"Ren… thank you. Your gift carries the weight of destiny, and I will guard it as sacred. In return, I offer you this blade—it belonged to my father, my master, and now it seeks your hand. Though I've found a sword that walks in harmony with me, this one feels destined to walk with you. Please… accept it."
"Master, I'm honoured. I'll treasure it with all my heart. I must leave my presence has stirred too much, and silence must follow. But know this: no matter where I tread, if your voice calls, I will return without hesitation."
"Then go, Shen. May your path carve legend into the stars. I believe it will. Farewell… you'll be missed."
"My true name is Ren Blackdragon. You honoured my silence, and so I entrust you with my truth. But know that Mìngjiè Xiānlù quakes beneath new banners. Change is no longer a shadow—it rises. I ask not your permission, but your alliance."
"I felt it in you from the start. I won't stand in the way."
Ren's Room
Lady Xuanhe reclined languidly across silken sheets, her robes draped with studied carelessness—more suggestion than concealment. Her gaze followed Ren as he packed with methodical silence.
"So, you're truly leaving this place?" she said, voice like velvet laced with smoke. "You'd do well to remain within the provinces of the Glass Lotus Sect. I've cultivated those lands into brilliance—they'll nourish you, even expedite that little goal of yours in Mìngjiè Xiānlù."
Ren paused. His expression betrayed nothing—still, unreadable.
"Thank you," he replied softly. "A promise binds me. When I step into the divine realm among the heavens of Mìngjiè Xiānlù… I will become your disciple."
Ren gave his farewells, one by one—each parting a stitch in the tapestry of Mìngjiè Xiānlù's shifting fate. Among those who gathered was Gao Yun, the portly cultivator who once scoffed at Ren upon his arrival. But pride had long since given way to humility, and Gao Yun now stood with quiet resolve.
He chose to follow Ren.
His cultivation had once plateaued—mediocre and uninspired—but under Ren's guidance, something ancient stirred within him. His progress, though still modest, held the promise of ascent. More importantly, his family, and even his often-disappointed wife, began to see him anew—not arrogant, but tempered. Not boastful, but gentle. Wisdom clung to him like morning dew, softening the edges of who he'd once been.
"Master Shen, where are we heading first?"
The eagerness in the disciple's voice shimmered like morning dew. "I can't wait to follow you to walk beside you across all the lands you tread."
Ren smiled, gaze tilting toward the window, where the wind tugged gently at the curtains.
"Wherever the weather pulls us," he murmured. "Let the skies chart our path. Our future isn't etched in stone, it breathes, just like the lands we walk."
Jade Beauty Inn
The scent of braised mountain pheasant and lotus-spiced rice drifted through the carved wood lattice as two figures settled into a lacquered booth. One, plain-faced but calm as moonlight; the other, round-bellied and grinning, cheeks flushed with anticipation.
"Order everything on the menu," the plain one said smoothly. "My friend and I have appetites worthy of ten lives."
The waiter, a slim youth with nervous eyes, froze for a beat, then bowed swiftly.
"R-right away, honoured guests. I hope your stay at Jade Beauty Inn is... unforgettable."
He hurried toward the kitchen, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the pair, now steeped in quiet laughter. The fat one had already unbuckled his belt.
The murmur from across the hall had the ring of bemused disbelief, like thunder heard through porcelain.
"By the heavens, those two are eating like a typhoon! Good thing we stocked up—else the whole pantry would vanish, and the other guests would be calling for divine retribution."
The clatter of chopsticks and sizzling woks was nearly drowned out by the quiet gossip bubbling beneath the surface.
"It's fine by me," muttered the innkeeper, wiping his brow with a silken rag. "That plain one's pockets are bottomless. With how much he's ordering, he'll have us bathing in spirit jade by morning."
One of the kitchen hands snorted. "I heard he's not plain at all. Some say he walks with thunder when he wants to… and that the fat one's no fool either. Just last week, he split a wine barrel with one palm—claimed it was 'accidental cultivation.'"
The inn pulsed with rumour and laughter, steam rising like myths reborn.
The innkeeper's eyes gleamed with mischievous pride."
Well then—it's time to send in all the beauties we've got. We don't call this place the Jade Beauty Inn for nothing!" he declared, clapping twice.
From behind the silk screens and carved columns came laughter like wind chimes. A procession of elegant cultivators glided forward—robes shimmering with the hues of twilight, hair adorned in pearls, steps measured like verses of an ancient poem.
"Three more for the pair at table five," the innkeeper instructed with theatrical flair. "Let's see if they can handle cosmic charm alongside their dumplings."
The room buzzed anew. Some guests leaned in with envy, while others did so with intrigue. Rumours danced like lantern light.
Ren paused mid-sip, the warmth of the liquor dancing in his chest like phoenix fire. Across the table, Gao Yun waved off another beauty who leaned in with playful eyes and a tray of glistening plum cakes.
"Ah… apologies," Gao Yun slurred gently, cheeks flushed with celestial wine. "I already have someone—the only one for me." He raised his cup in a shaky salute to no one in particular. "Most beautiful woman in the world. I'm just lucky she still puts up with me." Then he laughed, a deep, honest sound that cracked through the performance of the evening.
Ren chuckled softly. He knew the drink—they'd chosen the Moon-Veil Brew, forbidden to mortals, brewed from starflower and silent night dew. It clouded a cultivator's focus, but laid bare the heart.
The beauties retreated with graceful bows, as whispers stirred through the inn like rising mist. Some guests smiled; others scoffed.
One elder cultivator murmured, "Loyalty—so rare these days it ought to be immortalised."
Ren sipped his drink quietly, the din of laughter and swirling silks flowing around him like river mist. A half-dozen beauties circled, each practised in elegance, offering smiles layered with intrigue. He returned them with a polite nod—nothing more. His plain face gave nothing away, though his eyes saw too much.
Then his gaze settled on her.
A slender girl stood just beyond the lantern light, her presence muted, her cultivation aura barely a flicker. To others, she was forgettable—a soft blossom in the shadow of flame trees. But Ren narrowed his eyes. That concealment technique… it was masterful. Not suppressed, folded. Only someone with his level of discernment would even notice it, let alone grasp its complexity.
"Already?" Ren grumbled silently. "Barely a moment in, and another protagonist stepped onto the stage. What is this, fate on fast-forward?"
He sighed. The heavens had a sense of humour. Or cruelty.
A cherry blossom drifted gently, landing beside Ren's untouched cup like punctuation in a tale that had barely begun.
Across the room, the girl's lashes lifted, her expression serene as a mountain pool. She hadn't met Ren's gaze—not directly. But her posture shifted, just slightly. A subtle sweep of her senses had tickled something faint and watchful.
Her cultivation, though masked, reached out in quiet pulses. Reflexively, she scanned the room. No obvious threat. No spiritual force pressing in. Yet the feeling lingered—a hush in the heart, the sense of being seen not by the eye, but by something older.
She tilted her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if to listen more deeply.
"Someone knows," she thought. "But who?"
Ren, meanwhile, drank without distraction. His face betrayed nothing. Only in the quiet rhythm of his thoughts did he mutter:
Ren's expression didn't change—still polite, still faintly amused. He'd made no move to invite attention, but the dancer came anyway, drifting across the lacquered floor as if summoned by a thread unseen.
