The rain kept falling. Crimson drops slid down every pillar of the Celestial Court, soaking through banners of silk, smearing over carvings of dragons and phoenixes. Blood pooled at the feet of gods. No matter how many formations were cast, how many arrays drawn, nothing could stop it.
No one spoke. Tens of thousands stood in silence. Generals gripped their weapons tighter. Immortal children clung to their elders. Celestial beasts growled softly in confusion.
All eyes turned toward the Celestial Emperor, waiting.
Still, he said nothing.
And then—
A quiet tremble. From the far eastern side of the court, a figure staggered. At first, no one noticed. But the trembling grew.
The man's long white robes were soaked through, clinging to his ancient frame. His long beard, silver like moon-thread, dripped with red. His hands shook violently.
Then came the whisper.
"…no… no…"
People turned. Baihe Xianweng—the Sage of Vast Knowledge. The Great Sage. The eldest of all the elders. The man said to have witnessed the first sunrise of the Celestial Realm.
He was crying.
His tears fell freely, mixing with the blood rain. His shoulders shook. His lips moved, mouthing words no one could hear. Then, suddenly, he let out a scream.
"WHAT HAVE WE DONE?!"
The sound tore through the court like lightning.
Every head turned. Shocked gasps spread. Some immortals took a step back.
The Great Sage fell to his knees, robes slapping wet stone. His forehead touched the bloodied floor as he cried louder than any had ever seen.
"Forgive us! Great Dao, forgive us!"
He clawed at his chest. At his face. Screaming as if his soul were burning.
"We've made a mistake! A grave mistake! What have we done?! What have we brought upon ourselves?!"
People stared, unmoving. The man they revered as the wisest in heaven now wept like a madman.
Even the Empresses looked shaken. The Fourth Empress, Shen Min, known for her calm and strategy in battle, narrowed her eyes. Her fingers twitched slightly, but her face remained composed.
A murmur grew in the crowd.
"What is he saying…?" "Mistake? What mistake?" "Is he saying the monster was—?" "No. Impossible."
The Celestial Emperor finally stood. His robes flared, soaked with red. His voice thundered across the sky.
"Sage Baihe," he said coldly. "Explain yourself."
The weeping sage slowly lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused.
"It's not a curse," he whispered. "Not vengeance."
He stared at the sky.
"It's grief."
A silence fell heavier than before.
"The Dao itself… is shedding tears."
More whispers. This time louder. Sharper.
"Blasphemy." "Has the old man gone mad?" "Impossible. The Dao doesn't weep."
Baihe didn't argue. He just looked up into the rain, his voice trembling.
"It is mourning."
And no one could reply.
The silence returned—but it was no longer still. It moved. It crawled. It lived in the shifting of robes, the glances exchanged, the sweat gathering at the napes of proud necks.
Rain continued to fall, soaking into the sacred jade beneath their feet.
Many immortals stared at Baihe Xianweng in disbelief. Others looked to the Emperor, hoping for his words to crush this moment—to return order with a single declaration.
But none came.
The 4th Empress, Shen Min, stood beneath the arch of a silver lotus shrine. Her armor-like robes were drenched in blood rain, but she remained unmoved, her hands clasped behind her back. Her face showed nothing—but in her eyes, there was movement. Calculations.
She was not the most powerful, nor the most adored, but the Emperor trusted her with matters of strategy and war. And strategy did not allow for unaccounted variables.
And this… was one.
"Your Majesty," said General Xu Jian from beside the high steps, bowing deeply. His voice was sharp and cautious. "The court awaits your judgment. If the sage speaks heresy—"
"—then let the heavens punish him," Shen Min cut in, her voice level. "But speak no conclusions until the rain ends. We know not what this is."
Some heads turned toward her. Others back toward the Great Sage, who now knelt in silence, his hands bloody from where his fingernails had dug into his own skin.
Among the immortals, the whispers began.
"I don't believe it." "He's wrong. He has to be wrong." "But… what if he's not?" "I remember… I remember looking into his eyes. At the end. They weren't hateful…" "You call him innocent? He burned sacred grounds to ash. He didn't just kill—he erased lives. Not millions. Billions." "But the Dao… it spoke."
The older elders dismissed it with quiet scoffs.
"The Dao speaks in riddles," one muttered. "Do not mistake a shadow for truth," said another.
But the younger cultivators—those born after the war—those who did not witness the Monster's rise, nor the screams that shook heaven—they looked shaken. Some looked… unsure.
The blood rain fell harder.
In a corner of the court, a group of divine beasts shifted uncomfortably. Even the wind spirits, bound to palace walls for ten thousand years, had grown quiet. Not even the bells atop the Sky Pagoda rang. And they always rang with the wind.
Atop the marble platform, the Celestial Emperor stood still. His eyes were unreadable. Not anger. Not fear. Just… stillness.
The Fourth Empress stepped closer to him, and whispered something only he could hear. He didn't reply.
And all around them, the whispers grew louder.
The blood rain soaked into everything. It ran down the carved names of forgotten gods. It filled the hollow mouths of ancient statues. It slipped between the cracks of stardust jade, seeping deep into the bones of the Celestial Court.
And still, the Celestial Emperor said nothing. He remained standing, robes heavy with blood, gaze fixed on the sky—as if he could will the heavens to explain themselves.
Then he spoke.
But not to the crowd. To the sage.
His voice, deep and cold, echoed across the heavens. "You say the Dao weeps," the Emperor said slowly. "You say we've made a mistake."
