Gǔlóng Yáo landed in her throne room— high above the realms, where the sky bled colour and the clouds trembled. Thunder cracked. Lightning split the heavens. The storm followed her like a loyal beast. She didn't walk. She descended. Each step is a tremor. Each breath is a warning. She was immortal. Divine. Unyielding. But not today. "Leave. All of you. Now." Her voice wasn't loud. It was absolute. Fury carved into command. The attendants fled. The guards vanished. Even the storm beasts retreated. She stood alone. Then she screamed. Not words. Not names. Just grief. The weather screamed with her. Thunder roared. Lightning howled. Clouds shattered. She summoned her lightning whip— a weapon forged from stormlight and sorrow. And she lashed out. At the pillars. At the walls. At the sacred carvings that told her story. She destroyed everything. Not because she hated it. But because it reminded her of him. Of restraint. Of waiting. Of silence. The throne cracked. The sky darkened. The storm became her voice. She screamed again. And the heavens wept.
"Why, True Immortal?" Her voice cracked like thunder. "Why couldn't you just hold me—tight—in your arms? I would've said yes. Easily. No hesitation." She screamed. Not in the sky. At the silence he left behind. "I can't forgive him. Not easily. Not ever." She stood tall. Proud. Furious. "I am of the Ancient Dragon Clan. The most prideful of all dragon species. Born of the Mìngjié Xiānlù realm. We do not bend. We do not forget." Her eyes burned. Her voice became a storm. "I will make you kneel at my feet. To earn my forgiveness. You spiteful, detestable man. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, True Immortal." She looked down. At her belly. Flat. Still. "The only thing you left behind… were our children."
She whispered— "I hate you. I love you. I wish you'd never come back. I wish you'd never left." The words didn't rise. They sank. Into the stone. Into the wind. Into the silence that remembered him better than she wanted to. Each line was a wound. Each breath, a scar reopened. She didn't say it to be heard. She said it because silence had become unbearable. And the storm didn't answer. It wept. Quietly. Like it understood.
She looked at her flat belly. Still. Silent. Unchanged. She'd been carrying them for more than aeons. Like the others. Like the women he left behind. But she hadn't given birth. Not once. Not yet. She didn't know why. She couldn't think why. And she didn't care to find out. The question had stopped mattering. Long ago. It wasn't a mystery. It was a sentence. She carried them because she did. Because they were his. Because they were hers. Because time had stopped meaning anything. She touched her belly. Not with tenderness. With habit. And whispered— "You're still here. That's enough." The wind moved. Not to comfort. To remind her, she was still alive.
Sometimes, she wished she could kill him. Permanently. Just once. Just enough to end her suffering. Not out of hatred. Out of exhaustion. But it would be pointless. Ren doesn't stay dead. Not for long. Not ever. He comes back. Whenever he pleases. Whenever he decides. Especially because— He's the only one who can kill himself. That truth was worse than any betrayal. Worse than silence. Worse than goodbye. She couldn't end him. Couldn't stop him. He couldn't even feel it. Because pain only reaches him when he chooses to let it. And he rarely chooses. She sat in the ruins of her throne room. Stormlight flickering across broken stone. And whispered— "I don't want you dead. I want you gone. Gone in a way that means something." But he wouldn't be. Not ever. And so she waited. Not for him. For the moment, she stopped caring. It hadn't come yet.
"Big sister," a woman called. She turned. And saw her twin. Same eyes. Same voice. Same sorrow. But her twin was smiling. Softly. Desperately. She was pregnant. With Ren's child. Gǔlóng Yáo didn't speak. Didn't blink. Her twin stepped closer, hands hovering over a flat belly like it held salvation.
Gǔlóng Yáo's gaze didn't waver. Her twin's husband was a monster. A cruel, controlling, toxic god who broke things to watch them bleed. And she'd lied to him. For aeons. About the father. Ren. Of course, it was Ren. It was always Ren.
Gǔlóng Yáo stepped forward, close enough to feel the storm curl around them both. "You didn't escape," she said. "You just changed cages." Her twin's smile cracked. And the wind howled.