She perched lightly on his lap, her arm folding around his shoulder with practised grace. Lantern light danced on her cheek as she leaned in, smiling warmly.
Ren met her gaze, unbothered. "Quite bold," he murmured, tone gentle but unreadable.
Yet behind the dancer's smile, thoughts churned:
"Plain looking... Couldn't be him. No presence. No pressure. But something—something in that moment…"
She remembered the pulse. The flicker of cold awareness sweeps past her spirit veil. Like a beast's breath behind a curtain. Too close. And it hadn't come from the towering brutes by the hearth or the silver-robed alchemist at table nine.
Her fingers brushed against her waist, where a charm shaped like a fractured crescent moon pulsed faintly—a silent warning.
Ren sipped calmly, letting her presence settle like rain on wax.
"Just for fun," he thought. "Let her puzzle it out. I'm nobody, after all."
Ren allowed her touch, barely moving. Her fingertip tilted his chin with theatrical grace, and her eyes glimmered with warmth meant to dazzle.
"Might I ask your name, please… handsome?"
Ren didn't flinch, though the word echoed oddly in his ears, wrapped in silk and practised allure. He stared at her, plain-faced, unobtrusive, a figure designed by choice to blend, not captivate.
"Handsome?" he echoed inwardly, dry amusement rising. "She's lying. This face was sculpted for silence, not charm. I'm not even supposed to look average, just forgettable."
He took another measured sip of his drink—still waters. Still mask.
"I feel pity," he thought, "for anyone who lets themselves be moulded like a doll with sweet words and half-truths. That kind of flattery is a script, not a feeling."
And yet she remained, her smile unwavering, eyes fixed—perhaps not quite on him, but on what she thought he might be.
Ren extended his little finger with exaggerated solemnity, swaying just enough to sell the illusion of being tipsy. His eyes held a playful glint—not quite mischief, not quite mockery—as he said, slurred just slightly:
"I'm no one. I pinky promise."
The dancer blinked, momentarily stunned by the gesture. Her lips parted, unsure whether to laugh, accept, or retreat. She didn't touch his finger, but Ren could read the look on her face as clearly as spiritual scripture:
"What in the nine heavens is this guy doing?"
She tilted her head, confusion masked by her practised smile. In this world, pinky swears meant nothing—no lore, no contract, no sacred weight—just a strange gesture from a plain-faced man who wasn't playing by the script.
Ren chuckled inwardly.
"They don't know what a pinky swear is. Of course they don't. That's from another world... one where silly promises meant everything."
He let the moment hang—a quiet rebellion, a subtle joke, a tiny breach in cosmic decorum.
She hesitated for a breath, then lifted her hand—elegant, steady—and extended her pinky finger to Ren.
He clasped it lightly, reverently, as if sealing an oath the world didn't believe in. The gesture was small, but Ren let the silence linger around it, let its strangeness echo between them. His voice slipped through with a laugh that wasn't quite laughter:
"See? That promise means I'm nobody special. It's the kind of vow only the forgotten make. Just look at me—doesn't take a cultivator's gaze to see it, right, Gao Yun?"
No reply.
Ren turned.
Gao Yun was slumped sideways, arms limp, snoring like a felled ox in spring. His forehead rested against an untouched bowl of cloudfruit dumplings—a delicate morsel perched comically on his lip like a plum blossom caught in a storm.
Gao Yun was deep in dreamland, cheeks puffed like dumplings, snoring in slow crescendos. The table trembled slightly—not from spiritual force, but from the incoming fury of fur.
Mianmian, squirrel cultivator and justice incarnate, launched from a ren shoulder and landed squarely on his head.
Thwack!
She smacked his forehead with a nut so hard it rattled the plates. Gao Yun's eyes snapped open with a yelp that could startle celestial beasts.
"Master Mianmian—not again! That's cruelty to a sleeping disciple!"
She folded her arms, tail flicking with righteous disdain
She couldn't speak human language, but as her cultivation progressed, she would eventually be able to communicate like a human and assume a human form.
The dancer's expression remained composed—just barely. Her eyes flicked between Ren and the dumpling-smeared Gao Yun, who was quietly recovering from Mianmianut's nut-based revival. She shifted slightly in Ren's lap, graceful as moonlight rippling through silk, yet inwardly, her thoughts were sharp.
"It's not them either. Who could it be? It isn't this idiot. His cultivation's only at peak step 150—mine's at 160."
She resisted the urge to scoff outright, but the truth pressed against her chest like coiled thunder. No one at this table should've been capable of what she'd sensed. That intent—the one that pierced her spirit when the air stilled—had been overwhelming. Ancient. Vast. It wasn't mere pressure. It was personal, threaded with grief, defiance, and… recognition.
She lowered her gaze, watching Ren's hand rest casually on the table. So ordinary. So unthreatening.
Gao Yun blinked groggily, posture stiff as if he'd awoken from a century-long nap instead of a dumpling-induced slumber. He opened his mouth to thank the dancers—but paused when he saw Mianmian perched atop the table edge, tail flicking with surgical menace.
She wasn't chirping. She wasn't blinking.
She was staring.
One paw held a glistening nut, its surface engraved with faint spiritual runes. The other gripped a miniature bowl like a war drum.
"Try sleeping again," her eyes seemed to say, "and this next one won't be ceremonial."
Gao Yun swallowed hard and sat bolt upright, suddenly the model of decorum.
The dancers giggled softly, pouring his drink with elegant care, their smiles tinged with amusement at the squirrel-sized enforcer now deputised by divine irritation.
Mianmian nestled herself on Ren's shoulder like a sentinel of secrets, her tail curled around the edge of his collar, eyes locked on Gao Yun. She didn't blink—not for distraction, not for mercy. It wasn't suspicion. It was recognition.
She knew.
Not from declarations or dramatic reveals, but from the silences Ren carried—the pauses between sips, the weight of his gaze. The way time bent slightly around him, almost out of courtesy.
As the days folded into each other, Ren had spoken to her alone. He told her his real name. Told her why he'd come to this world, and what he intended to shape, sever, or save. Goals that pulsed with celestial ambition yet felt heartbreakingly human beneath.
Mianmian didn't follow him because he was powerful.
She followed because his strength made no demands on her. Because his ridiculous OP-ness wasn't bluster—it was inevitability wrapped in restraint.
And anyway, Gao Yun had begun chewing too loudly again.
The Nut Wasn't Just a Warning. It Was Judgment.
Mianmian arced the nut with divine precision—a graceful spiral that thunked directly onto Gao Yun's temple. Not enough to injure. Just enough to deliver ancestral shame.
He blinked. Chewing paused. Cheeks puffed in surprise.
Her tiny paws formed the unmistakable choreography of disgust:
—two swipes across her mouth,
—then a downward flick toward the plate,
—then one paw held high in condemnation, like a squirrel cleric invoking divine table manners.
The dancers stifled laughter, while Ren didn't even bother. He chuckled aloud, raising his cup.
"You've violated the Treaty of Chewing," he murmured. "She's invoked Clause Four. The Mouth Must Close."
Gao Yun, chastened, adjusted his posture and began to chew so delicately he could've been sampling moon petals on a lotus breeze.
And Mianmian?
She sniffed once, nestled back onto Ren's shoulder like a queen who had momentarily descended to scold the peasants.
