorous training. He would be scrutinised by her servants and educated by her tutors, learning that his first allegiance was to the Grand Empress Dowager—only to her.

Zhangsun Bo might believe he was expanding his influence, but he would receive a child remoulded into an extension of her influence in Lang Yang’s chambers. With this silent decision, she granted a small, measured nod to Zhao Gao, who understood that the game had progressed.

On the other side, Yiping had to conceal the stinging disappointment behind her thin smile. She had planted the seeds of the incest, hoping that the exposure of Zhangsun Miao’s secret would trigger a shattering crisis and utterly destroy Wang Ya. However, Zhao Gao and Zhangsun Bo had acted too swiftly and too cleverly; they chose to sacrifice the marriage rather than allow the advantageous scandal to surface. This failure meant that her secret weapon remained locked away, and the crisis she had hoped for failed to materialise.

...

..

.

As the court dispersed, whispers of the Emperor’s retracted decree spread like wildfire among the officials, each word laced with intrigue and speculation. Zhangsun Miao slipped away from the palace hall, her steps heavy as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors.

The grandeur of the palace, with its golden dust and cold light, felt suffocating, a gilded cage that threatened to trap her in its machinations. She needed to return to the southern border, to An Kang, where the simplicity of their shared moments by the campfire offered a fleeting refuge from the court’s intrigues.

But the secret of her birth, now stirred like a dragon roused from slumber, cast a shadow over her every thought. She donned her cloak, the faint scent of snow chrysanthemums clinging to it from her time at the border, and made her way to the stables, her mind a tempest of fear and resolve.

As she rode south through the frost-kissed plains, the wind carrying the bite of approaching winter, Zhangsun Miao’s thoughts churned.

The Emperor’s decree had nearly shattered her world, and though she had escaped, the secret of her birth remained a poison that could destroy not just her but the entire Lang Dynasty. She couldn’t yet tell An Kang the full truth—not the devastating reality that she was Lang Yang’s half-sister—but the thought of facing him, of hiding this burden, tore at her heart.

She was a general, forged in the crucible of battle, yet this secret made her feel as vulnerable as the village children she had taught to pray to Xuan Zhen, seeking protection from the chaos of war.

In the Heavenly Realm, Mu Qing stood in Xuan Zhen Palace, the air humming with another prayers from Yong'an’s eastern territories.

A new slip materialised on his altar; “Protect my son from Yuechang’s raiders.”

The looming war was fueling devotion to Xuan Zhen, but it also heightened the risk of Zhu An’s investigation.

“Jiangjun,” Chen Yang approached, bowing slightly, her voice urgent, “Since Zhu An knows Lady Zhangsun is your daughter, he’s petitioned Jun Wu for an audience, claiming your guidance of her victories violates heavenly law. If he digs deeper into her birth, he could find something to use against you.”

Mu Qing’s expression remained impassive, but his fingers tightened around the prayer slip, his maternal instincts warring with his divine resolve.

“Zhu An knows only what he’s been allowed to see,” he said coldly, his voice measured to avoid raising questions, “He’ll find no evidence of my interference unless we give him cause. Send Song Xiao to monitor his spies, and keep Pei Ming at bay, his meddling in Xuli has already stirred enough trouble for us.”

Mu Qing carefully avoided any hint of Lang Yang’s parentage, taking pains to keep this secret from all eyes. As a kunze, he had already repeatedly faced scrutiny for his emotional ties, and Zhu An’s accusations could exploit this to paint him as compromised. If Zhu An learned that Lang Yang was his son and reported it to Jun Wu, the Heavenly Emperor’s judgment could be severe.

FOOTNOTES:

^[37] _{Cāngshān (蒼山) is the former name of Lánlíng (蘭陵).}

^[38] _{Not long after Lang Yang declared himself Emperor, he succeeded in appointing Yiping as Empress Dowager (officially the Emperor’s mother).}

^[39] _{Zhangsun Miao’s courtesy name, she got it back in chapter 7 of ‘Of Gods and Dust’.}

A/N:

‘Jiangjun’ means ‘general’.

P.S.:

I WFO, and my work unit is currently understaffed, which is causing the updates to slow down.

I've found a lost pet cat, chubby and timid. At first I was annoyed, but then when she rubbed her head against my leg too, I just melted. Unfortunately, I didn't think to video it then. Since that moment, I call her ‘Mimi’, like Mu Qing's pet cat (too bad, she’s not golden-stripped).