"I agree with you. Sadly, I can't truly die. But it's my life."
I stayed seated, legs crossed, unmoving.
"When will you be leaving this place?" she asked.
"I haven't decided," I said. "Not truly. Not yet. But when you ask about me leaving—do you mean this sect, or this realm?"
I stayed seated, legs still crossed, voice steady. "I plan to remain until everything is finished. After I conquer this realm for the Eternal Empire, then I'll consider leaving.
"I see. Then I'll leave you alone," she says.
She turns, robe shifting beneath the weight of her cape and armour—both torn, both freshly marked by ancient tiger claws. The blood on her cheek hasn't dried. It isn't hers.
She walks away.
Stupid, she thinks—stupid to imagine Ren stopping her. Stupid to imagine his arms around her again.
When it comes to Ren, she isn't a proud ancient dragon. She's just a foolish girl still aching from the moment he left without saying goodbye.
She's promised herself not to forgive him easily. Maybe never. Maybe she'll let another eternity pass and fall out of love with him. Perhaps that's what's best.
She keeps walking. The claw-torn cape drags behind her like a wound.
He doesn't stop her. Doesn't even glance her way.
He cultivates.
And that hurts—just a little.
I open my eyes and see Gǔlóng Shu—this time in her sect master's robes. The silk is water-blue, embroidered with phoenix thread, flowing like riverlight across her shoulders. Her gaze is sharp, but not unkind.
"You should've stopped her," she says. "It's obvious she's playing hard because she's still hurting. Husband, why don't you comfort her?"
I don't answer right away. The incense curls around us like a memory. Outside, her sister's footsteps are already fading.
"I was gone for an eternity."
"She's proud. She needs time. And I don't think I deserve her forgiveness—not yet."
"She's a proud woman who won't forgive too easily, even if she wants me to hold her again."
"'Sorry' isn't enough. She knows that. I know that."
"I still think you should've stopped her, husband. She's my older sister. She was deeply hurt when she heard you'd returned."
"She lost her composure in front of everyone. Our family had to order silence—anyone who spoke of it, even kin, would be executed. That's how serious it was."
"She locked herself in her room for days. No food. No sleep. No bathing. She just stayed in bed, unmoving. Like grief had pinned her there."
I look at Gǔlóng Shu—her water-blue robes still heavy with authority, her eyes waiting for something I won't give. Then I vanish.
Above the clouds, I find her.
Gǔlóng Yáo is crying alone, suspended in the storm she summoned. Thunder rolls like grief. Lightning splits the sky in jagged bursts—her preferred element, always. When she cries, the weather follows. It doesn't ask. It obeys.
Below, the Black Dragon Sect stirs. Disciples step out of their chambers, heads tilted skyward. Elders whisper—a few curses.
"What the hell is going on?" someone mutters.
But no one dares fly up. Not when the sky belongs to her.
She doesn't see me. Or maybe she does, and chooses not to. Her cape still bears the marks of a tiger claw. Her armour is wet with rain and memory. She's not shielding herself from the storm. She is the storm.
And I watch.
Because I don't know how to hold her without causing her further harm.
I know one thing that still reaches her.
She always loved sparring with me when she was little—before pride, before legacy, before heartbreak.
So I summon my dragon halberd. Her preferred weapon. The one she used to wield with laughter, not fury.
I throw it—not at her, but near—a gesture, not a challenge.
She rises. Rain still falling, cape still torn, armour still marked by ancient tiger claws. Her hair clings to her face, her breath uneven.
She looks at the weapon. Then at me.
My figure towers—thirteen feet of silence, waiting.
She doesn't speak. But she doesn't walk away either.
"You made another one," she says, voice barely louder than the storm. "After you gifted me yours an eternity ago."
That eternity—she feels it. It stretches between us like lightning across the sky. Her tears haven't stopped. They cling to her face, shimmering in the rain, refusing to fall.