Empress Bai leaned into the golden curve of her throne, feathers glinting with sovereign fire. A phoenix in spirit and truth, she radiated warmth that could melt arrogance and rebirth empires. Her laughter, light but resonant, carried across the terrace like sunrise teasing the horizon.
Beside her, Talia lounged with practised menace—eternal night braided into the strands of her hair, a vampire of regal hunger. She smirked at Bai's words, fangs catching silver light.
Mariko, youngest and most elusive, traced patterns in the mist with claw-tipped fingers. A Kitsune in full bloom, her eyes shimmered in nine hues, each one watching the scene below with layered intrigue. She didn't speak—but her tail flicked in amusement.
Below them, Mianmian rested against Ren's shoulder with a kind of possessive serenity. But it wasn't loyalty. It was gravity.
"She's quite taken with our husband," Bai whispered, almost conspiratorially.
"I wouldn't be surprised," she continued, voice dancing like embers, "if she learns to shift into human form one day…"
She paused, glowing, then giggled again. "Well… let's leave it at that."
"It's been so long since I was in my real form,"
Talia muttered, voice laced with nightshade and memory. "It's hard to pretend this new identity fits. Like trying to wear borrowed moonlight."
Her blood-red hair poured over her shoulders in silken waves, glowing faintly in the divine realm's ambient twilight. Eyes—impossible in hue, glacial yet burning—tracked movement with vampiric precision. Pale skin shimmered like porcelain kissed by shadow, uncanny and astonishing. She wasn't trying to be beautiful. She was, in a way, like predation, elegant when worn like silk.
Mariko's tails flicked in sympathy, while Bai glanced over with quiet understanding—phoenix eyes always seeing through layers.
"Then stop pretending," Bai offered gently. "Let the night wear you again. It always did look better on you than in daylight."
Empress Bai's voice rang clear, resonant beneath her phoenix plumage, weaving heat and wisdom into the very atmosphere.
"After all, you're in my divine realm. Here, we can take our proper forms without anyone knowing who we are. This world isn't meant to recognise us yet—not entirely. We're here to learn within its cultivation frameworks.
We were already powerful, already eternal. But with cultivation, our abilities have expanded exponentially—not because we needed it to survive, but because it allows us to explore existence in a new dimension.
We are true immortals. Our lifespans need no extension.
What we seek now is the evolution of spirit."
"I'm beautiful in any form, big sister," Talia said, brushing crimson strands behind one ear, her fangs glinting just slightly in the divine light. "Whether bathed in night or standing beneath daylight's glare, I remain unmistakably me. And Ren would agree."
Her voice lingered like velvet dusk—unapologetically poised, striking in both shadow and truth.
Empress Bai chuckled softly, feathers rustling in delight.
Mariko tilted her foxfire gaze, one tail flicking in playful agreement.
Mist rippled across the marble skywalks of Eternal as Mariko approached, her countless tails trailing like glimmers of forgotten seasons. Each step echoed with foxfire serenity, but her words crackled with something less delicate.
"Mother's been complaining again," she said, sidling up beside Empress Bai with an exaggerated sigh. "She says if Ren doesn't show up soon, she's going to cause chaos and havoc down below—just for fun."
A beat.
Then a sharp flick of one tail.
Then another.
"You know what she's like when she's bored."
Bai raised her cup slowly, phoenix eyes narrowing.
"She's not bluffing, is she?"
Mariko's grin shimmered—sweet, mischievous, and foreboding.
"Not even a little."
Behind them, Talia arched a crimson brow.
"She did flood a mid-tier realm once over a delayed dinner."
Sakura, cousin to Ren, stepped into the scene with pink-white hair that drifted like cherry blossomsin bloom.
As she walked, she played her flute—soft notes lifting as if beckoning memory itself. With each breath of music, she transcended into the divine realm, her presence a quiet ripple through Bai's sanctum.
From above, she gazed down at Ren, a gentle longing stirring within her.
It was familiar—this ache.
She'd felt it before.
After the Eternal War scarred Earth, Sakura chose isolation. She practised. She waited. She kept to herself beneath the weight of silence. Yet even then, Ren found time to visit—quiet moments offered like lanterns in winter.
Now, the divine realm was as silent as a hush.
She missed him still.
Mariko jumped and gave her a big hug; after all, they were the best of friends.
"Don't worry, Ren. We'll be up here soon. You know how he is—he always likes to take his time with things. Remember during the Eternal War when it took us six months to conquer all of Asia? It should have only taken us a day, really, but he wanted it to last a bit longer to see how far the humans would go to protect their lands from us."
Then came Cecillia Morningstar's mother-in-law—though "lover" and "future wife" better defined her claim to Ren's soul. She descended with raven-dark hair cascading like night, violet eyes flickering with mischievous intent and infernal knowing. Her lips curled into a wicked smirk as she peered down into the realm below, where Ren lingered. "You're retaking your sweet time," she murmured, voice soaked in velvet and shadow. "Does mother no longer stir your flame?" Desire coiled through her as ancient hunger ignited—a need only Ren could answer. Not with illusions, not with borrowed gestures. With truth. With touch. With the intimacy that shattered pride and quenched fire. "I miss you," she whispered, trembling with restraint. "The ache is deeper than lust—it's woven into me now. Reach me, beloved. Find the places only you know, where even flame kneels to your touch."
Talia took a languid sip from her bloodwine chalice, its rim shimmering with dusklight.
A slow grin unfurled—equal parts tease and quiet accusation.
"I'm surprised you're not already causing havoc down there to snag Ren's attention," she murmured, eyes glittering.
"Mischief and illusion are your finest weapons... aren't they, darling mother?
"She's right, you know, Cecillia," said Stella with a teasing edge. "Last I checked, didn't you stir up a bit of mischief with Guinevere? Confused her with your usual antics."
She was here as well.
Now it seemed everyone had gathered in Bai's divine realm—
Aho Miles stood grounded in quiet strength,
Azekiel's aura flickered with stormlight,
Raiden Pendragon loomed in calm readiness,
Ena Dominion drifted with moonlit grace,
Lucis Black followed like a shadow burned into dusk.
Aihan Min and Yuki Chibana exchanged silent glances, watchers of the threshold.
The Eight Eternal Generals stood tall in their ancient vigil.
Snow the White Wolf prowled like frost embodied.
Anastasia Black Swan unfolded her elegance without a word.
Veyna Blackdragon's wings curled, restless with heat.
And Guinevere...
She stood quietly among them, eyes unreadable, drawn perhaps by more than memory.
Many others had arrived, too—gathered not by accident, but pulled by the slow gravity of Ren's presence.
Something inevitable was about to unfold.
Guinevere had turned Anastasia Black Swan—her closest friend—even before they arrived in Mìngjiè Xiānlù.
Anastasia had ascended, transforming into a true immortal, a black swan in both name and form.
They had come willingly, knowing that service to the Eternal Nine Royal Families still lingered.
Yet things weren't so dire—they had a voice, however small, and the adjustment came quicker than expected.
It wasn't so bad.
Ena also looked at Ren.
She hadn't forgotten the last time.
The last time she saw him…
She always grew annoyed at how easily Ren had broken through the shield she kept—her defence against being hurt again, especially after the affair with Raiden involving her brother.
Nothing else had happened between them.
