That day had finally arrived. Yuling was in labor for hours.
I stayed with her the entire time—holding her hand, wiping her brow, breathing with her when it got too hard, yelling at servants when they hovered too close. She never cried. Not once. But her grip crushed my fingers more than once, and her eyes never stopped burning with that quiet, unshakable strength she always carried like a hidden weapon.
And when the cries finally came—sharp, new, unmistakably alive—I was the one who caught the first glimpse.
A son.
Red-faced. Loud. Small fists clenched like he was ready to fight the world. I walked out of the room with my hands still shaking and my chest aching from how tightly I'd been holding it all in.
"It's a boy," I said softly.
Wei Wuxian didn't move at first. Just stared. Then he let out a breath—ragged, disbelieving—and pressed a hand over his face. His shoulders shook once. I didn't ask if it was a laugh or a sob. Maybe it was both.
Ming Yu, standing beside him, broke into the kind of smile that could light up an entire battlefield. His whole face softened, like the tension in his chest had finally let go.
Even Lan Wangji's eyes changed—just slightly. A quiet softening, a tilt of the mouth that almost—almost—counted as a smile.
My throat burned, and tears pricked behind my eyes. I didn't try to hide them. Behind me, Shen Kexian cleared his throat and said, "You're crying."
I wiped at my cheek without looking at him. "I'm not."
"You are."
I turned just enough to give him a watery glare. "Do you want to be thrown down a staircase?"
He said nothing, but I could see the smile on his face.
But joy or not, this was drama 101. The moment of triumph? That's always when the dagger gets drawn.
Wei Wuxian knew it too.
By nightfall, he had doubled the guard around Yuling's quarters. Access for palace staff was restricted—only verified healers, vetted attendants, and two guards per door. No servant was allowed near the child without a seal. Even then, they were watched.
And me? Of course I was allowed in.
As the Goddess of Water, it was my divine duty to bless both mother and child.
Naturally, I invented a completely unverifiable non-sense spiritual ritual on the spot—one that involved murmured prayers, precisely folded lotus leaves, and sprinkling water at odd intervals.
I told them it had to be performed daily. For a month in her room. At minimum. Because yes, the child was a prince. Yes, he was a symbol of stability. And yes, the Queen would absolutely try something.
Despite the palace being wrapped in the glow of celebration—red banners hung high, servants smiling, ministers offering gifts with suspiciously rehearsed enthusiasm—the undercurrent had shifted.
The birth of Prince Wei's son hadn't just brought joy; it had reignited the question the court had been circling for months. Petitions began to appear on the King's desk—first a trickle, then a steady flow. Carefully worded, full of flattery, always ending with the same pointed request: it was time to formally name a crown prince. And though no name was written, everyone knew exactly who they meant.
At last, the King could no longer ignore the growing tide. The petitions had piled too high, the ministers too loud, the public too hopeful. So the announcement came—formal, deliberate, and impossible to undo. Wei Wuxian would be named Crown Prince. The ceremony would be held a week after.
We were all there when the decree was read aloud. And for a moment—just a moment—relief settled into our bones like sunlight after a long winter. After everything, he had made it.
That evening, Wei Wuxian gathered us—not to drink, not to celebrate, but for something quieter. He asked us to join him at the Wei ancestral shrine.
It wasn't what most people pictured when they thought of a royal shrine. Built into the side of the mountain beyond the palace's eastern ridge, it looked more like a cave than a temple. The entrance was narrow, flanked by stone lanterns worn smooth by wind and time. Inside, the walls were cool and damp, lined with carvings of the Wei family's history. No gold. No silk. Just rock, incense, and memory.
Wei Wuxian moved ahead of us, steps slow and sure. He stopped before a modest stone marker at the far end, its surface etched with his mother's name: Wei Qing He.
He knelt. No speeches. No grand offering. Just silence. We knelt with him. And one by one, bowed in respect—not to the future crown prince, but to the son she left behind, and the man he had become.
"She must be proud of you, Wei Ying," I said softly, smiling as he stood before the stone, silent and still.
He looked over his shoulder at me, eyes a little glassy, but his smile was real. Quiet. Grateful.
We began to make our way out, steps lighter than when we entered. There was something sacred about that silence—like the cave itself had accepted him. I moved ahead of the group, tracing my fingers along the stone wall as we followed the path toward the entrance.