The air grew tighter with every word.
"Tell me, Great Sage," he said, eyes like frozen fire, "what mistake?"
All eyes turned to Baihe Xianweng.
He was still kneeling. His ancient form hunched over, breath shallow. His lips trembled as he answered. "I don't know…"
The words rippled like thunder.
"I don't know what we've done," Baihe said, voice hoarse. "But I feel it. I feel it in my soul. The Dao mourns. The heavens mourn. Something… something is wrong."
The Emperor narrowed his eyes. "Do not speak in riddles."
But the Sage only shook his head. "You ask for clarity," he whispered. "But even the stars turn away. The Dao has hidden the truth for so long… even I cannot see it clearly. Only this—this feeling… this rain… this silence…"
He looked up. His face streaked with tears and blood. "It's never been like this."
The court said nothing. For the first time in the Celestial Realm's history… there was no sound. Not even breath.
Then someone spoke. A quiet, almost accidental thought slipping from the lips of a young immortal in the lower tiers.
"…was he… really a monster?"
It was not loud. But it was heard. Like a single crack in a dam.
A silence followed it that felt colder than death.
Even the Celestial Emperor's eyelids twitched.
The 2nd General, Fang Mo, turned his head sharply toward the speaker. "Who said that?"
No one replied. But now the thought was there. It floated in the air. Touched every mind. Even those who hated him most. Even those who cheered as he was broken. Even those who cursed his name without ever knowing it.
Now… they hesitated. And though none dared say it aloud… They all wondered.
The Emperor's face darkened, but he said nothing.
Not yet.
Instead, his gaze swept over the vast celestial court like a blade. Across the balconies, the towers, the pavilions where the greatest immortals had gathered to celebrate death. His eyes lingered on no one—yet all felt seen.
The blood rain kept falling.
A divine crane landed atop the Vermilion Gate. It let out a soft cry—once, then again—before flying off in a broken spiral, wings trailing streaks of red.
The 4th Empress, Shen Min, spoke at last.
She stepped forward, her silver robe drenched to her ankles, her boots leaving dark, wet prints upon the jade.
"The Sage may be right," she said calmly. "Or he may be wrong. But even if the Dao weeps, that does not change history."
Her voice, though soft, was as clear as a sword drawn under moonlight.
"We all witnessed what he did," she continued. "The fallen sects. The burned temples. The cries from the Furnace Valley. We were there."
Some nodded—too quickly, as if to reassure themselves.
"But," Shen Min added, eyes glinting, "if there is more to what happened… then it is not a matter of opinion. It is a matter of proof."
She turned her head slightly, eyes cold. "And we will find it."
Her words stirred a flicker of order.
Some generals straightened. A few elders muttered approval.
But in their hearts, unease remained.
A cloud passed over the sun, dimming the world further.
And in the shadow of the high tower, Lu Qing — the Jade Queen who had smiled coldly on the day of his execution — sat quietly. There was no smile now. She did not speak. She did not move…
Her long lashes were wet, her hair draped in perfect stillness. She held her fan shut in her lap. The handle had cracked. She did not remember breaking it.
The blood rain slid down the windows of her tower in slow, rhythmic lines—like old tears rediscovered.
In the silence that followed Shen Min's words, the woman rose slowly. She walked to the edge of her balcony and looked down at the court far below.
The Emperor. The generals. The sages. The millions of immortals. All stained red beneath her gaze.
And she remembered a voice. Not screaming. Not raging. Just a voice.
A single sentence, spoken long ago.
"Even if the heavens call me evil, I will not explain myself to liars."
She closed her eyes. Somewhere deep inside her, a door trembled.
But did not open.
Not yet.
No one moved. It was as if time itself had paused to listen—to feel.
And yet, nothing was said.
The Celestial Emperor stood beneath the crimson sky, unmoving. His face carved in calm, but the edges of his jaw had grown tight. The blood rain slid from the edge of his crown, dripping down his cheek like war paint.
A single droplet fell onto the steps of the throne. It struck the marble with a sound louder than thunder.
No divine ritual could explain this. No scroll held the answer. No decree could erase the weight pressing down on their hearts.
Baihe Xianweng had gone quiet now. He sat on his knees, dazed and still, like a broken statue in a forgotten temple .He no longer wept—but tears still poured from his eyes, as if the rain had seeped into his soul.
From the southern temple's delegation, a monk suddenly staggered forward and clutched his chest. His face had gone pale, and his breath came in ragged gasps.
A bark of laughter came from the crowd.
"Look at him—shaken by a bit of red water."
Another sneered, "Perhaps the demon's curse is picking off the weak first."
A third voice, dripping with contempt, said, "Or perhaps his mind is too feeble to tell the difference between the Dao and a dying liar's scheme."
Several more monks shifted uncomfortably, but the majority of the court only smirked or looked on with cold detachment.
Whispers spread, not of guilt, but of defiance.
"This rain is nothing but a trick."
"A last insult from the traitor's spirit."
"If the Dao truly had something to say, it would not hide behind theatrics."
The atmosphere, though tense, was not one of shame. It was one of challenge—millions of eyes daring the heavens to prove them wrong.
The Celestial Emperor glanced briefly toward Baihe Xianweng, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was like tempered steel.
"If the Dao wishes to speak, let it do so openly. We will not be moved by shadows and whispers."
And with that, the court stood as it always had—proud, unbent, and certain that nothing, not even the will of heaven, could make them doubt what they had done.
-End of Chapter 3.