The Celestial War Hall was quiet, but not still. Heavenly generals, all wary and sharp-eyed, lined both sides of the long table made of cloud forged stone. Maps shimmered across its surface, reacting to gestures and spirit energy. At the head stood Ling Xu Dijun—solemn, unreadable, his robes faintly glowing from the divine seal pulsing at his chest.
The previous night's incident—the crack in the barrier—still weighed heavily over everyone. It showed in their silence, in the way no one sat too comfortably.
Zhao Yan stood with her arms crossed, her posture relaxed but alert. Across from her, Xuanlie stood, hands behind his back, gaze fixed straight ahead. Unmoving.
"Let's begin," Ling Xu said. His voice cut through the stillness like steel drawn from a sheath. "The southern wards remain our weakest point. The barrier is stable—for now—but the pressure is building there."
One of the generals leaned forward. "If they breach it again, it won't hold. Even with your reinforcement, Dijun."
Ling Xu nodded once. "That's why we can't afford another breach."
He looked down at the map. A flick of his fingers shifted the glowing image to show the outer borders.
"I'm assigning General Xuanlie to lead the Southern Ward," Ling Xu continued. "You'll take a full battalion and command from the Jade Watchtower."
A few murmurs broke out. One officer glanced at Zhao Yan. She didn't speak. She just watched Xuanlie.
He bowed his head in acknowledgement. "As you command."
No argument. No hesitation. That was Xuanlie. Reliable. Efficient. Cold.
But Zhao Yan's eyes narrowed—just a flicker.
"You'll leave at first light," Ling Xu said. "You'll report directly to me every three days. Any changes in the spiritual field, any unusual activity, send word immediately."
"Yes, Dijun," Xuanlie replied, still not meeting anyone's eyes.
Another general spoke up, rubbing his jaw. "And the Western Ridge?"
"I'll handle it," Zhao Yan said, stepping forward. "Xuanyan and I already swept through last week. There were minor fluctuations, but nothing pressing."
Ling Xu turned to her. "You'll lead another sweep?"
"Yes," she said. "Today, after the council."
"You should rest—" one general interjected.
"I'm fine," Zhao Yan said, sharper than intended. "We don't have time for that."
Ling Xu didn't argue. He gave a slight nod. "Then so be it."
They moved on. Deployment updates, supply lines, border rotations. Zhao Yan listened with half an ear. Her gaze kept drifting to Xuanlie, who stood still and silent, responding only when spoken to.
He hadn't made a single comment. Not a suggestion, not a concern. For someone being sent to the most vulnerable frontline, that wasn't like him.
When the council adjourned, she waited. Most of the officers dispersed quickly, already moving to carry out their orders.
She caught up to him in the corridor.
"You didn't say much in there," Zhao Yan said, matching his pace.
Xuanlie's expression didn't shift. "There was nothing that required my input."
She looked sideways at him. "You always have input."
"I trust Dijun's plan."
She frowned, slowing slightly. "Do you?"
He stopped. Looked at her. For a moment, there was the briefest flicker of something behind his eyes. Then—gone.
"I do," he said.
"Right," Zhao Yan muttered. She crossed her arms again. "Well, I hope the Southern Ward agrees with you."
She expected him to smirk. He didn't.
She sighed. "Anyway, I'll be sweeping the Western Ridge with Xuanyan later. If anything's off, I'll let you know."
"I won't be far," he said.
She started to walk away. "Be sure you're not."
Late afternoon. The Western Ridge.
The wind was colder up here. From their vantage point on the ridge, Zhao Yan could see the faint shimmer of the reinforced barrier as it pulsed along the mountainside like a living thing. The sky was smeared with grey clouds, and dusk pressed on the horizon.
She knelt down and touched the rocky soil, her palm glowing faintly as she inspected the spiritual residue beneath the surface.
"Still unstable," she murmured.
Xuanyan stood a few steps behind, his arms crossed and his sword strapped to his side. "Leftover from last week?"
"Maybe." She exhaled through her nose. "The pulse readings are shallow, but inconsistent. It's like something's watching but refusing to step through."