And then—thud.
My body jerked back before I could register what happened. I stumbled, tripping over my own feet, a startled cry tearing from my throat as I fell backward.
MIng Yu's strong arms caught me before I hit the ground. "Are you alright?" he asked, steadying me.
I blinked, disoriented. My hand hovered midair, touching nothing but still meeting resistance. Like the space itself had turned solid.
"What the hell," I breathed. "Did I just hit air?"
Ming Yu reached out, fingers brushing the invisible barrier. His expression tightened.
"Invisible array," he said. "We're sealed in."
Lan Wangji stepped forward immediately, his robes brushing the stone floor in perfect, unhurried precision. He examined the invisible barrier, then turned to Wei Wuxian with a silent glance.
Wei Wuxian gave a single nod and raised his hand. He traced something into the air—deliberate, fluid strokes that glowed faintly gold. Then, with one smooth push, he sent the characters forward.
Little orange butterflies burst from his palm, fluttering toward the invisible wall.
I stared, eyes wide.
Wait a minute. That's—That's the same spell he used to break into Gusu in the drama.
My brain, despite the situation, let out a high-pitched internal fangirl scream that I immediately buried under several layers of spiritual dread.
But unlike the drama… it did nothing.
The butterflies disintegrated as they touched the barrier, vanishing into the air like they were never there at all. Wei Wuxian narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening.
Shen Kexian let out an unimpressed breath. "Just blast it open."
Ming Yu's hand shot out, eyes sharp. "No. This whole place is carved into the mountain. If we rupture the array, we risk collapsing the cave."
I glanced back at the stone walls—thick, ancient, full of buried history—and suddenly felt the weight of the mountain pressing in on all sides.
Wonderful. We are trapped. Now what?? Then something whizzed past my ear—so fast I didn't even register it until I heard the sharp, unmistakable clang of metal striking something solid.
The sound echoed. Something dropped to the ground just behind me. I turned and looked at it.
An arrow. My breath caught. "Ming Yu—" I called out but he was already moving. His arm wrapped around my waist in one clean motion, pulling me against him as his body turned instinctively to shield mine.
Another twang. Then another. And suddenly, the air was full of them. A rain of arrows sliced through the cave, slamming against stone, splintering across hastily conjured barriers. Lan Wangji moved like wind, blade flashing, every swing impossibly precise. Wei Wuxian's hand glowed as talismans flicked through the air, catching arrows mid-flight before they reached us.
But there were too many. Too fast. Too many angles. We were forced back, deeper into the shrine—into the very heart of the cave.
Ming Yu stayed pressed to my side, his hand never leaving his sword. Shen Kexian took position behind us, his power already humming through the air, cold and sharp.
Then came the footsteps. Fast. Purposeful. Echoing. Black figures poured through the entrance, masks covering their faces, blades drawn. The moment I saw them—those masked figures spilling into the shrine with absolute silence and deadly coordination—I knew.
This was bad. Not just danger, not just panic—bad.
We had four of the most powerful cultivators in Luyang standing in this cave. Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Liu Ming Yu, Shen Kexian. Legends. Every one of them is known by name, feared by enemies, respected by allies. If someone was attacking them—us—they wouldn't send amateurs.
These weren't low-rank thugs with borrowed swords and inflated egos. The way they moved—swift, clean, in sync—the lack of shouting, the precision of their arrow formation….These were trained assassins.
Cultivators. Skilled ones.
The fact that they had the audacity to strike here, now, told me everything I needed to know. They were prepared. They knew exactly who they were facing and they had no intention of slipping away unnoticed. This wasn't some reckless assassination attempt. It was the kind of mission meant to end in blood. Whose blood, I wasn't sure yet.
But one thing was certain—the cave wasn't a shelter anymore. It was a trap. And we were sealed inside with killers.
At that moment, I knew what I was in this fight.
A liability.
They might be able to fend these men off—maybe even take them down with brutal ease if it came to that—but not if they were constantly worried about me. I would be the first distraction. The vulnerability they couldn't afford.
Especially for Ming Yu. He wouldn't leave my side. He'd take a blade for me without hesitation, and I knew it.
And Shen Kexian? For all his cryptic smiles and self-control, he wouldn't let this body—her body—be damaged. Whatever I was to him, whoever I reminded him of, he wouldn't let me fall in this cave.
That made me dangerous. Not to them—but for them.