She looks at me with everything she's tried to bury: love, hate, longing. But doubt, too. Thick and quiet.
She's confused. She doesn't know what to do.
The halberd lies between us, humming faintly with old memories. Her fingers twitch. Her breath catches. But she doesn't move. Not yet.
She throws the dragon halberd back—clean, deliberate, no hesitation. It lands near my feet with a low hum, the storm still echoing around us.
Then she summons the one I gifted her an eternity ago. It gleams—not with newness, but with care. She's kept it sharp, balanced, pristine, not as a weapon, but as something sacred. She's treated it like a child of her own.
Even now, soaked in rain, armour torn, tears fresh on her face—she holds it like memory. Like defiance. Like proof.
She doesn't speak. But the message is clear: You left. I stayed. And I remembered.
She doesn't speak. Just stares at me—sad, lonely eyes beneath the storm. The rain doesn't touch her. It follows her.
For minutes, she says nothing. Then her gaze shifts. Pride replaces sorrow. Her stance tightens.
Without a word, she attacks.
I follow her movements. No hesitation. No mercy. We spar like we used to—before grief, before silence. She's focused. She's in the zone.
Each strike is precise, each parry deliberate. She's not trying to hurt me. She's trying to remember who she was.
The storm thickens. Thunder cracks like war drums. Lightning dances around us, drawn to her fury.
We fight on top of the clouds, suspended in chaos. Below, the Black Dragon Sect watches the sky split open.
But up here, it's just us. Her halberd. My silence. And everything we never said.
She lunges—her long leg slicing upward, aimed clean at my face. I block with my forearm; the impact is sharp and deliberate. I push her back, not harshly, just enough to reset the rhythm.
She doesn't flinch. Her face is serious, unreadable. No fury. No sorrow. Just focus.
Lightning crackles around us, drawn to her rhythm—the clouds beneath churn, heavy with storm. The sky isn't reacting—it's syncing with her.
She's not thinking and not calculating. She's sparring with me like she used to—before legacy, before silence, before love turned into distance. Completely entranced, lost in the rhythm of blade and breath.
Each strike is clean. Each dodge is instinctive. She's not trying to win. She's trying to remember who she is when she's not in grief, when she's not waiting for me to say the thing I never said.
And I match her—not as a warrior, not as a rival, but as the man she once loved without hesitation. The one who left. The one who returned. The one who still knows how to fight her without breaking her.
This time, I twist my body mid-strike, the dragon halberd slicing through the storm-choked air with mythic weight. She meets it—her halberd raised, the clash ringing like thunder between us.
Steel grinds against steel. Sparks fly. And in that breathless moment, I look into her eyes.
Up close, I see it—lightning. Not reflected. Not summoned. Alive.
It dances in her gaze, wild and unrepentant. Not rage. Not grief. Something older. Something sacred.
When I was fighting Ren, all I could see was the child I used to be—sparring with him in the courtyard, laughing between strikes, breathless with joy. I admired him then. He was my creator, my origin, the shape my world bent around. Not a father. Never that. Just someone I followed because that was all I ever knew.
As I grew older, that admiration deepened. It changed. Became something heavier. Something quieter. Love.
I kept it contained, afraid he'd reject me. Scared I'd fracture what little I had.
But he didn't. He loved me in return.
Of course, I knew about the others: the ones who came before, the ones who lingered after.
But I never had to fight for my place in his heart.
Because it was mine.
Because he made it mine.
I remember the day he told me he'd be leaving, back to his homeworld—Earth. He said I probably wouldn't see him again for an eternity.
So I waited because I loved him.
I knew he'd returned. But I remember the day I went looking for him, just one more time. I wanted to spar with him before he left—one last time.
But he was gone. No trace. No goodbye. His presence—completely vanished.
That was it.
We were all hurt by it, each in our way. But not like me. Not like the others who loved him.
We were furious.
