She opened her eyes. She was somewhere else. The sky shimmered with colours that felt like memory. The ground pulsed beneath her feet, alive with unseen rhythm. She did not recognise this place. But she was not alone. Many beings surrounded her. Cultivators. Humans. Ancient gods. Ancient devils. Ancient demons. And others—beings whose forms flickered between truth and myth, whose presence bent the air. They all looked human. But some were not.
She was in the Nether Realm of Mìngjiè Xiānlù. It was not hell. It was not heaven. It was the place between, where souls came when the heavens weren't finished with them. Here, trials were personal. Cosmic. Cruel. Some would pass. Some would fail. But failure here did not mean erasure. It meant restart. Those who faltered would begin again—reborn into the cultivation world, stripped of power, memory intact, progress slowed. A longer journey. A heavier burden. But not the end. Her trial came. It was not lightning this time. It was silent. A mirror. A choice. She faced it. She endured it. She chose. And the realm shifted. She passed.
But just as Princess Lianhua Tianchen stepped toward the door of light, it vanished. In its place, a surge of dark green light enveloped her. Smoke curled around her feet. Shadows thickened. The air grew heavy with silence and scent—like crushed herbs and ancient incense. The colours shifted—green upon green, deep and luminous, like forest depths and serpent eyes. And then she saw her. A massive throne rose from the mist, carved from obsidian and veined with emerald light. Upon it sat a woman. She wore a crown—elegant, sharp, regal. Her skin gleamed smooth as jade, catching the green light like polished stone. She was beautiful. Undeniably so. And she knew it. Her robes were cut to reveal—not by accident, but by design. She showed her skin like a weapon. Not for seduction. For dominance. Her gaze met Lianhua's. It did not blink. It did not soften. It simply held.
She spoke. Her voice rang out—not from her lips alone, but from the very walls, the smoke, the shadows. It echoed loudly, yet every syllable was beautiful, like a melody woven from silver strings and thunder. Lianhua felt it in her chest, in her spine, in the marrow of her bones. It was not just a voice. It was music. A song of power. A hymn of dominion. The woman did not rise. She did not need to. Her presence filled the chamber like a tide, and her words—though few—carried the weight of centuries.
"So," she said, voice curling like smoke, "Emperor Aizen has finally returned."
She leaned forward, resting her chin on one hand, her jade-like fingers tapping the armrest with idle grace."I wondered when he would. And you… You're his disciple."
Her eyes swept over Lianhua—not with lust, but with assessment, as if weighing her soul against a memory.
"Interesting. Ren always did have exquisite taste in women."
She smiled, slow and knowing. Not kind.
"Then again… he and I were a thing, long ago."
Her hand drifted to her belly. She rubbed it gently, almost reverently.
But there was no bump. No child. Only the gesture.
Lianhua felt a chill—not from the air, but from the implication.
Was it a lie? A warning? Or something far more ancient— a claim that transcended time?
She smiled again, but this time it was a softer smile. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… ancient. Her hand lingered on her belly, and the green light around her pulsed—slow, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.
Her voice rang like a bell struck in a temple long abandoned.
Smoke curled around her throne, and the shadows behind her seemed to stir—like sleeping things dreaming of birth.
She looked up, eyes gleaming with something between longing and wrath.
Lianhua's voice was steady, but her heart beat like a war drum.
The woman did not rise. She remained seated on her throne, legs crossed, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, the other cradling her belly in that slow, deliberate gesture. Stillness radiated from her— not passive, but sovereign. The green light thickened. The shadows bowed.
Her crown shimmered, and the smoke behind her twisted into the shape of a gate— one that led nowhere, and everywhere.
Her jade skin gleamed like moonlight on deep water, and the throne beneath her pulsed with veins of emerald light— alive, ancient, watching.
Her voice was calm, yet it carried the weight of forgotten wars and truths long sealed.
She paused. The air itself seemed to hush, as if the realm leaned inward, reverent and expectant.
"My name is Mìngjiè Xiānlù," she said, each syllable etched with ancestral authority.
"Ancestor of the Ancient Nether Clan. Emperor Aizen created more than three Ancient Clans."
Her presence was not boastful—it was a reckoning.
The name echoed— not just in the chamber, but in Lianhua's bones. It was a name that should not be spoken, and yet now it had been. Green smoke curled around her like loyal serpents. Her eyes glowed. Not with fire. Not with rage. But with green— dark green, like deep forests and buried secrets, and light green, like spring leaves and newborn souls. The two shades danced within her gaze, never mixing, never fading. It was as if her eyes held the entire cycle of life and death— the Nether Realm's truth, and the immortal path's cost. She looked at Lianhua, and though she did not speak, her silence was louder than thunder.
Lianhua stepped forward, her brow furrowed.
"Your name… It's the same as the realm we live in. The three Ancient Clans created it. Why wasn't your clan mentioned? Or the others? Why is your name the same as the realm? I don't understand."
The Empress remained seated. Her gaze was steady, her voice smooth as jade—unmoving, unshaken.
"It would have been too long a list," she said.
"So we chose three. Simplicity is easier to worship."
She let the silence stretch, then added,
"And my name works well for this realm. It represents what it represents."
She tapped one finger against the armrest, and the green smoke behind her shifted—briefly forming the sigils of forgotten clans, then fading into mist.
"The history of Mìngjiè Xiānlù was never meant to be complete. It was meant to be palatable."
Her eyes glowed brighter—dark green and light green swirling like twin storms.
"We let the world remember three. But there are many more. We all have our duties. We all have our burdens."