But Ren…
Ren had come close. His hand had nearly touched somewhere—intimate, private. And yet, Ena had held herself together.
She didn't show it.
Not on her face. Not to him.
Then she saw Raiden watching her with a faint smile.
Her brother stood beside him, as always.
Her brother smiled too—just a little.
They tried their hardest to atone.
For what they did to her.
But their efforts never seemed to reach the place where it mattered most.
Snow—the white wolf whose breath once danced with winter—now stood in human form.
She had learned how to shift at will.
Ren had granted her the ability before she came here.
Not with ritual. Not with ceremony.
But with trust.
And something unspoken that passed between them, like moonlight brushing the edge of frost.
Her fur became flesh, her silence became voice, and the ancient wildness in her heart learned the rhythm of steps, of words, of waiting.
She was anticipating facing him again.
Not just for closure.
But to find out more—
More about who he was.
More about what lingered in his touch, his gaze, his silence.
Snow, once pure instinct and frost, now walked with human eyes…
And they burned with curiosity; only Ren could answer.
"It'll be good to see him again," Azekiel murmured, his gaze lifting toward the veiled horizon of the divine realm.
"Once he ascends... I'll know if the fire in his soul survived the crossing."
There was no fanfare in Azekiel's voice.
Just the quiet ache of one who remembered power, before it remembered him.
"He'll be fine," Aho said, baring a glimpse of her wolf fangs.
"After all, we're talking about Ren.
There's nothing he can't do."
Her tone was half challenge, half prayer.
"His power is limitless—yes, ours too, in ways—but not like Ren.
He's the first to gain immortality across all realities, worlds, dimensions... and whatever lies between."
Lucis shifted uneasily.
"Aho is right, Azekiel. I haven't seen Ren's restraint truly fracture—not yet. That other side of him... It's been quiet for a while. Last I saw, he was still holding it back."
Azekiel's wings unfurled with slow finality. "That's the trouble. With Ren, you don't see the slip—not when it begins. He eases back into the habits like shadows finding a host. And by the time you notice… It's already too late."
Venya leaned against the threshold, voice edged with curiosity.
"Bai, you've been close to Lady Xuanhe lately, right? What do you think of her?" A pause. "I mean… It's obvious, isn't it? She'll end up as one of Ren's wives."
Bai's gaze was thoughtful, distant. "Lady Xuanhe… she's quiet thunder. Graceful, yes—but she listens like the heavens take notes. If she joins Ren, it won't be because fate scripted it—it'll be because she made the stars rewrite themselves."
"It will feel good to conquer Mìngjiè Xiānlù,"
Venya said, her voice fierce and steady. "Once this is done, we'll set our sights on another realm. There's always more to claim."
She smiled, eyes burning like twin embers of ambition. "I can't wait to offer it to our children, Ren—to gift them a world shaped by fire, will, and our name."
Venya gave a soft laugh, the kind that masked wonder behind mischief.
"Seeing Ren's future wife and child step into the past like that… I mean, come on. Don't you think that's wild?"
She glanced around, eyes gleaming. "Too bad they didn't stick around longer—it would've made things deliciously complicated."
Cecillia tilted her head, voice lilting like moonlight on a blade.
"I'm more curious who'll bear the first child," she said, almost playfully.
A hush followed.
Ren's wives and lovers glanced around, each face a mask of composure stirred by silent calculations. One looked to the stars, another to the ground, and the third—perhaps the one who knew—smiled without smiling.
Time didn't answer, but Severance stirred.
"Yuki Chibana," said Eternal Empress Bai, her tone light but unmistakably pointed. "You haven't spoken. Are you thinking about your delayed wedding?"
Yuki glanced up, eyes calm but distant.
"A little," she admitted. "I'd like it to be held at my family's estate on Earth—that's my preference. After all this is over… I do want to marry him."
Her hands folded neatly in her lap. "My family's always wanted this union, and I'm willing. I just—" she hesitated, then smiled faintly, "—I'd like to know him better. Even if it was arranged."
"I think that's a wonderful idea," Raiden said, nodding toward Yuki. "Marriage is beautiful… especially when it works out."
The words lingered—a beat too long, a note too sharp.
He glanced at Ena. Not a flicker. No shift in posture, no change in gaze.
Her silence hurt more than a confrontation ever could.
Raiden swallowed, throat tightening.
Did she hear the second meaning?
He prayed she hadn't.
But guilt sat heavy.
It was his fault.
Jealousy had poisoned his choices, led him down corridors he never should've walked. The last betrayal—unspeakable, unforgivable. Her brother. Their shared room.
Ena had walked in, and something in her was still permanent.
Since then, she'd built a quiet shield—especially around men who showed interest.
Raiden had watched it rise, helpless. A fortress made not from anger, but from self-preservation.
And yet, a flicker returned:
That moment between Ena and Ren.
Brief. Charged.
Raiden had tried to laugh it off, pretend he didn't care.
But he did.
Just a little.
"Raiden's right," Ena said softly, eyes on Yuki but meaning pointed. "I know it'll work out beautifully for you two. Ren trusts his partners completely. He never doubts them. He always believes."
She smiled—not the kind that masked hurt, but one that chose hope anyway.
Raiden caught the weight of her words.
He smiled too.
That wasn't just for Yuki.
It was for him.
Back at the Jade Beauty Inn, Ren had managed to slip out from under her gaze.
"I told her I was wasted and just wanted sleep," he muttered to himself, half amused, half cautious.
She was sharp—too sharp.
He hadn't let her sense much, just a shimmer of intent.
But she'd picked up on it anyway.
"I'm impressed," he admitted quietly, eyes tracing the inn's lantern-lit ceiling.
"I gave her a whisper, and she nearly heard the whole song."
Ren entered the room without a sound.
Gao Yun lay sprawled in sleep, limbs relaxed but breath steady—guarded even in dreams.
On Ren's shoulder, Mianmian hadn't stirred, her tiny form curled close like dusk folded into flesh.
He crossed to the bed and eased down, the mattress dipping beneath purpose and weariness.
Outside, the moon hung wide and silver, watching like a silent god.
Ren tilted his head toward it.
His eyes, once dark as void, caught the light.
And in its gaze—
They shimmered.
Crimson threaded through the black, blooming like blood beneath ice.
His true colour.
Not for the battlefield.
Not for the ceremony.
Just the quiet, when no one else was looking.
He felt it first—a ripple in the air, like feathers brushing the back of his neck.
Ren shifted, eyes narrowing as they tracked the room's shadows.
And then he saw her.
She was watching.
Sharp-eyed. Unmoving. A presence masked in stillness.
Like a hawk on a branch, waiting.
She hadn't let it go—not the evasion, not the half-lie.
Ren's pulse didn't change.
He was drunk. Or at least, he wore it well.
Slurred movements. A stagger to the window.
He reached out.
Closed it slowly. Deliberately.
As if the moonlight were too loud.
She didn't blink.
Ren didn't speak.
Didn't react. Didn't acknowledge her presence.
Just turned his back and let sleep claim the mask.
In the morning, Ren was surrounded by jade beauties once again—as was Gao Yun, of course.
Yet Gao Yun sat untouched, his fidelity a quiet marvel in a world steeped in temptation.
A faithful husband—rare in any realm, but nearly mythic in cultivation novels, where romance often tangles with spirit pacts and dual cultivation rites disguised as love.
