The Heavenly Realm floated above all known worlds, suspended in silence and starlight. It does not exist on a map. It was a breath held between fates, a place beyond memory and mortal reckoning.
At the center rose the celestial capital:
A sprawling dominion of floating jade courts, mirrored lakes, moonlit corridors, and towers that pierced eternity itself.
Above it spun the Constellation Ring-a crown of eternal flame, an orbit of divine stars circling the Divine Court like sentinels carved from destiny.
Bridges of moonstone arched across the void, linking floating isles of power. Each bridge led to a stronghold-a sanctum belonging to one of the Four Divine Pillars, who ranks just below the Heavenly Emperor. They bow to no one, except for him.
The Four Divine Pillars, the heavenly axis, the balance of all that was ordered and eternal:
In the north, buried in frost and storm, stood the palace of the Goddess of War, Zhao Yan. She who led the Divine Army. Revered. Untouched. Her presence as cold as the steel she wielded.
In the west, wreathed in black and gold flame, waited the fortress of the God of Wisdom, Xuanyan. A being draped in silence and secrets, whose gaze stripped illusion from fact.
In the south, where blossoms never faded and dreams bled into dawn, lay the domain of Meihua, Goddess of Fate and Dreams. She who wrote futures in starlight and buried broken hopes beneath her sleeves.
And to the east, in a palace built upon perfect symmetry and stillness, resided the God of Balance, Ling Huai. Gentle, but elusive. Unseen. The scale upon which chaos and order swayed-but never tipped.
Each Pillar held a thread of eternity in their hands. But above them all, above even the stars, floated the highest realm, Tiangong Palace.
The Throne of Heaven.
Where sat Lingxu Dijun, the Celestial Sovereign.
He who breathed law into the void and carved stillness from the storm. He who needed no sword, no counsel. For he was the decree himself.
And from his throne hung a great bronze bell, veiled in chains of stardust and woven silence.
No hand ever touched it.
No wind ever stirred it.
And yet, it rang.
Once.
Then again.
A soft, hollow chime that rippled through the realms like the first breath before a scream.
Measured. Inevitable.
The sound of Heaven turning.
And with it came a whisper-not spoken aloud, not heard by ear, yet felt in every pulse of the realm.
The Divine Military Court stood in rigid silence.
At its center, under a vaulted sky of veined jade and gold, a lone figure walked, unhurried and unbothered. Zhao Yan, Goddess of War, moved like a shadow sharpened into steel.
Her armor, shaped in silver and edged with crimson, bore the marks of battle-scratches, hairline cracks, faint burns-but it gleamed all the same. A fresh polish masked the damage. Only the weight of her steps betrayed how recently the blood had dried.
Rows of immortal soldiers stood on either side of the marble path. They lowered their heads as she passed. Not a single word was spoken. Reverence followed her like a second cloak.
Behind her, a trail of light shimmered across the white floor. A single divine plume from her mantle floated, flickered, then dissolved.
She didn't stop to rest. She didn't ask for escort. She walked straight through the corridor of the Hall of Merit, where the war records of heaven glowed faintly along the ivory pillars. Living inscriptions danced across the stone, telling the conquests of divine generals past and present.
Her name appeared more times than any other. She didn't even spare it a glance.
Further ahead, a high arch opened to the starlit view of the outer heavens. The wind shifted slightly, cool against her face.
Then she paused. Not long. Just enough for the change to be noticed.
Her eyes drifted toward the far distance.
Beyond the floating courts, past the bridge of starfire, and higher still, floated a single mountain suspended in stillness. Quiet. Unmoving. Removed from the layers of heaven like a thought set aside.
There were no banners.
No guards.
No open gates.
Just a palace built upon silence.
Zhao Yan stared for a moment. Her expression didn't change, but something in her shoulders stopped bracing.
"No banners. No footsteps. No call," she thought. "He's always alone."
She didn't dare say his name.
Not even in her mind.
The memory comes uninvited.
Centuries ago, she had stood at the edge of the Hall of Judgment. Just a face among the crowd-young, unnoticed, unproven. The bronze of her training armor was dull, scratched. Her rank barely enough to allow her presence.