She leaned back, her voice soft but unyielding.
"Omission is not erasure. We were never gone. Just… unspoken."
The Empress remained seated on her throne, carved from obsidian and veined with soulstone. Mist curled around its base like memory refusing to fade. Her voice was calm, almost bored, but every syllable rang with finality.
She didn't move. Didn't blink. Only the green fire in her eyes shifted—once, like a heartbeat.
A pause. Not for effect, but for truth.
Her fingers traced the armrest, where the sigil of the Ancient Nether Clan pulsed faintly.
She leaned back, not in weariness, but in certainty.
The Empress remained seated, her throne humming softly with ancestral weight. "There are other species here. Other clans. The Nether Realm is vast— not just a graveyard of failed ascension, but a world of its own."
She tilted her head slightly, as if listening to distant voices. "Some came here by accident. Others by choice. And some were born here, shaped by the Realm's silence and its trials."
Her fingers tapped once against the throne's armrest. "Usually, they join my clan."
A flicker of green light danced across her eyes—neither pride nor arrogance, just inevitability. "Not because they're forced. But because they understand. The Ancient Nether Clan doesn't promise glory. It promises truth. And the chance to begin again."
The Empress remained seated, unmoved by time, unmoved by pity. Her voice dropped—no longer the voice of a sovereign, but of a woman who had waited too long. "Tell Ren… I'm still here."
The mist around her throne thickened, pulsing with quiet grief. "Still waiting for him to see me. After all—"
She placed one hand gently on her stomach, where the green fire dimmed to a soft glow. "He should at least check on the woman carrying his children in her belly."
Silence followed. Not the silence of absence— but the silence of a truth too heavy to speak again.
Lianhua bowed low, her voice soft with reverence.
"Of course, Your Grace. Before I leave… May I ask— Is Ren his real name?"
The Empress remained seated, her gaze distant, her hand still resting on her belly.
She did not hesitate.
"Yes. That is his real name."
A pause. Then, with quiet finality:
"Ren Blackdragon."
The name echoed through the chamber, and the mist around the throne shifted—briefly forming the silhouette of a dragon with obsidian wings, then fading into silence.
The Empress remained seated, her hand still resting on her belly. Her voice was quiet, but it cut like a blade honed by centuries. "Now leave."
Lianhua hesitated, sensing something deeper behind the words. The Empress's eyes dimmed—not with weakness, but with memory. "I have no wish to see another disciple of Shen Wuyin."
She paused. Then added, almost bitterly: "Or Ren. Or whatever name he wears when he chooses to forget me."
The mist around her throne pulsed—green, then black, then still. "Not today. Not while I carry his children and he carries no memory of me."
She turned her head slightly, dismissing Lianhua not with anger, but with the unbearable weight of love unmet. "Go."
All at once, she gasped— air flooding her lungs like light breaking through shadow. She sat up in her bed, heart pounding, skin warm, breath steady. Her hands trembled as she touched her face, her chest, her belly— checking, confirming.
The room was quiet for a heartbeat—then the door burst open. Her parents rushed in, tears streaming, arms wide. They embraced her with a warmth that melted every shard of fear.
She clung to them, voice cracking with joy.
Her mother kissed her forehead. Her father held her tighter, as if afraid she'd vanish again. Outside, the morning sun rose— and somewhere, deep in the Nether Realm, a throne pulsed once, then fell silent.
She barely had time to breathe before the door burst open again. "Big Sister!"
Her little brother ran to her, face streaked with tears and snot, his small frame trembling with relief. Only ten years old— and already so talented, already so burdened by the weight of cultivation. He threw himself into her arms, sobbing. "You're okay… You're really okay…"
She held him close, stroking his hair, feeling the warmth of his tiny body against hers. "I'm here," she whispered. "I came back."
Outside, the sun climbed higher. Inside, the room filled with the quiet sounds of love— the kind that no realm, no trial, no throne could ever erase.
Her other siblings arrived one by one— children of the Emperor's other wives, each bearing the mark of noble blood, each raised with discipline, grace, and quiet pride. Despite the size of the harem, there was no chaos. No rivalry. No bitterness. The Emperor's principal wife—her mother— had long ensured the balance. She ruled the inner court not with fear, but with wisdom.
And because of her, the siblings grew up not as strangers, but as family. They rushed to her now— some older, some younger— embracing her, laughing, crying, relieved beyond words.
She smiled through tears, surrounded by the children of a dynasty, held together not by power, but by love.
Ren sat cross-legged in the prison cell. His breath is slow. His pulse is silent. He had passed his trial. No fanfare. No collapse. Just inevitability. Step 500. The Demigod Realm. Around him, the air shimmered— not with heat, but with Ancient God Qi, drawn from the marrow of creation itself. It flowed into him endlessly. It would never run out. It was infinite. And still—he improved. His eyes remained closed. His body—still. His soul expands like a star reborn. He didn't need the Nether Trial. He didn't need to die and return. He was Ren. The Realm acknowledged him. The heavens bent around him. Even silence seemed to hum in reverence.
Then Princess Lianhua Tianchen came. She entered alone, her steps light, her presence veiled in reverence. She bowed deeply— to her master, to her forefather— the one who had created her ancestor, the origin of her bloodline and path. Her voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of legacy, longing, and fate.
Ren did not stir.
But the Ancient God Qi around him pulsed—once, twice, then thrice.
Each pulse deeper than the last,
as if the Realm itself had heard her name—
and memory, long buried, began to stir.