A long silence passed between them. Then Ren leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. "Have you calmed down now, my little Xiānlù?" She didn't answer. Not with words. But her grip tightened. And for the first time in more than aeons, she let herself be held. Her breath slowed. The storm inside her hadn't vanished—but it had found a shore. Ren held her as if she were made of stars and sorrow. And she let him. Another silence stretched, vast and gentle. Then she spoke—hoarse, but clear. "You always call me little Xiānlù," she said. Her gaze drifted to his front left shoulder, just near his chest. Ren followed it, then reached across and drew out the axe. The wound sealed instantly—no blood, no scar. As if it had never been.
"Why do you hate that nickname?" Ren asked softly. "You used to come running whenever I said it." "I'm fine with it," she said, voice quiet but steady. Then, after a pause, she looked up at him. "And you're still my Yělóng," she murmured. The name lingered between them—what she used to call him, when they were alone. Ren didn't speak. But something in his gaze shifted—like a memory stirred, or a wound soothed.
Ren looked at her belly. There was more than one life. Three lives were there. Not echoes. Not fragments. Three distinct pulses—steady, real. His children. He hugged her deeper. "I'm sorry for making you feel abandoned. For making you feel like you weren't loved." She teared up against his shoulder. "I'm sorry too. I was dramatic. I acted like a child. I just… didn't know how to bear the silence without you."
"I have to leave soon," he said. She instantly grabbed him tighter. She was afraid—this time, he might not come back for her. She kissed him on the lips. Bliss surged through her. It had been so long since she'd tasted him. She held him possessively, desperately. "Please don't go yet," she whispered. "Stay a bit longer. Just a bit longer."
He hugged her for a long time after that. It was quiet. Still, time was frozen. He just looked at her—at her eyes, dark green and light green, emerald and storm. At her thick, loose hair. At the crown she wore—the crown of the Nether Empress. "I love you, my little Xiānlù," he said. "I love you, Yělóng," she whispered. "But I also hate you." Ren just smirked at that.
Ren returned to the mortal empire of Tianchen. But this time, he didn't come alone. She stood beside him—crowned, radiant, quiet. Mìngjiè Xiānlù. Her presence bent the light, softened the air, and made even the walls remember. They didn't walk through the gates. They teleported—straight into the heart of the imperial palace. No warning. No procession. Just arrived. The throne hall stilled. Time paused. The Emperor and Empress of Tianchen rose from their seats. They didn't demand an explanation. They didn't question protocol. They welcomed them. Not with ceremony. With reverence. The Emperor stepped forward first, eyes wide but steady. "True immortal," he said. "You've returned." Ren nodded once. "I have." Then the Empress of Tianchen turned to the Nether Empress. "You honour us, Ancestor," she said. Mìngjiè Xiānlù looked at her, nodded once, and said nothing. She stayed close to Ren—closer than breath, closer than shadow. She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Ren returned to the cell he had chosen. It was humble, silent, carved from stone older than the empire itself. Unadorned. Unassuming. But it was steeped in rich, limitless, ancient god-qi. The air thrummed with ancient divinity—vast, unclaimed, and waiting. Every breath refined his soul. Every moment deepened his cultivation. With a flick of his sleeve, the room transformed. Jade light rippled across the walls—silken drapes unfurled from nothing. A celestial bed formed—woven from starlight and memory. Incense lit itself. The air grew warm, fragrant with the scent of lotus and thunder. Mìngjiè Xiānlù stepped in behind him. She said nothing. She sat on the bed, her crown tilting slightly, her gaze unreadable. Then she looked at him. Raised both hands. Asked for a hug. Ren crossed the room in silence. Held her. She leaned into him—not like the Nether Empress, but like a woman who had endured too much silence. Her breath slowed. Her grip tightened. No words passed between them. But the qi in the room stilled. Even the walls seemed to bow to their status.
The next morning, Ren and Mìngjiè Xiānlù still lay in bed. Ren woke first. He was already robed— as if sleep had never touched him. He looked at her, still sleeping, her breath calm, her fury dormant. Outside the DragonHold, two ancient figures stood waiting. The Ancestor of the Ancient God Clan. The Ancestor of the Ancient Demon Clan. They bowed as Ren stepped into view. "True Immortal," they said, "It is good you have returned." Their eyes drifted to the sleeping figure behind him.
Mìngjiè Xiānlù. It seemed reconciliation had taken place. That was good, they both thought. Necessary. But memory lingered. They remembered the day he vanished— without warning, without farewell. She had wept. Not quietly. Not alone. Her pain was too vast for silence. She turned it outward, onto the world. Sects were shattered. Sacred lands burned. Temples fell beneath the weight of her sorrow. Even the other women he had left behind— they did not grieve together. They turned on each other. Not just with words. Not just with tears. But with soul-forged weapons, and techniques born of heartbreak. Pain became fury. Fury became war. And through it all, Mìngjiè Xiānlù stood unyielding— not broken, but burning.