"Creepy," he muttered. "But consistent with how these bastards operate."
Zhao Yan stood and dusted off her hands. "The western border's quiet now. But I don't trust quiet."
Xuanyan gave her a side glance. "You didn't trust your food at lunch. And you were the one who cooked it."
She snorted. "It was dry."
"It was burnt."
They walked a few paces in silence before he added, "So. You believe in the plan?"
"Dijun has never failed a campaign," she said. "And the Pillars are united. That's all we need."
Xuanyan looked at her sideways. "Including Xuanlie?"
She slowed. Just slightly. But her voice didn't waver. "He's one of us."
Xuanyan raised an eyebrow, catching the pause. "That's not a yes."
Zhao Yan shook her head. "I don't doubt him. I just…" She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "He's been... distant. Off. Not disloyal—just... somewhere else."
"You think it's the pressure?"
"Maybe. We've all been worn thin lately." Her voice softened. "He's carrying a lot."
Xuanyan hummed. "That man would rather stab himself with his own sword than talk about feelings."
"That's why it worries me."
They reached the edge of the ridge, looking out toward the far line where the southern ward stretched into haze.
"You're not going to bring it up to him, are you?" Xuanyan asked.
She shook her head. "Not unless I have a real reason."
He clicked his tongue. "You and your gut. One day, you'll listen to it before things explode."
She gave him a tired smile. "One day."
They stood there for a while, the horizon burning faintly with the sun's last light. The wind blew through the trees below. For now, the world held its breath.
Dijun's inner palace hall, nightfall.
The western light was bleeding red through the translucent crystal screens of Dijun's inner war hall. Outside, the sky shimmered—veiled by the barrier he'd just strengthened the day before. It pulsed like a heartbeat under stress.
Ling Xu, Dijun of the Celestial Realm, stood unmoving on the terrace, watching the haze ripple across the horizon. There was a slight tremor in the wind—subtle, but wrong.
A hush fell over the chamber as the doors opened.
"Your Majesty," came Meihua's voice. Calm. But clipped.
Dijun turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence without a word.
She walked to the foot of the dais and bowed deeply, her silk robes trailing behind her like quiet waves. Her face was unreadable, but her knuckles were pale from how tightly she held her hands together.
"I reviewed the loom again this morning," she began.
"And?" Dijun asked, eyes still fixed beyond the barrier.
"The pattern is shifting. Subtly, but persistently. At first I thought it was just the pressure from the barrier's last reinforcement, but… the weave isn't reacting like it should."
Dijun finally faced her. "Be specific."
Meihua swallowed. "Someone is manipulating the threads from within. Not breaking them. Not snapping destiny entirely. But... twisting."
There was a pause. A quiet intake of breath. Dijun descended the terrace steps, slow and measured.
"Tampering," he echoed.
"Yes. And whoever it is—" her gaze flicked toward the map of the realm hanging beside them "—they hold enough spiritual weight to warp the loom without being detected. Someone deeply rooted. Trusted."
"No names?"
"I tried," Meihua said softly. "But the threads collapse when I get too close. It's like the loom is… afraid to show me."
He raised an eyebrow at that. "The loom does not fear."
"Until now."
A heavy silence followed.
Then—
A gust of wind. The door opened again.
"Your Majesty."
Xuanyan strode in, brushing a sheen of dusk from his shoulders. His armor bore a thin layer of ward dust. Behind him came Zhao Yan, cheeks flushed from the wind, hair slightly disheveled. They both looked travel-worn—but alert.
"You're early," Dijun said.
Zhao Yan gave a bow. "There was less resistance than we expected at the ridge. But something felt… strange."
"Define strange," Dijun said flatly.
Xuanyan folded his arms. "Residual energy around the ley points. Not demonic. But off."
Zhao Yan added, "Chaotic in nature. Like something was testing the outer limits of the ridge wards."
Dijun's expression remained unreadable. But Meihua turned sharply.
"When?"
"An hour ago," Xuanyan replied.
"That's when the loom flared," Meihua said.