So we turned on the realm. We destroyed sects, temples, cities—anything that could feel our grief. We wanted him to see what he'd done. What leaving without a word had cost.
Then we turned on each other.
His countless lovers—each one believing she was the one. Each one shattered. Each one is desperate to be remembered.
We made war. Not with words. With our true forms.
Extinction. Ruin. Innocents burned beneath our fury.
All because a man we loved—our creator, the true Immortal—left without saying goodbye.
I stopped attacking him. The storm still roared, but I stood still, watching his tall figure—unarmored, unadorned. He wore the plain form now, the one called Shen Wuyin. No divine glow. No mythic pressure. Just a quiet man who moved like the world had no urgency.
He pretended to have poor talent in cultivation. Let the sects dismiss him. Let the elders scoff. He never rushed. Never grasped. Just waited. Patient. Slow. Intentional
And I stood there, halberd lowered, watching the man who once created me—who once loved me—pretend to be ordinary.
And I didn't know whether to strike again… or speak.
I didn't speak in the end. Words would've shattered me.
So I kept sparring with him—up in the clouds, where the storm couldn't drown us, only echo. It was the one thing keeping me from breaking completely. The rhythm. The movement. The silence between strikes.
I didn't scream. I didn't accuse. I didn't beg.
But every swing carried the weight of what he missed.
Every clash was a question he never answered.
Every dodge was a memory he never stayed to hold.
He was gone for an eternity. And when he returned, he wore silence like armour.
So I sparred. Because it was the only way I could touch him without collapsing.
The only way I could blame him was without saying the words.
The only way I could stay in control was while everything inside me begged to fall apart.
I watched her fight, and I didn't need to pry into her thoughts. It was all there—in her eyes.
Hate, sharp and restrained, not for me alone but for the silence I left behind.
Longing, deep and ancient, threaded through every strike like a memory she couldn't unmake.
Loneliness, the kind that doesn't beg for company, only recognition.
Confusion, flickering between pride and vulnerability, between wanting to strike and wanting to be held.
Love, quiet but undeniable, is buried beneath armour and storm.
Admiration, still intact, still burning, even after everything.
And distance—not just physical, but mythic. The space between who we were and who we became.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to.
Her halberd said everything.
And I listened with mine.
Every strike she made with her halberd carried more than technique—it carried memory. I felt it. Not through divine foresight. Not through cultivation tricks. Just through her rhythm. Her silence. Her restraint.
Why did you leave without saying goodbye?
Why did you make me fall in love if you were just going to leave?
Why didn't you take me with you?
Why haven't you embraced me? Tried harder? You know I would've forgiven you. You know that. Deep down, I know you do.
She didn't speak those words. She didn't need to. They were etched into every clash, every dodge, every moment she didn't break.
And I noticed—she hadn't called me Ren. Not once.
Only True Immortal.
Not out of reverence. Not out of awe. But distance.
She was trying to keep me mythic. Untouchable.
Because if she said my name, it would make me real again.
And real things leave.
Real things disappoint.
Real things make you fall in love and then vanish into eternity.
So she kept sparring.
And I let her.
Because this was the only way she could speak without shattering.
And the only way I could listen without unravelling her.
This was how we talked—through movement, through silence, through restraint.
Eventually, we stopped sparring. Not because the storm had passed—it hadn't. The clouds still roared, the rain still lashed, and the wind still screamed, as if it wanted to tear the sky apart. But she stopped.
She looked at me.
Her lightning-white blue eyes, streaked with tears that refused to fall.
Her hair clung to her face, soaked and tangled.
Blood marked her cheek.
Her armour was cracked. Her cape is torn.
But she stood tall.
She didn't speak.
She didn't cry.
She just looked.
And then she turned.
No words. No final strike.
She left—back to her sister's residence.
The storm didn't follow her.
It stayed with me.
I stood there, unmoving, letting the rain fall on my face.
The weather was still chaotic, still feral, still echoing everything she couldn't say.