"It's good to see you two again," Ren said quietly. "It's been too long. You've done well with your clans. So much has changed here… even Mìngjiè Xiānlù's realm breathes differently now." Hei'ān of the Ancient Devil Clan arrived soon after. He bowed low before Ren— not out of duty, but worship. Countless other Ancient Clans followed. They came in reverence. They came in silence. But not all came in person.
Some of the envoys came from Ancient Clans ruled by male Ancestors. Ren had been involved with women within those clans— not rulers, but ones whose lives had been reshaped by his presence. Their bloodlines, once quiet, now carried his mark. They, too, were pregnant. Others came from the clans ruled by female Ancestors. These were different. Ren had been involved with the sovereigns themselves— women who held power, history, and now, his children.
None of them came in person. They sent others. Descendants. Disciples. Shadows. And every envoy came from power. Not one clan was weak. Not one bloodline was fading. These were the pillars of the realm—the Ancient Clans, whose names shaped history, whose authority carved the heavens. Ren understood. Their absence was not rejection. It was pain. It was protection. It was the quiet, sacred distance between a returning man and the wombs that now carried his legacy. They were all pregnant. And none of them could face him. Not yet.
DragonHold was Spacious enough to hold the countless Ancient Clans— and still feel empty. He turned, his gaze falling on little Xiānlù's sleeping figure on the bed. She was still asleep. Curled softly, breath steady. She must have been exhausted— after everything that happened yesterday. Their reunion. The fight. Ren didn't move. Didn't speak. The room held silence like a shrine.
"It is good to see you all again," Ren said, his voice low, steady, and unmistakably ancient. "After all… it has been more than aeons since I last saw your faces." His gaze swept the assembly—some familiar, some impossibly changed. "And I see new faces. That too is good. You've done well without me. You've grown, endured, guided yourselves in my absence." He paused—not for drama, but for truth. "But I have returned for one purpose." The air thickened. "To claim Mìngjiè Xiānlù's realm as part of the Eternal Empire." Silence. "This world—this realm—was not born of you alone. Your clans, your ancestors… they forged it with me."
"I'm in no rush to take this place." His voice was quiet, but it bent the air. "The appearance you see— it is not my true form." He let the truth settle. "Some of you know this. Some of you may not." "Since returning here, I've taken the name Shen Wuyin." A name that walked among them unnoticed. "That is what you will call me— when we are near others who do not know who I truly am." He paused, gaze steady. "When those who do not know me are no longer near… you may speak my real name." "Ren."
"You will continue your duties— as you have before my return." His tone was firm, but not dismissive. "But know this: when I call upon you, at least one of you must answer." He let the weight of that promise settle. "And you may do the same. If you need me— call." He turned, eyes scanning the horizon. "I must relearn this place. It has changed… more than I expected." "I came here long ago with no cultivation. But now I do." "I will learn your ways. I will gain more power—because I can." "And I will use it." "Against those who dare oppose me— against those who would resist my claim to Mìngjiè Xiānlù's realm." His voice darkened. "So be prepared." "Be prepared for war."
They began to yell his name. "True Immortal!" "True Immortal!" "True Immortal!" "Emperor!" "Emperor!" "Emperor!" The chant rose like thunder, echoing through the sanctum carved for gods.
And then— Ren let his true spirit beast emerge.
Dread. The Black Dragon.
It tore through the veil of concealment, coiling into existence with a roar that bent reality. So vast, no measure could contain it. Its wings eclipsed the sky. Its breath—dark flame—lit the heavens above.
They were not in a room. Not a hall. They stood within Dragonhold— Ren's personal sanctum, forged in the age before ages, built to house the beast no realm could bind.
The space was planetary in scale, its walls etched with ancestral sigils, its ceiling open to stars that no longer existed.
The dragon spoke, voice deep and ancient: "Master… it has been so long since you last summoned me." "It is good to finally see you again." It exhaled, and the sky burned black.
And then— from the shadowed edge of Dragonhold, a figure emerged.
Xiānlù. Loose robes trailing like mist, eyes still heavy with sleep, but presence unmistakable.
She stepped behind Ren, wrapped her arms around him, and pressed her cheek to his back.
"You woke me up, Yělóng," she murmured, voice soft, teasing, but threaded with something ancient. "You'd better put me back to sleep later."
She hugged tighter, her breath steady against his spine.