Ren, by contrast, reclined amid dancers draped around him, sipping his drink with casual elegance.
He didn't touch them, yet he didn't send them away either.
This was the Jade Beauty Inn, after all—where the women moved like silk given sentience, trained in the subtle arts of charm, distraction, and ritualised desire.
Their laughter laced the incense haze, glimmers in their eyes dancing like polished firelight.
To some, they were companions.
To Ren, they were atmosphere—graceful, hollow, familiar.
He welcomed their presence but lived apart from it.
He saw the woman again.
She was still performing mortal—
a jade beauty dancer in the Jade Beauty Inn,
with moon-pale skin and eyes that curved like questions.
Her cultivation was buried deep, folded beneath soft silks and gentle steps.
Most would be fooled.
Ren wasn't.
She never once looked directly at him—
Yet he could tell.
Her gaze grazed him sideways, brushed the air near his table,
like fingers testing flame without touching it.
She was watching.
Feeling.
Her senses were sharp.
She was one of many protagonists in this realm—Mìngjiè Xiānlù,
The world of fate threads and false destinies.
Ren knew how those stories worked.
So did she.
Suspicion lingered behind her measured grace.
She didn't have proof—just instinct.
And instinct told her the plain boy sitting in the corner,
the one who looked eighteen and drank like he had all eternity—
wasn't ordinary.
There was strangeness to him.
It pressed against her senses like a whisper she couldn't ignore.
She couldn't think of anyone else it could be.
Even without certainty, doubt had already curled into her spine.
Ren could feel it.
And he didn't mind.
Suspicion was better than certainty.
It left room for silence to bloom.
Ren got up, paid one final time, and left the Jade Beauty Inn with his companions: Mianmian and Gao Yun.
By the time the lanterns dimmed, Ren and Gao Yun were already in the sky—cloud-stepping through early dusk.
Mianmian was fast asleep on Ren's shoulder, breath steady, head nestled against his robe.
Gao Yun glanced sideways, brows furrowing.
"Why are we leaving now, Master Shen?" he asked, voice low.
"Shouldn't we stay a bit longer? We're not in a rush… right?"
They had been there for nearly two months.
Ren had said he wanted to enjoy the sights—to linger without battle or intrigue.
The Jade Beauty Inn had become familiar: the dancers, the innkeeper's dry humour, the scent of plum wine drifting through its halls.
Ren didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked ahead—past the mountain ridges, beyond the fading clouds.
Wherever his gaze landed, it wasn't on the scenery.
Finally, he spoke.
"It's that woman."
Ren said, voice quiet but edged with certainty.
"She acts mortal—but she's a cultivator like us. Better, even."
He didn't look at Gao Yun when he spoke; he just kept flying steadily through the sky.
"I've already told you who I am and what my plans are. You chose to stick with me. So I'll protect you."
Gao Yun glanced at him, startled by the shift in tone.
"She's stronger than you. Stronger than most," Ren continued.
"She's at Peak Step 160. That's not something you stumble into."
"You know how hard it is—most cultivators get stuck at Step 10. They spend decades chasing breakthroughs that never come."
He adjusted Mianmian gently on his shoulder, shielding her from the wind.
"So when someone reaches Step 160, and still chooses to act like they're ordinary... it means they're not here to play games. She suspects me. She felt something. And right now, that's enough for me to move."
"I'm not in the mood to mess around—" Ren's tone was flat. Final.
"Not with her. Not with any of them.
Protagonist aura, antagonist aura, anti-hero mystique—
It's all the same bluster once you've buried a few 'chosen ones.'"
Gao Yun's chubby cheeks puffed as he frowned.
"I still don't understand, Master Shen," he said.
"What do you mean by 'protagonist'... and all the others?"
His voice was earnest, confused—the kind that made even cosmic truths seem like bedtime stories.
Ren didn't laugh.
Instead, he turned slightly, the wind brushing strands of hair from his brow.
"It's a script, Gao Yun."
"The heavens write it. Fate brands people in it."
"Some are given a protagonist aura—the golden glow, the plot armour. Others carry the darker shades. Antagonist aura. Anti-hero status. Villainous arcs that echo with thunder."
Gao Yun blinked. "So it's… roles?"
Ren nodded.
"Roles. But this realm doesn't cast fairly. It repeats stories, not justice."
He looked ahead to where stars were beginning to scatter across the dusk.
Gao Yun scrunched his brows, cheeks puffed with genuine confusion.
"Background character? What's that, Master Shen?"
Ren didn't answer right away.
He glanced at the horizon—where the clouds folded like unread scrolls.
"It means I chose not to stand in the centre of fate's script."
"Not the chosen one. Not the villain. Not even the rival cultivator sent to test someone's growth."
"I move through the story without demanding it revolve around me."
Gao Yun blinked, still lost.
Ren gave a faint smile.
"It's freedom. You stay close to the edges—quiet, watching."
"And when the protagonists fall apart under their aura, you're the one still standing."
Gao Yun scratched his head, genuine perplexity shadowing his gaze.
"Background character? What's that, Master Shen?"
Ren didn't answer immediately.
He turned toward the horizon, where clouds coiled like ancient dragons asleep in scripture.
"It means I chose not to stand in the centre of fate's script."
"Not the chosen one. Not the villain. Not even the rival who sharpens another's resolve."
"I walk through the story without demanding it orbit me."
Gao Yun squinted, lips pursed.
"But Master... I don't understand."
"You're clearer than anyone I've met. Even a fool like me can tell—you're the centre of it all."
He hesitated, eyes wide.
"Strongest being I've ever laid eyes on."
"Every moment bends your way, whether you mean it or not."
"What's that like?"
Ren's laugh came soft—less mirth, more memory.
"Strongest?"
His hand settled on his sheathed blade, thumb tracing the hilt like it held a thousand regrets.
"The world shifts for me. Not because I command it, but because my stillness disrupts its rhythm."
"It feels like... never tasting surprise."
"Conflicts crumble before they ignite. Thrones lower themselves without ceremony."
"Even silence treats me like prophecy."
He looked at Gao Yun then, not with arrogance—but with an ache carved from centuries.
"And yet... I don't remember how to hope."
"How to beg fate for a chance, and be denied."
"To fail gloriously, and fight to rise again."
Ren's voice quieted.
"You call me the centre. Maybe that's just another kind of prison."
"Where the narrative curves to me not from love... but from obligation."
Gao Yun opened his mouth, then closed it—words too small for the weight Ren carried.
Gao Yun lowered his voice, almost apologetic.
"That must be lonely, Master."
Ren said nothing at first. His eyes traced the distant ridges of heaven's canopy, as if searching for something long vanished.
"To be the strongest being in the world," Gao Yun continued,
"and never lose anything…"
"Your achievements must feel like nothing to you now."
Ren's laugh—if it could be called that—was a breath against eternity.
"They do."
"Victory without resistance... is just movement."
He stepped forward, and the heavens did not roar. They yielded.
"The blade sings. The crowd kneels. They call me peerless."
"But no one asks how it feels to win every duel and lose every reason to draw."
He let his hand fall from the hilt, slowly.
"I once lost."
"Not a battle."
"A vow."
Gao Yun looked up, startled.