And I didn't hug her.
Not once.
As I walked back inside the residence, leaving Ren alone in the storm, the tears came again—this time without restraint. They fell freely, bitter and hot, like the grief I'd buried for eternity had finally found its voice.
I was still in the storm, just sitting. My throne rested atop the black clouds—not floating, not suspended, but anchored in the chaos. Lightning spiralled around me, thunder cracked like old regrets, and the rain soaked through my robes, ran down my face, mingling with the silence I wore like armour. The clouds churned beneath me, wild and feral, holding the weight of everything she couldn't say.
I didn't shield myself. I didn't speak. I sat alone, unarmored, as Shen Wuyin.
Gǔlóng Shu approached through the storm—quiet, deliberate, her steps barely disturbing the black clouds beneath us. She didn't ask for permission. She didn't hesitate. She sat on my lap, her head pressing against my broad shoulder, like she had done in another life, before silence became our language.
Her voice was softer now, but cracked with something more profound than grief. "...Husband. She wouldn't tell me what happened. What did you do?"
I didn't speak. Not yet. I just listened to the weather.
"We sparred for a little while," I said, my voice low, steady. "It helped her for a moment. The rhythm gave her something to hold onto. It's what she used to love—sparring with me. When words failed, movement spoke. She couldn't communicate, so she did it through strikes."
Gǔlóng Shu didn't move. Her head stayed pressed against my shoulder, listening.
"But she left in the end. She couldn't hold it in anymore. She needed to break, and she needed to do it alone. She's crying now. In her room. In your residence."
I looked out into the storm, not for answers, but for silence.
"I think it's best if she doesn't see me. Not yet. Maybe I should find another resdience . I don't want to be a shadow she has to walk around."
The throne didn't move. The storm didn't ease.
But Gǔlóng Shu held me tighter.
"If you have to leave my residence, I won't stop you," Gǔlóng Shu murmured, her head still resting against my shoulder. "My sister… she bears too much. She's the ancestor of our ancient dragon clan. And your return—it's torn something loose in her. She's glad. But she's furious. She loves you. And she hates you."
She fell silent. The storm took her place, speaking in gusts and distant thunder, as if it too remembered the fracture.
"I love you, Ren. I love you so much. I'd do anything for you—anything. I want you and my elder sister to be happy again, like before. If you stay in my residence, I'll be happy. But if you leave… I understand. Just say goodbye before you go. Because if you don't—if you vanish without a word—I'll think you disappeared on me again. And this time, you won't come back."
I held her tighter. She welcomed the embrace, silent and warm.
She didn't flinch—just folded into the embrace like she'd been waiting for it. I looked up. The storm poured down on my face and hair, cold and unrelenting. I let it fall. I didn't wipe it away. I didn't shield myself. I just wanted to feel it—every drop, every weight, every memory it carried.
The rain didn't ask for permission. It just came. Like her sister's fury. Like my return.
I stepped into my sister's room. Her perfume lingered—soft, floral, familiar. But Ren's scent was here too, threaded through the air like a memory that hadn't asked permission. I sat on the edge of her bed. Something caught my eye: an object I didn't recognise, half-hidden beneath a silk pillow.
Ren, younger—barely more than a teenager. His smile was unguarded, his posture relaxed. He stood in front of a building marked "Light Academy," surrounded by eight others: five women and three men. Their clothes were strange—fabric and cuts I'd never seen in Mìngjiè Xiānlù. Earth. This had to be Earth—his homeworld.
They were smiling. All of them. Like they belonged to something I couldn't name.
When I looked at a strange object that had a photo of Ren, he appeared to be a bit younger than when I first saw him—around sixteen, perhaps. This must have been before he became who he is now. He had thick, pitch-black hair cut short, and his eyes were a light brown. He also didn't have the dragon tattoo that went across his arm and up to his neck. He didn't seem as tall back then; he stood at about six feet.