One of the masked men stepped forward, silent, sword already drawn. Shen Kexian raised his hand—not in attack, but in warning.
"Who sent you?" he asked, voice calm. Too calm.
The men didn't answer. Of course they didn't. Their silence was deliberate. Shen Kexian's expression didn't flicker, but something behind his eyes shifted—darker, colder.
"If you're working under the Queen," he said softly, "then you already know how this ends. If we walk out of here alive—and we will—I will find everyone you've ever cared about. And I will make sure they remember your mistake."
The words echoed in the cave like a second blade. Even the assassins paused. For just a breath. Shen Kexian didn't raise his voice. Didn't shout. But his threat was colder than the stone walls, sharper than any sword in the room.
He scared me sometimes. Not because I didn't believe him—but because I did. But now wasn't the time to question his morality. Now was the time to survive.
The masked men glanced at each other. Barely a twitch. A tilt of the head. Just enough to communicate what was about to happen.
Lan Wangji saw it first.
He moved like lightning—no warning, no pause—just surged forward, intercepting the first strike mid-air with a clash so sharp it rang through the cave like a bell.
Steel met steel.
Ming Yu reacted instantly. Before I could blink, he had shoved me behind him, toward the far corner of the shrine, his body a solid wall between me and the chaos. In the same breath, his sword split cleanly into twin blades, the metal catching the light.
"Stay here," he said, voice low and tight.
Then he was gone—back into motion, both blades flashing in tight, brutal arcs. One deflected, the other struck; steel rang against steel in a rhythm too fast to follow, each movement precise enough to carve the air itself.
Wei Wuxian drew his sword with a sharp flick. He moved like a storm, his strikes wide and fluid, keeping his opponent at bay with a strange kind of dance that only looked easy because it was him.
Shen Kexian moved like a man who'd already calculated the end of the fight—calm, efficient, every flick of his wrist deliberate. Only it wasn't a blade in his hand, but a lacquered war fan, snapping open with a sound far too elegant for a battlefield. He let the masked man come to him, letting the first few strikes glance harmlessly off the reinforced ribs of the fan, his eyes never leaving his opponent's.
I couldn't help muttering under my breath, "Of course he's fighting with a fan. How smug can you get?"
The cave echoed with the sound of steel, heavy boots scraping stone, and the thud of bodies hitting the ground.
Fighting without spiritual power meant one thing: endurance.
Every block, every strike, every breath—stamina and precision were all that kept you alive. And the masked men knew it. They weren't winning, not against cultivators like this, but they weren't losing quickly either.
Which meant they had a different plan.
Suddenly they pivoted—fast, disciplined—and fell into formation, their bodies moving like one creature. A black smoke began to coil around them, thick and acrid, spilling across the stone like oil. Then the floor beneath them shimmered—lines glowing faintly beneath the dust, ancient runes lighting up like they'd been waiting for this.
Shen Kexian's voice snapped through the chaos.
"Ling Jie Array!"
I didn't know what that meant, but Lan Wangji did. He moved like I'd never seen a human move before. He launched across the shrine—in one breath—straight toward me. There was no warning, no hesitation. One moment I was pressed against the wall, the next I was in his arms, his robes flaring like a banner behind him as the ground beneath us shifted violently.
Then we dropped. It was like being yanked straight down from the top of a cursed Tower of Terror ride at Disney World, stomach flipping inside out, my body weightless and screaming at the laws of physics to make it stop. I clinged to Lan Wangji like a feral cat as the entire cave dissolved in a blur of black smoke, light, and motion.
Somehow, we landed on solid ground.
My legs immediately gave up any illusion of strength, trembling so hard I could barely stay upright. I clung to Lan Wangji for a second longer before he gently steadied me, his hands firm but effortless, like catching people mid-fall was just part of his daily routine.
Of course, the other three had already landed like it was just another day.
Wei Wuxian straightened his collar with one hand. Shen Kexian casually adjusted the cuffs of his robe like he hadn't just fallen through reality. Ming Yu landed a few feet away and was already moving toward me, not a single strand of hair out of place.
He reached for me, sliding an arm around my waist. "Are you alright?"
I nodded, breath still shaky, trying to blink the dizziness away.
Then I looked around. We were standing on a massive slab of rock, smooth and dark and solid—suspended in the middle of nothing. Thick white smoke surrounded the edges, dense and shifting, forming a circular wall that shimmered faintly like it had been stitched together from clouds and energy.