Ren's gaze was calm—but beneath it, storms whispered.
"She was my reason to hope."
"Her name was a promise I failed to keep."
"The heavens wept that day. But I did not."
"Because loss, when you're worshipped, becomes blasphemy."
Gao Yun flinched.
Ren didn't notice—he was already retreating into silence.
"You envy strength."
"I envy struggle."
"They get to beg fate and sometimes... be denied."
"I am never denied. And I am never truly answered."
A breeze stirred. It moved around Ren, reverent—like, even the wind knew not to touch him directly.
Gao Yun's hands clenched at his sides.
And in that stillness, he made a vow he didn't speak aloud:
To remember Ren's loneliness. Not to cure it. Just to hold it. So it didn't vanish like all his victories.
Gao Yun's voice was hushed, reverent.
"Master, might I ask... who was that woman?"
Ren's gaze didn't lift.
But his voice—when it came—was gentler than heaven's breath.
"She was my elder sister."
"She died as a mortal."
A silence passed, vast as starlit oceans.
"I was with her on her last day."
He looked upward—not toward the heavens, but beyond them.
"My homeworld was called Earth."
"A place without cultivation. No gods. No magic. No celestial order."
"Just animals, humans, and civilisations that grew because someone dared to dream."
"She dreamed for me."
"And when she died… the rest felt meaningless."
He let his words trail off—like incense dissipating into dusk.
Gao Yun bowed his head.
"Thank you for trusting me, Master. I'll keep this a secret."
Then he hesitated.
"But... I don't understand. After everything you told me, why aren't you wary of me?"
"Isn't 'forget' a foolish thing to say?"
Ren's reply came quietly—but it didn't comfort.
"Because even if you tried to do something…"
"You couldn't."
He stepped forward. The ground didn't tremble—but the heavens flinched.
"I cannot die."
"Not in the way that matters."
"The only thing that can kill me... is me."
"And even if I did end myself—I would return."
"The stars would drag me back, the scripts would rewrite themselves to resurrect me."
"Power like mine doesn't break."
"It bends the world around it until meaning collapses."
He turned toward Gao Yun, gaze thunderous in its emptiness.
"That's why people should be careful when they wish for more power."
"Because the more you hold... the less the world means."
Ren's voice dropped to a whisper.
Ren's voice was quieter now, not fragile—but worn.
Ren stood still as dusk wrapped the horizon.
His words fell slowly, as if unspooling across lifetimes.
"Yet I still strive for more."
"Not because I need it."
"But because I don't know how to stop."
"It's my nature."
"To grow stronger and stronger—even when strength no longer matters."
"I face others, weaker than me, just to feel something stir within this eternity."
"Not for conquest. Not for challenge. Simply to keep the silence entertained."
"You think immortality is peace."
"But it's an endless hallway of reflections. None of them change. None of them surprises me."
Ren's gaze lifted—slow, distant, and devoid of illusion.
"But in truth?"
"I'm not entirely alone."
"I still have my companions. My lovers. My wives. My family."
"They remain. They speak. They laugh. They remind me that not all things dissolve into the void."
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips.
"I'm lucky for that."
"Truly."
"Because if they weren't here… if they ever vanished…"
"Then even I might forget what it means to be alive."
They stopped flying and made camp on the mountainside.
Ren cast a glance downslope, expression unreadable.
"For god's sake," he said softly, almost to the wind.
"She followed us. Persistent little thing, isn't she, Gao Yun?"
"She is, Master." Gao Yun squinted into the dusk. "Wait… that woman you spoke about—she's one of the Jade Beauty Dancers, isn't she?"
He paused, breath catching.
"She's the protagonist, then. Master, I—could you explain that again? I'm sorry. I just want to get this through my head."
"In most stories, the protagonist is singular—the central figure around whom everything turns. But in this world, it's different. There are many protagonists, each forging their path. The same applies across other cultivation realms.
In most realms, heaven punishes those who attempt to ascend too far, too fast. But not here. In this world, heaven doesn't strike down—it tests. It challenges cultivators to prove themselves worthy.
That's why the cultivation levels are called steps, like a staircase, because there's no upper limit. No ceiling. Just an endless climb, one step at a time. And each step asks, not 'can you?'—but 'should you?'"
"I see… then I understand now. I'm sorry for my slowness, Master. Please forgive me."
Gao Yun hesitated, then asked, "By the way, Master—why is she following us? What did we do to her? I truly don't understand."
Ren smiled—lightly, as if the truth amused him and burdened him all at once.
"Because she's sharp. Sharper than most," he said. "It's my fault. I let her feel me watching—with intent. I recognised her as one of the world's main characters."
He paused, the weight behind his words stirring the air.
"It wasn't long ago that I killed Liáng Xu and Fei Yan. Gifted cultivators, yes—but their personalities were twisted, corrupted by arrogance and entitlement."
He turned, gaze distant.
"They were what this world calls anti-protagonists. Not villains. Just... flawed souls whose choices resisted growth and courted ruin."
"I expect those two to return," Ren murmured. "That shadowed god means to bring them back."
"Their disciple, Yuēn Sīzhào—the sect leader of Blood Orchid—wants them revived. Whatever his reason, it won't be simple."
He paused, voice sharpened by memory.
"It's a volatile mix. All three of them love the same woman."
"Yuēn's love is tangled with hatred. But for Liáng Xu and Fei Yan, it was pure desire—possessive, burning, relentless."
Ren glanced at the horizon, as if expecting fate to fold inward.
"Resurrection won't calm that storm. It'll feed it."
The jade beauty dancer—unclaimed by sect, veiled by memory—had finally found them.
She stood at the edge of the field, breath slow, listening for sound.
Yet no matter how close she came, she heard nothing.
Ren. It had to be him.
His cultivation was strange—disruptive. His presence blurred the natural flow of perception. She should've heard their words from this distance. She'd always been able to, especially since she refined her soul-sense in the mirror courts.
But now?
"He's the one," she murmured. "That strange intent... It wasn't Gao Yun. It came from the plain-looking boy."
"He's hiding something beneath that foolish grin. Something that bent the air around me."
She took a step forward, not closer to them—but deeper into her suspicion.
"Master, should we get rid of her somehow?"
Ren didn't answer at once. He watched her silhouette flicker like an unfinished tale—wind in her hair, silence in her steps, something threaded between their lives and hers.
"No," he said at last. "She might benefit us. Even if I didn't want to deal with another protagonist so soon… luck isn't always dressed for the role."
"She could be the storm that shifts our path."
The disciple scowled, sincere in every word.
"But Master—we already have you."
"You're the best there is. You're lucky enough."
Ren breathed once, deeply.
"Fine," he said, brushing dust from his robes like annoyance.
"Then let's lose her again. Shall we?"
She stepped forward, ready to speak—to confront, or perhaps join them.
But before her voice reached the air, their space was already empty.
Not vanished.
Disappeared. Instantly.
No motion. No ripple. No trace.
Just pure absence.
The disciple blinked, rattled by the fracture in reality.
"Master… what cultivation technique was that?"
Ren didn't look back. He rarely did.
"Wasn't a technique."
"Just something I can do."
"I go where I want. When I want."
Now they walked among mortals.
The market swelled with life—
narrow alleys crammed with silk vendors,
perfumed air tangled with the smoke of grilled lotus roots.