"That's a lie, big sister," she said. Her voice was quiet. Not gentle. "You know Ren's not perfect. Neither am I. Neither are you." She stepped forward, bare feet brushing the dust— not of a city they burned, But of the throne, her sister shattered. Stone cracked. Stormlight flickered. Ash curled from broken elemental sigils. Everything Gǔlóng Yáo had destroyed to keep herself from breaking. Her twin walked through it like it was a memory. Like it was prophecy. "We destroyed sects. Cities. Anything that looked at us wrong." Her hand drifted to her belly— flat. Still. Waiting.
"With you. And the others. The ones he left behind." Gǔlóng Yáo didn't speak. Her twin's eyes didn't ask for forgiveness. "Since he left, I've been surviving. Lying to my husband. Carrying this child. Waiting." She looked up. "I know he'll come back. He always does." A pause. "Ren never breaks his promises." The wind stirred. Not in warning. In recognition. Gǔlóng Yáo stepped closer, her voice was low.
"You think your husband doesn't know you've been lying to him?" Gǔlóng Yáo said. "Look at your belly. It's flat. Not full. Not changing. It's been like that for ages. Just like mine." She stepped closer. Stormlight flickering across broken stone. "Our clan knows I'm pregnant with the True Immortal's children. You think your husband is a fool?" Her twin didn't flinch. "He probably does know," she said. "But I don't care." Her voice cracked— not with weakness, but with truth. "I wouldn't give birth to a child like him. He used to beat me. Every day. No matter what I did." She looked down. Not in shame. In memory. "I let him. Because I was a coward. Because I was in love with a man who used to love me." She laughed. Once. Sharp. Bitter."And it's not like he doesn't have bastards of his own. Children, he kept from me. Secrets he wore like armour." She touched her belly. Still flat. Still waiting. "He stopped hitting me when I told him I was pregnant. But I know why." Her eyes met Yáo's. "He stopped because he knew. Because Ren was the father." She stepped forward. Voice steady. "Ren is the creator of the Ancient Clans. He's not just powerful—he's inevitable. My husband wouldn't dare lay a hand on the woman carrying his child." She paused. "I used Ren at first. For protection. That's why I got pregnant. Willingly." Another pause. "But I fell in love." Her voice softened. "Because Ren didn't just protect me. He confronted my husband. And after that, he didn't hit me. He didn't scream. He didn't break me." She looked away. "Ren was kind. Gentle. Even when I didn't deserve it."Then her voice shifted. "But on the battlefield… He was different." Her eyes darkened. "He thrived in chaos. In destruction. In instinct." She looked at Yáo. "He conquered whatever he wanted. He did whatever he pleased. No apologies, no masks. And I loved him for that—because I never could."
"And what does it matter to you, big sister?" she spat. "I got pregnant with his child first." The words hung heavy. Not just accusation—ownership. "You said you'd never marry. Never fall in love. That no man was worth it." She stepped closer. Eyes gleaming. "But that was a lie, wasn't it?" Her voice cracked— not from weakness, but from fury. "You already had your eyes on Ren. You didn't know if he liked you back." A pause. Sharp. Cruel. "Then you found out he did. And suddenly—you got pregnant too." She laughed. Once. Cold. "Don't pretend it was fate.
"I'm not petty, sister," she said softly. "I love you. Dearly." No defence. No denial. Just truth. Her voice didn't rise. It folded inward— like a blade she refused to draw. "I didn't chase Ren to spite you. I didn't fall in love to win." She stepped closer. Not in challenge— in grief. "I wanted to protect you. Even when you didn't want it." Her hand hovered— not touching, just remembering. "I saw how he looked at you. And I saw how he changed when he looked at me." She swallowed. "I didn't ask for that. But I didn't run from it either." A pause. "I carry his child. But I carry your pain too.""I was only kidding, big sister," she said, voice lighter now— but not mocking. Just tired of the ache. "I just wanted you to think of something else. Instead of Ren. All the time." She stepped over shattered porcelain, picked up a broken teacup. "It's not good for you. Let's stop talking about him." A pause. Then a smile—petite, genuine. "Let's have some tea." She looked around the wreckage. "But first— let's clean this place up, shall we?" She reached for her sister's hand. "Together. We'll let the servants take a break. You've had your little meltdown—now let's make it right.""All done," Gǔlóng Shuǐ said, brushing dust from her sleeves. "Let's have some tea." She raised her hand— no flourish, no chant. Just instinct. Steam curled from the air as hot water shimmered into the kettle. Water was her element. Not just preferred—inherent. Where her sister wielded lightning, Shuǐ moved like rain— gentle, persistent, cleansing. She poured the tea with practised grace, Then looked up. "Sit with me, Yáo. Just for a moment. No battles. No Ren. Just us."
