The descent did not hurt.
That, more than anything, unsettled Ye.
He had expected pain—burning meridians, shattered bones, the tearing away of immortal senses. Heaven rarely punished gently. But when his feet touched the earth, there was only a dull heaviness, as if the sky itself had pressed its palm against his shoulders and whispered, Stay.
The mortal world smelled different.
Woodsmoke. Damp soil. Something faintly sweet—wildflowers, perhaps. His immortal sight was sealed, his spiritual sense dulled to a thin ache behind his eyes. Power no longer flowed freely through him. It sat dormant, coiled and restrained, bound by Heaven's decree.
Ye stood at the edge of a dirt road, dressed now in plain dark robes, his long hair tied simply at his back. The sky above was a pale, indifferent blue.
So this was where fate wanted him.
A village lay ahead—small, unremarkable. Mud-brick houses. Thatched roofs. Chickens scattered at the roadside. Children's laughter drifted faintly through the air.
And somewhere within it—
Her.
Ye closed his eyes.
Ling Yue, he thought, though Heaven had stripped the name from her memory.
In the Immortal Realm, she had been light itself—laughter ringing like bells, eyes bright with curiosity, a fairy who asked too many questions and trusted too easily. She had stood beneath the Fate Tree once, tilting her head as she studied the glowing threads.
"If you can see the future," she had asked him, "doesn't that make the present lonely?"
He had not answered then.
Now, he opened his eyes and stepped forward.
---
Ling Yue was carrying water when she first saw him.
The wooden bucket was heavier than it looked, sloshing dangerously as she walked. She had been distracted—thinking about nothing in particular, watching the dust rise beneath her steps—when a shadow fell across the path ahead.
She looked up.
The stranger stood still, as if uncertain whether to approach.
He was tall, dressed simply, yet there was something about him that did not belong to this place. His gaze was steady, dark, and far too calm for a wandering traveler. When their eyes met, Ling Yue felt an odd sensation in her chest—like recognition without memory.
She frowned slightly.
"Are you lost?" she asked.
Her voice.
Ye felt it strike something deep within him.
"No," he said, then paused. Adjusted. "I mean… I was hoping to ask for directions."
She shifted the bucket in her hands. "To where?"
He looked at her—really looked.
The curve of her brow. The faint crease between her eyes when she was curious. The way sunlight caught in her hair.
You haven't changed, he thought. Not where it matters.
"I don't know yet," he answered honestly.
She blinked, then laughed softly. "That's not very helpful."
The sound tightened something in his chest.
"There's an inn near the east well," she continued, after a moment. "You can stay there. Travelers don't pass through often, but…" She hesitated, then added, "People here are kind."
Kinder than Heaven, Ye thought.
"Thank you," he said.
She nodded, then turned to leave—but stopped.
"Have we met before?" she asked suddenly.
The question hung between them.
Ye's fingers curled slowly at his side.
In Heaven, the Mother Goddess had warned him: She must not remember. And you must not remind her.
He met Ling Yue's gaze and forced his expression into something neutral.
"I don't think so," he said.
Something flickered across her face—confusion, perhaps. Or disappointment.
"Oh," she murmured. "I just thought… never mind."
She lifted the bucket again and walked past him.
As she did, their shoulders brushed.
It was brief. Accidental.
Yet Ye felt it like a thunderstrike.
Her warmth lingered against his arm long after she had gone.
---
That night, Ye sat alone beneath a crooked old tree at the edge of the village.
The moon here was smaller than Heaven's—less perfect, its light uneven. Crickets sang. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.
He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground.
I should not be here, he thought.
Every step he took closer to her tightened Heaven's invisible chains. Already, he could feel the seals pressing deeper into his spiritual core, warning him.
Yet when he closed his eyes, all he saw was her standing on the dirt road, sunlight in her hair, asking if they had met before.
We have, he wanted to tell her.
In every life that mattered.
Instead, he whispered into the quiet night, "Just a little longer."
The wind carried his words away.
Above the mortal realm, unseen and unacknowledged, a single golden thread trembled—caught between shadow and light.