Zhao Yan's brows furrowed. "Flares from the loom?"
"She means fate was disturbed," Dijun clarified. "Not by enemy hands—but by someone within our walls."
A beat of silence.
Xuanyan let out a low whistle. "That narrows it down to half the heavens."
Meihua turned to Dijun. "You said the Southern Ward was being reassigned today, correct?"
"Yes. A new command is being installed. That region must not fall."
Zhao Yan tilted her head. "Then we have to move. Whoever's doing this may strike again—if not the Southern Ward, then the barrier points west."
Dijun gave her a long, considering look. "Are you offering?"
"Always," she said simply. "Let me go back with Xuanyan. We'll patrol the Western and Southern perimeters. If there's someone tampering with the lines—we'll sense it."
Meihua opened her mouth, then hesitated. "That would be dangerous. Especially if this traitor knows they're being watched."
"All the more reason to act fast," Xuanyan said. "Sitting here waiting for the loom to cry louder won't save anyone."
Dijun finally stepped back to the map. His fingers hovered over the Southern quadrant. "We'll move in silence. Quiet rotations. No alarms."
Zhao Yan nodded. "When do we leave?"
"Late night."
A pause. Then Dijun added, quietly, "And, Zhao Yan—"
She looked up.
"If something happens to either of you, do not hesitate to retreat. This isn't just war anymore. This is the beginning of something darker."
Training Grounds, Late Night
After returning to the barracks, Zhao Yan allowed herself a moment to breathe.
She sat alone on her bunk in the dim torchlight, armor half-removed, legs heavy with fatigue. The patrol on the western ridge had been long, and the mountain winds hadn't made it easy. Her fingertips were still dusted with ash from the dying woods they passed through, and the smell of smoke clung faintly to her hair.
But it wasn't just her body that felt tired. It was something deeper.
She had stripped down to a lighter set of robes and was preparing to lie down when the knock came at her door.
"Night rotation," said Xuanyan, already in patrol gear.
Zhao Yan blinked once, then reached for her boots. "Give me a few minutes."
Xuanyan gave a curt nod and left her to it.
When she finally stepped out into the courtyard, the night skies had already reached its peak. The stars were still faint, the kind that shimmered low like they hadn't fully committed to staying. The training grounds were mostly empty, quiet, except for one familiar figure in motion.
Xuanlie.
He stood alone in the open yard, bare-armed and focused, practicing slow, precise strikes with his blade. The edges of his robes caught the wind. His movements were methodical, almost flawless, as if they came from memory rather than intent.
Zhao Yan stopped at the edge of the field, watching him for a moment. She hadn't seen him in two days—not properly.
She stepped closer.
"You've been avoiding me," she said. Her voice was quiet, even.
Xuanlie didn't pause. He finished the motion he had started, lowered the blade, and finally turned to her.
"I've been busy," he said.
"You always are," she replied. "But you used to make time."
There was a flicker in his expression. Small. Unreadable.
She folded her arms. "You were always better at pretending things were fine."
He didn't deny it. Just kept his eyes on her, waiting.
Zhao Yan let out a quiet breath. "Do you remember the Barren Steps? You had a broken rib. I was on half-rations. We held that ridge for five days with no backup. You said, 'We don't need glory. We just need each other alive.'"
Xuanlie did not answer.
He didn't smile. He didn't look away. He just stood there, as if listening to a story told by someone else, about someone else.
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not memory—calculation.
Zhao Yan's brows knit slightly. "Do you remember?"
"I remember," he said.
But the words were empty. Perfectly delivered. Not a crack in the tone, not a heartbeat out of place. Rehearsed.
Like someone who had learned how to be him.
She looked at him for a while longer. Searching. Then she softened.
Zhao Yan paused a few steps away, glancing back over her shoulder. Xuanlie had resumed his stance, blade at the ready, but slower this time. She frowned slightly.
"You always train alone now," she said. "Afraid you'll lose if someone's watching?"
His lips lifted into a smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "I'm not the one who usually loses."
She scoffed. "Says the man I flattened during last year's mock trials."
