At first, there was no sound.
No sea, no fire — just mist.
It stretched in every direction, silver-white and endless. When Jiaxin opened her eyes, the world was quiet enough to hear her own breath. Her fingers brushed the air, and it rippled like water.
Then she saw him.
Jinyu stood not far from her, his uniform torn but unstained, as if death had stripped away everything but his calm. The gunfire, the harbor, the flames — all of it was gone.
"Are we… dead?" she whispered.
He exhaled slowly. "It seems Heaven finally noticed us."
A low horn echoed through the fog. A wooden ferry emerged, carved with swirling clouds and qilin patterns, its lanterns burning with soul-fire blue. They stepped aboard together — no oars, no boatman — and the vessel moved on its own, gliding over the mist like air turned to water.
Then, ahead, the Spirit Gate (鬼門關) rose out of the clouds — colossal, framed by obsidian pillars etched with names that shimmered faintly gold. Two towering figures guarded it: one draped in black, holding a chain that clinked with the weight of sin; the other in white, eyes calm, holding a fan inscribed with "Fortune and Fate."
Heibai Wuchang, the Black and White Impermanence.
"The qilin returns," murmured the white spirit. "And the mortal who broke her thread for love."
Jinyu bowed low. "Let her pass first. She died for another. That deserves grace."
The black spirit tilted his head. "A qilin asking favors for a mortal?"
Jinyu's jaw tightened. "She was braver than most immortals I've known."
The white one's gaze softened. "Then she shall not walk alone." He waved his fan once, and the gate opened with a sigh — not of hinges, but of the world breathing in.
"Go," he said. "The Judges await."
Beyond the gate stretched a bridge of glass over a sea of clouds glowing from within. Every step they took sent ripples of light beneath their feet. Around them, drifting souls whispered prayers, while celestial birds circled the towers above.
Jinyu looked down — his torn uniform now shimmered, threads of starlight replacing the soot. Armor formed along his shoulders, patterned with qilin scales that pulsed faintly like a heartbeat. His mortal shape flickered, revealing faint horns and a trail of divine flame that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
Jiaxin glanced at her reflection on the glass bridge. Her kebaya was gone — in its place was flowing hanfu of soft rose and ivory, sleeves embroidered with chrysanthemums and waves, her hair adorned with a single peony pin glowing like dawn. She looked every bit the goddess she never knew she was.
He smiled faintly. "You look like Heaven missed you."
"And you," she teased softly, "finally look like you belong there."
The bridge led them to a vast courtyard of gold stone, where the Hall of Reincarnation stood — towering, luminous, its pillars carved with dragons and cranes. Inside, the Ten Kings of the Underworld sat in half-shadow, each throne gleaming with a different element: jade, obsidian, coral, bronze. Lanterns of wandering souls floated between them like stars.
At the center sat King Yanluo, robed in imperial black threaded with crimson fire. His voice, when it came, filled the air like thunder rolling over mountains.
"Xu Jinyu. Chen Jiaxin. Step forward."
They obeyed.
"You, qilin of the Northern Heavens, took mortal form to fulfill Heaven's mandate in a time of chaos," said Yanluo. "You protected life, yet you disobeyed the cycle — you chose love over mission."
Jinyu's head bowed. "If love defies Heaven, then I stand guilty."
"And you, mortal girl," Yanluo continued, turning to Jiaxin. "You challenged fate itself. You gave your life for another and awakened hearts that will outlive you. The balance of Heaven trembled because of your defiance."
Jiaxin lowered her gaze, voice steady. "If Heaven wanted silence, it should not have given me a voice."
A murmur ran through the assembly. Even the Judge of Virtues smiled faintly.
The Weaver of Fates rose from her loom, her hair flowing like silk in the wind. "Their threads are tangled beyond separation. One divine, one mortal. To sever them now would wound the tapestry of worlds."
"Then what do we do?" asked the Judge of Rebirth. "The mortal's destiny is sealed — she is marked for return as a creature of purity. A rabbit, born of compassion. It cannot be undone."
Jinyu stepped forward. "Then send me where she goes. Make me mortal again. Let me guard her, as I swore."
The hall fell silent.
King Yanluo's gaze turned heavy. "You would forsake Heaven's rank for her?"
"I already have," Jinyu said quietly.
The gods whispered among themselves, threads of starlight crisscrossing the ceiling as they debated. Finally, Yanluo raised his hand.
"Her fate cannot be rewritten," he said. "But yours can be bent. You shall be reborn in the mortal realm once more — not as an immortal, but as one gifted with Heaven's insight."
The Weaver unspooled a glowing thread, looping it around Jinyu's wrist. "Your divine essence will not fade, only sleep. It will awaken as intelligence — the mind of a scholar, a scientist, one who remakes the world by his own hand."
A second thread joined it, gold and red. "The Xu family," said the Judge of Heritage. "A line of researchers born from the remnants of an ancient vow. There, you shall have the tools to find her again."
Jinyu clenched his fist. "And when I do?"
The Weaver smiled softly. "Then you may finish what Heaven began."
Jiaxin reached for him, tears bright in her eyes. "Then we'll meet again?"
"Across time, across form," Yanluo said. "Fate favors those who remember."
The hall brightened — the threads above them weaving together into a storm of light. Jiaxin's form began to dissolve, the ends of her robe turning to petals that scattered across the mist.
Jinyu reached for her, his hand trembling as their fingers brushed.
"Don't forget me," she whispered.
"I couldn't if I tried."
The light broke.
When the world stilled again, two souls fell from the heavens — one into a cradle beneath comet light, the other into a cage in a quiet pet shop, fur white as clouds and heart aching for something it could not name.
And in the unseen realm above, the Weaver tied one last knot into her tapestry.
"Their fates are sealed.
Heaven forgets.
Love remembers."
The words echoed like a thread pulled taut across worlds—until the light faded, and the sea of clouds dissolved into sound.
At first, it was faint—soft strings, a lilting melody, the kind that might've played in another century.
And then—
The haze cleared.
The clouds became the smoke from a cup of tea.
The stars became lamplight on Jinyu's face.
And the voice that followed wasn't divine—it was his.
"...and that," he said quietly, "is why I said that."
For a moment, I couldn't breathe. The record kept spinning, its needle tracing the same fragile tune that had once carried us through lifetimes.
Jinyu didn't look away. "You didn't just appear out of nowhere, Jiaxin. You came back."