Red and gold buildings rose tall,
draped in imperial sigils and wealth-slicked banners.
This was no border village.
No forgotten sect stronghold.
This was an empire.
And it was flourishing.
Despite their sudden arrival, no one noticed.
Not a glance. Not a whisper.
Ren and Gao Yun moved through the crowds
like they'd always belonged—
wrapped in a myth so quiet,
Even fate struggled to mark it.
The pathways were tight.
Movement slow.
The empire pulsed with prosperity—
so thick with life,
It dulled even divinity.
"Plenty of hidden cultivators here. Gods, too, I'd wager," Ren said,
"Just like that jade beauty dancer we left far behind.
Veiled behind mortal pace.
Not shunned. No... more likely, the empire's trying to appeal to them.
Wrap its ideals in a tone they'll tolerate.
Polite of them."Ren smiled—
not kindly.
Then he noticed something.
A royal carriage, lacquered in obsidian and pulled by myth-blooded horses,
slid through the avenue without challenge.
From its shadow stepped a man and a woman—
The Emperor and Empress.
They didn't need introductions.
Their presence bent the air.
Both striking in their own right—
power laced into posture, elegance sharpened by myth.
Ren's gaze lingered on the Empress.
Her beauty wasn't modest, nor hidden.
It was crafted to unsettle gods.
Hips sculpted for lineage.
Posture forged to command.
Impossible to ignore,
even for one who had seen the divine undressed.
Ren smiled again—this time, like someone remembering a debt unpaid.
He had to restrain himself.
He didn't want to be a horn-dog every time he met a woman he liked.
Sure, he didn't mind having a harem—
But he refused to give the impression that every attractive woman would become his.
People often said others were drawn to him in strange ways.
It was true.
Men, women, even cultivators with broken hearts or divine ambitions.
They sought him.
Not for beauty. Not for power.
But for something that felt myth-bound and untethered.
Even men gazed at him with longing.
Though Ren never reciprocated.
He only desired women.
Still, it pleased him, quietly,
to stir attraction across boundaries.
Of course, no one saw the real Ren now.
He was disguised—
wearing the plain face of Shen Wuiyn,
The unremarkable background character.
He had worn it since arriving in Mìngjiè Xiānlù—
a name layered in implication.
Land of clarity.
Or concealed destiny.
Depending on who dared translate it.
Ren wore anonymity like silk—
soft to the touch, impossible to tear.
Even his silence felt deliberate.
He didn't vanish into crowds…
He bent them around him.
Ren studied them more closely.
They weren't just gods in disguise.
And they weren't quite mortal either.
Their cultivation was veiled expertly—
hidden not just beneath mortal pace,
but behind something deeper.
A different thread in humanity.
Yes, they looked human.
But their movements held a precision too refined,
a silence too purposeful.
Their qi braided through dimensions the average cultivator couldn't sense.
It wasn't just concealment—
It was a composition.
They were a different species.
Human, but evolved sideways.
Old blood, reshaped through celestial bargains or mortal rebellion.
Ren felt it.
The Empress's aura hummed with lineage—
not just royal, but myth-bound.
The Emperor's rhythm spoke of a soul tempered not by cultivation,
but by command.
They ruled the mortal realm.
But they weren't truly part of it.
They controlled it like artists guiding a brush—
neither divine nor mortal.
Just… outside.
Fairy Jin had warned him to stay in the Level Ten Province.
She'd said nothing good would come of drifting far.
But Ren had drifted anyway.
He wasn't worried, even if she was.
She knew what he was—what he could become.
Her worry was softness, not doubt.
Still… he hadn't expected this.
A realm ruled by something human,
but not quite.
"I see now," Ren thought.
"They are Ancient Gods—descendants of the original species that shaped this world."
To uncover their truth, he invoked one of his rarest abilities:
The power to know anything he wished—should he allow it?
Usually, he resisted that gift.
Ren preferred discovery through feeling,
through surprise.
He let reality unfold.
But this time, the mystery tugged too hard.
So he relented.
In an instant, truth bloomed within him:
They are not mere rulers.
They are echoes of the Origin Epoch—
gods woven from cosmic lattice,
survivors of eras no longer spoken of.
Their species did not cultivate in stages.
They were cultivation—alive before the Dao fractured into schools and scriptures.
And now, veiled in mortal guise,
they walk among empires.
Ren narrowed his gaze, letting the weight of recognition settle.
They bore a name he knew—echoed in Renegade Immortal.
But these weren't the same.
Not exactly.
Similar in stature.
Similar in origin.
Yet divergent.
These gods were not carved from the old cultivation moulds.
They had evolved—
through silence, mortal imitation, centuries of empire and self-erasure.
What they shared with that ancient species was the spine of myth.
What they lacked was its heartbeat.
And perhaps… that was the point.
If so, then the whispers were true.
Ancient demons and devils lingered at the edges of history.
But here, in this fractured realm,
the ancient gods reigned supreme.
They were the most powerful of the Three.
And they did not need to prove it.
The Emperor and Empress turned their gaze toward Ren.
He wasn't standing apart.
He wasn't glowing.
He wasn't even visible at first glance.
He stood behind the crowd—
half-shadowed, mingling with merchants, beggars, and cultivators who hadn't noticed a thing.
And yet…
The unease swelled.
Quiet. Absolute.
They felt it—not in their minds, but in their bones.
A presence.
Unfathomable.
Effortless.
It surpassed their own.
Not because it flaunted strength,
but because it didn't need to.
They couldn't figure it out.
Who—in this simple market, beneath sun-washed awnings and incense smoke—could carry that kind of weight?
They kept searching.
But Ren had not stepped forward.
He didn't need to.
The silence bent toward him all the same.
"This market's simple, to them," Ren murmured with a chuckle.
Gao Yun blinked, confused. "Master… what's so funny? I don't see it."
Ren's gaze lingered on the Emperor and Empress,
their posture faltering, just slightly.
"Nothing important," he said softly.
"Just those two rulers thinking this market looks simple.
If other sovereigns heard them say that, they'd be offended."
He swept his eyes across the vibrant sprawl:
relic trading, faded sutras chanted through smoke,
cultivators moving like prayers written in flesh.
"This much spectacle…
this much lived-in empire…
And they call it ordinary.
That's amusing."
Gao Yun frowned. "Master… I can't sense any cultivators here. Where are we?"
Ren didn't break stride.
"There are cultivators here," he said. "Even gods. And other things… concealed."
He paused, letting recognition settle like dust.
"They're hiding themselves.
Just like that jade beauty dancer we left behind."
"But master… why?"
"It seems to be the rule here," Ren said quietly,
"that all beings—cultivators, gods, demons—must walk as mortals,
speak as mortals, breathe as mortals."
He turned slightly, gaze unreadable.
"It's not suppression. It's etiquette."
Ren spoke with that quiet sigh that always seemed heavier than sound itself.
"Well... it looks like I've gone and disturbed something again. Only the Emperor and Empress felt it—because I let them. Just a rule, bent gently at the seam. I didn't mean to shake their myth. Or maybe I did. Terrible background character, aren't I? Always sidling into the frame and breathing where I shouldn't."
Gao Yun gave a soft exhale, half amusement, half inevitability.
"You do have that habit, Master. The moment something catches your interest, silence forgets how to behave. You must be very bored."