A beat passed.
"Prove it," she said, stepping into the circle, boots scraping the stone. "Unless you're too tired."
He tilted his head. "You just got back from a ridge rotation. You sure you can handle another bruising?"
Zhao Yan rolled her shoulder and summoned a simple training blade from the rack on the side. "Don't flatter yourself."
For a moment, it was almost normal.
They circled each other, feet steady, stances low. She made the first move—testing, baiting. He parried with ease. The rhythm was familiar, their bodies reacting more from instinct than thought. A lunge, a sweep, a twist of the wrist. Sparks of movement echoed in silence.
But then he shifted. Just slightly. His next strike was harder. Sharper.
Zhao Yan blocked it, but the force pushed her back a step. She raised a brow, half-smiling.
"Oh? Now you're trying."
She stepped in again, swift and precise, blade slicing down in a clean arc. He caught it, countered, and this time struck her across the side with the flat of his blade.
The blow was too hard.
Zhao Yan staggered, breath catching as she stepped back, gripping her side.
The clang of metal quieted. Silence wrapped around them like a sudden fog.
She looked up, stunned.
Xuanlie was already offering a hand, his face composed, charming. The smile he gave her was practiced, just warm enough to look genuine.
But his eyes… detached. Observing. Measuring.
Zhao Yan didn't take his hand right away. She stood on her own, brushing the dust from her sleeve.
"You still pull punches with everyone but me," she muttered.
He paused. Just for a moment.
Then turned away quickly, as if fixing his grip on the hilt again, but his expression had shifted.
Something twisted there.
Too fast to catch.
Too deep to understand.
Zhao Yan watched him in silence. Her fingers lingered over the bruise blooming beneath her robes. Her chest rose and fell slowly.
This wasn't the Xuanlie she remembered sparring with during their sleepless border days. That man laughed too loud when he lost and never hit harder than he meant to.
But this version of him? He didn't laugh. He didn't lose control.
Zhao Yan stepped back from the circle, sword lowered. She didn't look at him right away, just brushed her hand across her ribs where the bruise already pulsed beneath her uniform. The training grounds had quieted again, the sky overhead bleeding deeper into night.
As she turned to leave, her voice broke the stillness—soft, almost casual.
"You'll be at the Southern Ward tomorrow, right? We need your command."
Behind her, Xuanlie didn't turn. His stance remained relaxed, sword balanced lightly in one hand.
"Of course," he said.
She nodded and walked away, unaware that those were the last words she'd ever hear from him.
That was the lie.
He never showed.
The next morning, the Southern Ward sent no signal.
By mid-afternoon, all contact had gone silent.
And at dusk, Zhao Yan was summoned.
She barely had time to change out of her training gear before the order came down: Reinforce the Southern Ward. Lead the second line. Ride hard.
She met Xuanyan at the gates. No words were needed. They both knew something was wrong.
The air grew colder the farther they rode. Wind moved through the mountains like a whisper of something already dead.
And then they arrived.
The Southern Ward wasn't under siege.
It was gone.
The fortress stood, but wrong. Too quiet. The stone walls were blackened, scorched, smoke curling from the remnants of the outer towers. The ward banners had been torn down and left in the ash. Bodies—Heavenly soldiers—were scattered across the courtyard like broken dolls.
Zhao Yan dismounted slowly, numb. Her hand dropped to her spear, but she didn't draw it.
She stepped over a fallen captain whose eyes were still open. She recognized him. They had trained together. Shared meals. Laughed about nothing under the sun.
Now he lay still, mouth parted in a scream that never finished.
Xuanyan moved ahead to scout the inner hall. He did not return for several minutes.
When he did, his voice was low.
"They were ambushed from within. No sign outside attack."
Zhao Yan's heart twisted. "Xuanlie?"
Xuanyan shook his head. "He's not here."
No more questions. Just the silence of betrayal and the stink of blood in the air.
Zhao Yan stood in the middle of the ruined courtyard as twilight faded.
The heavens above, once warm with stars, now felt miles away.
And beneath her feet, Heaven bled.