"Where are we?" I asked, voice quieter than I intended.
Shen Kexian stepped forward, gaze sweeping the space like he was already analyzing every inch.
"We're in the array," he said flatly.
"In the array?" I repeated, squinting at Shen Kexian. "As in… a pocket realm? One of those little dimension-bending, reality-defying, time-gets-weird-here situations?"
No one answered.
I turned in a slow circle, taking in the floating stone platform, the glowing fog barrier, the sheer nothingness beyond it. Yep. That tracked.
I mean, cultivators already defy physics on a good day. Now we were in a bubble that defied physics about defying physics.
I mentally slapped myself. Focus, Mei Lin. You can unravel the metaphysical crisis later.
Because that's when it happened.
The white smoke rippled then broke. The masked men stepped out again—just as silent, just as deliberate, blades gleaming like they didn't care that we'd just dropped into another plane of existence.
Then, with one smooth turn, Lan Wangji—who had been utterly still—extended his hand.
Because of course, he summoned his guqin out of thin air. No scroll. No dramatic flourish. Just a soft chime and there it was, materializing like divine judgment in silk robes.
He sat, crossed his legs, and plucked one string.
Just one.
The sound sliced through the air, resonant and low—and the lead masked man backflipped to get out of its path, like instinct told him: don't even let that note touch you.
Just like that, all hell broke loose.
The air cracked apart in the first second.
Wei Wuxian lifted his flute to his lips, fingers flying over the polished wood with the same reckless grace he wore like a second robe. The first note was low—haunting—but as it swelled, so did the shadows around him. Thick black smoke burst from the ground like it had been hiding in the stone, coiling around his ankles and spiraling out like a living storm. It didn't move randomly. It hunted. Like it had memory. Like it recognized targets. The moment the masked men stepped forward, the smoke surged toward them, splitting into clawed wisps, dragging sharp edges through the air with a sound like whispering ash.
Ming Yu didn't need theatrics. He stepped forward, clean and silent, and with a single smooth motion, his sword split into twin blades.
Every time the pair moved, the air seemed to tear behind them—each slash sharp enough to send out a crescent of wind that curved wide, not to maim, but to control. The masked men dodged with difficulty. One veered right—barely—and the blast struck the ground behind him, shattering a chunk of the stone platform into flying fragments. Ming Yu never shouted. Never grunted. He moved like water over glass—fluid, steady, and impossible to predict.
Then there was Shen Kexian. Where Wei Wuxian was chaos and Ming Yu was balance, Shen Kexian was something far more terrifying: precision.
He wove through the smoke and wind like he wasn't even part of the same battle, his lacquered war fan snapping open with a sharp crack that cut through the noise. No blade, no clash—just swift, calculated movements. He turned an attacker's strike aside with the reinforced ribs of the fan, then pivoted, folding it shut to drive the edge into the man's ribs. It was graceful, smug, and deadly all at once.
The air was thick with sound and movement.
And I knew—within a few minutes, maybe less—the masked men would realize something very important.
That I was just standing there.
No sword. No talismans. No spells. No guqin to pluck or hidden blade to draw. Just me. Breathing too hard, eyes too wide, standing like an idiot in the middle of a floating rock battlefield with nowhere to hide.
There were no walls to duck behind. No altar to crouch near. Just endless smoke, swinging blades, and the steadily dawning realization that once the distraction wore off, I would become the obvious target.
Wei Wuxian struck again—his flute shrieking with force as black smoke surged forward in a wave—and one of the masked men went flying. He hit the ground hard to my right, landing in a skid that kicked up broken stone.
I froze.
He didn't. He was up in an instant, feet planted, blade steady—and his eyes landed on me.
Something in his gaze shifted. Clicked. Recognition.
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Oh shit."
He had figured it out. The weak link. The liability. The very stationary target standing quietly off to the side of a full-scale supernatural brawl.
I didn't even think. I didn't plan. I ran. Instinct kicked in and my legs moved, launching me toward the nearest person in my peripheral vision who wasn't wearing black. Thank every god for Shen Kexian choosing grey robes for once.
He saw me coming, eyes narrowing just slightly, and without a word, he caught me—one arm braced around my back, the other snapping open his lacquered war fan in a single, fluid motion as the masked man lunged forward.