They drank in silence. Steam rose between them— not just warmth, But peace. Gǔlóng Shuǐ's water calmed the room. Gǔlóng Yáo's lightning had dimmed, resting in her fingertips. Then— a knock. Soft, but deliberate. A messenger stepped through the threshold, robes marked with the sigils of neutrality. He bowed low, voice steady. "Ancestor," he said, eyes on Yáo. "And Lady Gǔlóng Shuǐ." He straightened, revealing a sealed scroll. "The three Main Ancient Clans request your presence. They wish to speak with you— about the True Immortal."
Yáo didn't rise. She didn't even look up. She sipped her tea, then set the cup down with deliberate grace. "Tell them," she said, voice like distant thunder, "to drag their lazy, self-entitled asses here themselves." The messenger flinched. Shuǐ blinked—half amused, half mortified. Yáo leaned back, lightning flickering in her eyes. "I'm drinking tea. With my little sister. If the three Main Ancient Clans want to speak about the True Immortal— They can walk their sacred feet through my door." She waved a hand, dismissing him like smoke. "Let them remember who carries his child. Who he chose. And who they're trying to summon like a servant." A pause. "Now go. Before I decide to teach you what lightning tastes like."
A ripple passed through the air— not wind, not sound. Heat. The walls shimmered. The tea steamed harder. And then— "Don't worry," a voice said, low and crackling. "We're already here." The flames didn't wait for permission. They were given permission. Huǒzūn Liánjié stepped forward— Or instead, the fire took shape around him. "We do respect you," he began— but didn't finish. He didn't need to. The room bowed to his presence. The stone beneath him blackened. The air tasted of ash and inevitability. He was the flames themselves. Not born of fire—born as fire. The Ancestor of the Ancient God Clan. The Calamity Forge. The Ashfather. His eyes burned with epochs. His breath could ignite worlds.
Huǒzūn Liánjié stood in flame— His presence is a furnace of reverence and ruin. Then— The light dimmed. Behind him, two more figures emerged. Not walking. Not summoned. Unveiled.
Hei'ān — Ancestor of the Ancient Devil Clan Cloaked in shadow so deep it swallowed sound. His form was suggestion, not shape. Eyes like void-stars—burning without light. The darkness around him wasn't absence. It was judgment.
Zàoluàn — Ancestor of the Ancient Demon Clan Cloaked in chaos—not disorder, but raw potential. His form shifted with every breath: wings, horns, smoke, laughter. He was the scream before birth, the tremor before war. The air around him fractured. Not from pressure— from meaning. He grinned, but it wasn't joy. It was inevitable. Three Ancestors. Fire. Darkness. Chaos.
"Zàoluàn, stay in your human shape. That other form… it frays the air around you." "I mean no harm. Not to the bearer of the True Immortal Children."
"You know why we've come," said Huǒzūn Liánjié. "To strike at the True Immortal—even if death cannot claim him—is heresy against the one who shaped us. You may have shared his bed, but that does not grant you dominion. I know your grief burns, but you must learn to wield it." She sipped her tea, steady as stone.
"He permitted it. I begged him to end his life—again and again—until my silence felt earned. He left without a word. He may be the hand that forged me, but he is my beloved first, even if our love is seen as a fracture in the divine.
"First of all, I haven't shared his bed in a long time. Is that all you have to say to me?" "Then piss off. I'm in no mood for this. I don't want to think about the True Immortal."
"Swear it," Huǒzūn Liánjié said. "This realm isn't ready to carry the weight of his return."
"Fine. Maybe. But the True Immortal was never built for silence. He always resurfaces."
"Now go. All I want is a quiet cup of tea with my little sister." But the storm was already crawling across the horizon, and from her sister's breath, the tsunami rose.