After the phoenix rain faded into memory, life in Qingshui Village returned to its usual rhythm—hard, frugal, and unyielding.
Yet the Yue household felt different.
As if heaven had quietly taken note of this broken little home.
Grandfather Yue Shun rose before dawn each day, axe over his shoulder, walking into the mountains to cut firewood. Some days he sold bundles in the village; other days he carried them to the next town, trading sweat for a few copper coins.
Grandmother Liu Yan stayed behind, weaving bamboo baskets, repairing torn clothes, and boiling thin porridge that somehow always stretched far enough for everyone.
Their five sons had learned early that survival was a skill.
The eldest son, Yue Jian, worked as a tenant farmer on another man's land. His wife, Aunt Wang Shi, helped in the fields during planting season and brewed rough grain wine at home, selling jars during festivals. Their son Yue Ming often accompanied his father, hands already rough at seventeen.
The second son, Yue Qiang, earned his living as a village hunter. He trapped rabbits, caught pheasants, and sometimes dared deeper into the forest for boar. His wife, Aunt Sun Shi, dried meat and herbs, trading them at the market. Their sons—Yue Qiu, Yue Tao, and Yue Jun—knew the forest paths better than most adults.
The third son, Yue Wen, was the only one who could read. He served as a part-time scribe and letter-writer for villagers who needed contracts, petitions, or family letters written. His wife, Aunt Li Shi, spun thread and embroidered simple patterns onto cloth to sell cheaply. Their sons Yue Heng and Yue An often sat beside their father, listening as he read aloud.
The fourth son, Yue Feng, worked as a porter at the river docks. He carried grain sacks, stones, and crates until his shoulders bled. His wife, Aunt Chen Shi, cooked meals for dockworkers, selling bowls of hot soup and steamed buns. Their sons Yue Liang and Yue Rui grew up among shouting men and splashing oars.
The youngest son, Yue Chen, remained a woodcutter, sometimes hiring himself out as day labor when the mountains yielded little. His wife, Zhao Lan, washed clothes by the river and mended garments late into the night.
Poverty tied them together like a single rope.
And now, so did Yue Ning.
The cousins came often, each finding some excuse to peek at the baby.
"She's small," Yue Liang muttered, already planning how to protect her.
"She smiled at me," Yue Rui declared proudly, though no one believed him.
Yue Han stood guard by the bed whenever he could, while Yue Bo insisted on placing his wooden toy beside his sister, convinced it would keep her safe.
No one argued.
Far away, within the grandeur of the Xu Imperial Palace, Prince Xu Chen stood beneath the eaves, watching rainwater drip from carved dragons.
"She was born into hardship," he murmured.
And because of that—
He chose restraint.
That same year, he began to train relentlessly in martial arts and cultivation, pushing his body beyond comfort, beyond reason. At night, he studied commerce and governance.
Quietly, through trusted shadows, he established shops, caravans, and medicine halls across the kingdom.
But never in Qingshui Village.
Never near it.
"There must be space," he thought, "for her to build something of her own."
He sealed his aura deeper than before.
Power without heart was meaningless.
In the poorest house of Qingshui Village, Yue Ning slept in her grandmother's arms.
The Supreme Heavenly Empress, wrapped in mortal flesh, felt the ache of hunger, the warmth of family, the weight of simplicity.
She concealed her aura completely.
"I do not wish to recognize him by heaven's pull," her infant soul vowed.
"I want to recognize him… by my heart."
Above the mortal world, unseen Heavenly Daos stirred uneasily.
Two existences had vanished from their sight.
And for the first time—
Heaven could not see its own fate.