The blade came down fast—too fast. Shen Kexian met it mid-strike, the reinforced ribs of the fan catching the steel with a sharp, ringing crack. Sparks hissed between us as he twisted, turning the fan to shove the weapon aside. The impact rattled through him, but he held steady—just long enough.
A pulse of glowing blue light shot from the left—Lan Wangji's energy string, silent and precise.
It struck the masked man's side with a low crack, sending him stumbling backward, barely keeping his footing.
He didn't go down. But it bought us two seconds. Maybe three. And I knew—this is bad. I couldn't stand there like some emotionally unstable flower vase any longer. I had to do something.
Anything.
Unfortunately, my brain responded with the dumbest, most impulsive solution it could possibly conjure.
"Kexian," I blurted, "let me get on your back."
He blinked. In the middle of a deadly, close-quarters magical fight, where swords were flying and assassins were crawling out of fog like ghosts—and that was what I said.
Let me. Get on your back.
I wasn't sure who was more horrified—him, or me. "I can't just stand here!" I hissed. "Use our power!"
For a half second—half a second—Shen Kexian actually looked stunned. Not confused. Not opposed. Just very, very caught off guard. Then—he smirked. Of course he did. Without missing a beat, he reached back, grabbed my wrist, and with one smooth pull, hoisted me onto his back.
It should've been ridiculous. No—it was ridiculous.
If we weren't in the middle of a collapsing pocket realm array, mid-assassination, surrounded by masked men and legendary cultivators, it might've been the most humiliating thing I'd ever done.
I clung to him like a monkey. No grace. No dignity. No thought of posture, poise, or how much silk I was dragging in the process.
Just me—arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, thighs locked around his waist, robes in disarray, yelling inside my head, no one better ever speak of this again.
But then—Our whole body touched and the power surged. This time, we didn't need to hold hands. There was no ritual, no breathless connection point, no centering.
His rage surged like a rising tide, thick and volatile, but I didn't flinch. I countered it on instinct, tempering the heat with the same emotion I'd learned to wield—resolve, care, control.
It met in the middle, and the result exploded outward. A barrier of water erupted around us, arching up in a glistening dome, sharp-edged and alive—a living shield that snapped into place just as another wave of blades rushed toward us.
Ming Yu turned mid-swing, catching sight of us over his shoulder. His eyes went wide. So many questions in that one look, but no time to ask them. He ducked a strike and returned to the fight, processing none of it.
Wei Wuxian spared us a glance across the chaos, his eyes narrowing—and I would bet anything that under his breath he muttered, "What the fuck?"
Even Lan Wangji paused for a fraction of a second. Just a blink. But in Lan Wangji terms? That was shouting.
Now it was four against four. Four top cultivators. Plus me. Still clinging to Shen Kexian's back like a battlefield barnacle.
The way he moved—quick, calculated, sharp like a blade with no sheath—I had seen it before. But now, feeling it from this close, it was something else entirely.
Every step, every twist, every strike—I didn't just watch it, I felt it.
Not in words, not in thoughts. It was deeper than that. His intention poured through the contact between us—raw, fast-moving flashes of instinct. A surge of pressure just before he ducked. The coil of tension right before he struck. He didn't tell me anything. He didn't need to.
I knew.
The air screamed past my ears—wind roaring louder than the clash of swords. My eyes stung from the force, from the movement, from the spiritual charge that kept rising like a wave waiting to crest.
But we were gaining ground. The masked men—coordinated, ruthless, fast—were starting to falter.
Just when I thought we were turning the tide, they pulled something else.
The four masked men suddenly disengaged—quick, clean, no hesitation—and fell back into a perfect square formation. Their movements were too rehearsed, too synchronized. Not retreat. Preparation.
Then the ground beneath them pulsed.
Another array flared to life—etched into the stone with glowing ink we hadn't seen until now, hidden beneath their feet like a trap waiting to be triggered. It snapped outward in a circle of red-black symbols, pulsing once before collapsing inward with a sound like breath being sucked from the air.
Black smoke erupted from them, thick and fast, coiling up like ink poured into a firelight.
My breath caught. The smoke didn't just rise. It shaped itself fast and precisely.
Four figures—warped into one shape.
Oh no.
I knew that shape. The long claws. The armor. The twitching stinger curling over an unnatural spine.
"A scorpion!"