The years rolled on.
The empire rebuilt itself from the fractures left by gods and traitors alike. Cities once scorched by divine fire were raised again in marble and jade. Shrines that had cracked under heaven's judgment now stood taller, gilded with gold, as if mortal hands could defy the memory of gods. The court, once fractured by politics and fear, learned to bow their heads beneath a ruler who no longer sought conquest.
Li Yuan, the emperor who had once been a blade against the world, now ruled with a strange gentleness that unsettled his ministers. He ordered no new wars. He raised no banners of expansion. The armies remained, but they marched only when the people needed protection. His decrees were soft-spoken, his punishments measured, his eyes always distant.
The people called it wisdom.
His court called it restraint.
But those who knew him best called it grief.
Every spring, when the peach blossoms opened, Li Yuan walked alone to the southern courtyard where Rui had last laughed in the light. He sat beneath the same tree, never speaking, only listening, as though the petals falling on his shoulders carried the echo of Rui's voice.
Every winter, when the snow fell heavy, he sealed himself in Rui's old chamber. The attendants whispered of him kneeling by the bed, staring at the empty pillow. They dared not enter, for sometimes the walls trembled with suppressed qi, as if the emperor's sorrow itself could shatter the palace.
He never remarried.
He never sought another bond.
For all the empire, for all the heavens, there was only Rui.
The legends grew in time. Children in the marketplace whispered of the boy with phoenix blood who gave his life to seal the gods away. Priests told the story of the emperor who chose love over the heavens, and who carried his grief like a second crown.
And yet, Li Yuan never allowed Rui's name to be turned into mere myth.
Every year, on the day Rui had died, the emperor lit incense before the ancestral hall. Not with the solemnity of worship, but with the trembling hands of a man keeping a promise. He spoke Rui's name, not as a hero, not as a savior, but as the man he loved. The man he would wait for—even if no one returned from beyond.
Decades later, when Li Yuan grew old, the court pressed him to write his memoirs. He refused. But one night, he left a single scroll upon Rui's desk, where ink had once pooled beneath untouched brushes.
It was not a history.
It was not a decree.
It was a letter.
And it ended with only this line:
"If the heavens truly exist, then let them know this, there is no throne, no empire, no eternity worth more than one moment with you. So wait for me, Rui. Whether in flame, in ash, or in silence, I will find you."
When the emperor died, they buried him not beneath the dragon seal of his ancestors, but beside the phoenix shrine Rui had once guarded. The two tombs faced each other, their stones worn by wind, yet unyielding.
And so the empire endured, remembering both sacrifice and sorrow.
The tale of Rui and Li Yuan was sung in tea houses and painted on silk banners. Some called it tragedy, others destiny.
But for Li Yuan, it had always been the same thing.
Love.
And love, eternal.