"It's fine. I just need to improve my acting, that's all. I've got all the time in the world to work on it. Sooner or later, I'll become the perfect background character—quiet, forgettable, obedient—in this world of Mìngjiè Xiānlù. That's the role, isn't it? To pass through without consequence. To breathe without drawing notice. To feel everything, and show none of it."
Ren stood at the edge of the market, veiled not by spell or concealment, but by the sheer indifference of reality to those who do not seek its permission. The Emperor and Empress meandered through silk stalls and incense smoke, playing at mortality with the grace of forgotten gods. Ren watched—not with curiosity, not yet—but with that distant patience reserved for tectonic shifts beneath polished stone.
Then, the shadows stirred.
Assassins, cloaked in dust and silence, moved as if fate had promised them success. Their blades poised. Their timing is perfect. The moment is almost sacred in its precision.
But before steel could kiss imperial skin, a boy—not older than sixteen, robed in muted gold and the unmistakable air of royalty—moved like myth remembering its edge. Swift, clean, and unhesitating. Blades clattered to the cobblestones. Silence returned, broken and breathless.
Ren didn't blink. Didn't intervene.
He exhaled through the smallest smile and muttered beneath it, just loud enough for Gao Yun to hear:
"Not another protagonist. I swear, I can't catch a break. This world has a terrible habit of hurling them into my path like divine confetti."
Gao Yun, still watching the boy's final stance, deadpanned without turning:
"Perhaps they're drawn to where the story hesitates."
Ren tilted his head.
"I don't hesitate. I just enjoy the pause before everything reshapes itself."
The Emperor's voice was firm, more concerned than angry.
"Son… you did not need to intervene. I have my imperial guard—they exist to protect your mother and me. Where are your escorts? Don't tell me you left them behind again."
The young prince lowered his gaze, one hand still on his blade.
"I'm sorry, Father. If you must punish me, I'll accept it. But with Elder Sister away, I swore I'd protect you in her place. I promised her."
Ren glanced down, and there she was—Mianmian, warm and drowsy from waking, pressing her chubby cheeks against his with that absentminded tenderness only she could conjure. Her tiny gesture wasn't practised, wasn't intentional. Just… instinctive. A soft echo of trust.
He offered her a nut—simple, rich, slightly honey-glazed—and she nibbled with quiet delight, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking like a sleepy fanfare. Gao Yun observed the scene, still tethered to the crowd, sensing Ren's shift.
Ren said softly, more to himself than to his disciple,
"Let's find somewhere calm. Mianmian's restless. She deserves better than a market's chaos."
He didn't wait for Gao Yun's reply.
This wasn't about movement—it was about warmth.
About making room for minor softness in a world that too often crushed it beneath grandeur.
Ren turned toward a quieter street—one lined with lanterns whose flames hummed with gentle qi, toward guesthouses whose walls seemed woven from silence and shade. Mianmian pressed her little paws against his collar and blinked.
Ren chuckled.
"Don't worry. We'll find you somewhere comfortable. Somewhere safe."
Ren glanced down, and there she was—Mianmian, warm and drowsy, pressing her chubby cheeks against his with instinctive tenderness. Her gesture, unthinking and intimate, drew out a softness in him he rarely revealed. He gave her a honey-glazed nut, which she nibbled with quiet delight, tail flicking in sleepy fanfare.
Gao Yun, still lingering in the market's press, watched with mounting annoyance—and perhaps a thread of envy.
"You spoil her too much, Master," he grumbled, his cheeks puffed with complaint.
A sharp thud. Mianmian had lobbed a nut directly at his forehead.
She fixed him with a look—half queen, half gremlin.
A silent command pulsed through that gaze: "Shut up. You're my lackey, and Ren is mine. Understood?"
Gao Yun rubbed his temple, chastened but trying not to sulk too visibly.
Ren chuckled and touched the old scar on Gao Yun's head, sending a gentle pulse of healing qi.
"Don't I spoil you, too? You eat like a celebration," he said. "Maybe I should stop indulging both of you. Mianmian needs to learn gentleness. You—portion control."
Gao Yun muttered something inaudible. Mianmian resumed nibbling, triumphant.
Ren adjusted her blanket as he turned down a quiet, lantern-lit street, seeking a guesthouse of quiet qi and forgiving pillows.
"Let's find somewhere soft," he said. "Someplace that won't mind a tiny empress and her gluttonous disciple."
Gao Yun's face was a swirl of frustration and vulnerability, each word laced with that earnest storm only youth can summon.
"I'm your disciple, Master. Not hers. I'm just her servant, and she treats me like it. I can't take it anymore."
But Mianmian didn't even glance at him. She remained curled in Ren's arms, gaze lifted toward her master with unwavering devotion—an adoration so pure it made Gao Yun ache.
He watched the way her soft paws settled against Ren's robe, the way her breath synced unconsciously with his. It wasn't fair. It was wild.
And yet, somewhere in Gao Yun's twisted thoughts, an idea brewed. A warning to himself, really:
"If she ever turns human," he muttered beneath his breath, "she won't waste time. She'll try to sleep with him. Probably even have his babies."
Ren didn't react immediately—his silence, as usual, held weight. He adjusted Mianmian's blanket again, eyes scanning the quiet street ahead.
"You speak like someone who feels forgotten," Ren finally said, calm but firm. "But devotion, Gao Yun… it manifests in different ways. Yours is loud. Hers is quiet. Neither makes you lesser."
Gao Yun looked down, unsure what part of him felt seen or scolded.
"Still," Ren continued with a wry smile, "I'll speak to her about fair treatment. Even empresses need humility, now and then."
"You should call your wife, Gao Yun," Ren said gently. "She misses you terribly. Loves you deeply—even back when you were still at early Step One. You hadn't achieved much, yet she saw something worthy long before you did."
Gao Yun's eyes lowered, shame softening his voice.
"Master… please. Don't remind me. I was naive. Barely scratching the surface of cultivation. I gave her every reason to doubt me—immaturity, arrogance, even neglect."
He exhaled, shoulders heavy with memory.
"But she stayed. She believed in me. Never strayed, never once gave up. I'm blessed beyond merit to be loved like that."
Ren smiled with quiet affection, a glint of reverence in his gaze.
"That you are, my dear friend. And such loyalty mustn't be taken for granted. Cherish her—not just for the devotion she's shown, but for the man you've become because of it."
"I'll do that now, Master."
Gao Yun bowed, not out of habit, but reverence. Then he turned and exited quietly, robes swaying behind him like the tail of a departing storm.
In this realm, there were no phones—but cultivators with steady qi and sufficient memory could use a Spirit Echo Mirror: a translucent crystal bound to the essence of one's beloved. Each mirror resonated through a bond formed at birth, marriage, or sacrifice, transmitting voice and presence like water flowing between two joined cups.
He stepped into a private chamber, lit only by drifting paper lanterns. The Spirit Echo shimmered on a pedestal, pulsing faintly with the energy of the one who waited far away.
Gao Yun placed his hand gently on the crystal.
"My love," he said, voice low, aching. "I should've called sooner."
The mirror pulsed once. Her voice, soft and steady, emerged from the rippling light:
"I missed you. Every hour, every heartbeat."
Gao Yun closed his eyes, the weight of memory and gratitude pressing against his chest.