They called it the War of Red Skies.
It began on a night when the moon bled into the heavens, turning from silver to a violent, unearthly red. Its light stretched like molten metal across the lands—scorching temples, whispering through broken fields, illuminating jagged silhouettes of mountains and rivers like veins of fire.
No one remembered the last time the moon had bled so fiercely. Some said it was a sign that the old gods had grown angry. Others whispered that a new era, shaped by calamity, had begun.
And on that night, she was born.
Her cry split the night, sharp and unnatural, cutting through the low moans of the wind and the distant roar of burning villages. Her mother, frail and shivering, stared down at her newborn with eyes that had already witnessed too much suffering. But it was not the wail that frightened her—it was the mark.
A half-moon sigil curved delicately along the nape of the infant's neck. It glowed faintly at first, then stronger, as if it drew light from the blood-red moon itself.
It was not ink. It was not carved. It was alive, thrumming like a heartbeat foreign to this world.
Legends long forgotten whispered of such marks—the Seal of Lianxu, the Silent Goddess. Once, they said, those who bore it had changed the course of empires. Once, they said, the world had feared them enough to vanish them into mist and memory.
Her parents were nothing more than villagers, tired and brittle, struggling against famine, war, and superstition. Yet, with her birth, misfortune deepened. Wells turned black and bitter. Crops withered overnight. The village's livestock fell ill one by one. Dreams became twisted, filled with screams and shadows that whispered warnings.
Rumors spread faster than wildfire:
"The sigil… she bears the mark of Lianxu. The child of the Silent Goddess."
"A vessel… a curse… the moon has blessed—or condemned—her."
"Destroy her before she awakens, or the village will burn."
Fear turned quickly into hatred.
One night, when the wind howled and the trees shivered as if whispering a warning, they came for her.
Her parents, torn between instinct and superstition, carried her to the edge of Mirrow Lake. The surface of the water shimmered in the red moonlight, fractured like molten glass. Her tiny body, wrapped in nothing but thin cloth, seemed fragile as a leaf, yet the half-moon mark pulsed beneath her skin, a heartbeat in opposition to the mortal world.
They left her there. Alone.
But the moon did not turn away.
Old Mother Bi found her.
No one knew where she came from—some said she had emerged from the misted mountains centuries ago, others swore they had seen her wandering the forests, listening to whispers carried by the wind. She was slight, with hands knotted like old wood and eyes milky from age, yet in her presence there was authority. When she saw the child, she did not recoil. She only murmured prayers too old to remember and lifted the girl from the water, holding her as if she weighed nothing.
They traveled for days, through silent forests and abandoned villages, to a shrine forgotten by the living but still remembered by the wind. There, beneath stone statues whose eyes had been worn smooth by centuries, the old diviner, blind and stooped, traced the mark with trembling fingers.
"You've brought me death in a child's skin," he whispered, voice barely above the rustle of leaves.
"Then what is she?" asked Mother Bi, steady and unafraid.
"She is the seal they thought lost," the diviner said. "The silence the heavens feared to break. The blade between salvation and annihilation."
From that day forward, the child, Ruoxue, learned the weight of silence.
For twelve years, she grew in quiet isolation, her life a careful balance between survival and secrecy. By day, she followed Mother Bi through the mountains, learning which herbs healed and which poisoned, how to move without leaving a sound, how to read the wind as if it spoke a language. By night, she stared at the crimson moon, tracing its veins across the sky, feeling the pulse of the half-moon sigil beneath her hair.
No one dared to call her by name—least of all the villagers who still cursed her birth.
"Ruoxue," Mother Bi said sometimes, her voice like the wind through the trees. "You were born marked by the gods, not cursed. Remember that when the world calls you monster."
Ruoxue never answered. Silence had become her shield, her voice restrained because words often invited danger.
Beneath her skin, the mark pulsed—cold, ancient, waiting.
Even as a child, she understood it: she was not meant for ordinary life.
The first sign of destiny arrived on a morning smothered in mist. Ruoxue had wandered to the cliffs above Wuheng Mountain, drawn by a whisper she could not understand. The half-moon mark throbbed faintly, tugging at her senses. There, in the hollowed-out mouth of the cliffs, she saw a figure: a celestial being, cloaked in silver and violet, hair flowing like ink in water, eyes like twin moons that mirrored the crimson one above.
"You feel it, do you not?" the figure asked. Its voice was like the rustle of silk across stone, gentle yet commanding.
Ruoxue nodded slowly, unable to speak, feeling the pull of the mark as it resonated with the presence before her.
"The Nine Courts have noticed," it said. "And you… have awakened something long dormant."
The air shimmered, and for a moment, Ruoxue felt her heartbeat align with the pulse of the mountains themselves. The trees seemed to bow, the winds to whisper secrets, and the very stones beneath her feet hummed.
"Why me?" she finally whispered, voice trembling.
"Because the red moon chooses not the strong, but the destined," the figure replied. "It is not your strength that matters—it is the memory buried within your blood. When the time comes, you will remember… and the world will bend before it."
Before she could respond, the figure vanished, leaving only the faint scent of jasmine and frost. Ruoxue stood in silence, the half-moon sigil throbbing, a reminder of something ancient, dangerous, and magnificent within her.
Years passed.
Under Mother Bi's guidance, Ruoxue became adept in herbs, strategy, and observation. She could track a fox in the densest forest, identify the song of a bird in the highest bough, and predict the movement of clouds that hid storms in the mountains. Yet she was not trained in combat—not yet. Her body, nimble and strong, was a silent weapon; her mind, sharper than any blade, was already a fortress.
Then came the day the Nine Courts descended.
It was on a night when the moon had calmed, pale and serene. Ruoxue had returned from collecting herbs, her hands chilled and calloused, when the skies split with golden light. From the heavens descended seven figures, each radiating power so immense that the mountains trembled beneath their weight.
"Ruoxue of the Half-Moon Seal," the tallest among them intoned. His voice carried like thunder across valleys. "You have been observed. You have been tested. You are now invited to live where the worthy dwell—Moonlit Jade Pavilion."
A pavilion, floating above the peak of Wuheng Mountain, shimmering with jade light, gold accents, and walls that seemed stitched from moonlight itself. The Nine Courts promised it would be her home, her sanctuary, and her arena.
"But… I am no one," Ruoxue whispered.
"You are chosen," the Court replied. "The world beyond these mountains grows restless, and one day, you will be the blade, the shield, and the balance. Prepare yourself, child of the silent seal."
And with a flicker, the lights vanished. The air returned to stillness, leaving only Ruoxue, wide-eyed, at the precipice of destiny.
That night, under a sky streaked with stars, she finally spoke.
"If the moon has chosen me… then I will not falter."
Mother Bi, standing behind her, nodded silently. The mountains whispered in response, as though acknowledging the pact. The red moon, a faint scar in the distance, pulsed once more before fading into silver.
Ruoxue did not yet know what awaited her—the friends who would betray, the enemies who would lie in shadows, the tournaments that would test not just her skill but her very heart. She did not yet know the price of the mark she bore, nor the memories that would one day awaken.
But she knew this: the War of Red Skies had chosen its champion, and the world would never be the same.