The celestial tribunals were rare, and every lower-ranked immortal came hoping to learn something. Most stared at the accused. But Zhao Yan only looked at him.
The younger brother of the Heavenly Emperor.
The youngest of the divine strategists. The one who never needed to speak twice. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, robes falling like liquid starlight over the marble. He wasn't among the other Pillars-he stood apart from them, at the edge of the platform where sky met stone.
When he spoke, the hall hushed. His voice was calm. Steady. Measured.
Zhao Yan had pretended not to look. She tucked herself behind a pillar, watching from its shadow, her heart rattling against her ribs. She didn't understand why, back then. Only that he moved like silence itself. That his gaze never lingered, but never missed.
"I cannot even speak his name," she had thought, clutching her scrolls tighter.
"I am not worthy to stand where he walks."
She never approached him. Not once.
The present rushes back like a wave pulling from shore.
Zhao Yan's eyes return to the horizon, to the Floating Mountain of Stillness. His residence. There are no lights in the sky around it. No wind. No stir of activity.
He has been in seclusion for a thousand years now.
His divine body was injured during the last great war. A wound deeper than most saw. That same war had claimed the life of her master-the previous God of War. The one whose name still rests on the marble of remembrance in the Military Court.
Zhao Yan had inherited her title after that war. But her master had carried it for ten thousand years before her.
And he had been the one who directed the final assault of that war. A command that saved the heavens, but shattered something inside him.
She had been no one then. Just a junior in the army, sitting on cold steps outside the Hall of Judgment. She remembers how the sky looked that day, crimson streaked and endless. The kind of sky that seemed too vast for someone like her.
He had stood beside the Heavenly Emperor, but slightly apart, never quite in the center, always a little removed, like even his shadow didn't want to impose.
He never turned in her direction. Why would he?
But she had looked. She had memorized the way his fingers folded behind his back, how his gaze lowered in thought, how his expression remains gentle.
After that day, she didn't speak of him. Not to her master. Not to anyone.
Some feelings, when spoken aloud, lose their power.
And some distances should not be crossed. Not even in thought.
The quiet lingers as she stands in the present.
Her fingers curl slightly by her side. Not out of longing, but restraint.
She has never stood before him. Not truly. Not even when she bore the war banner in his stead. Not even when she led his strategy to its end. Even then he did not know her.
And maybe that was for the best.
The mountain remains still. His light remains absent.
Zhao Yan turns away. The court awaits. The next battle will come. They always do.
But not him.
Not yet.
Inside the Tiangong Palace, in the Throne Hall, where the constellations flow like rivers across a domed sky, Xuanyan walks across the marble floor. His robe l, once a pristine cascade of dark silver, is scorched at the hem, the edges frayed. Dust and ash cling to his sleeves like stubborn ghosts.
He does not pause. He only kneels.
In front of him, lounging sideways on a reclining cloud throne, is Lingxu Dijun, sovereign of the Three Skies, ruler of the Celestial Realm, and very much... barefoot.
"Xuanyan," Lingxu says without looking up. He's halfway through slicing a peach with a blade made of moonlight. "If you brought bad news, at least bring wine with it."
Xuanyan doesn't smile. "I bring truth. Whether you sweeten it or not is your will, Dijun."
Lingxu raises an eyebrow. "So dramatic. I suppose you didn't catch fire for fashion, then?"
He finally looks up and though his words are light, his gaze is not. The celestial veil in his irises flickers, and the mirth slowly leaves his face as he sees the ash and scorch-marks trailing after Xuanyan.
"...You were in the Mirror Realm."
Xuanyan nods. "I followed a distortion. The constellations above it were... out of alignment."
Lingxu tosses the peach slice into his mouth, chews once, then tosses the blade aside where it disappears mid-air.
"Go on," he says, sitting up. "Scare me."
Xuanyan stands. "It's not an external threat, Your Majesty. It's internal. The stars reflect the truth of heaven and lately, they have begun to burn darker. Not black... not yet. But there's something inside the heavens, tilting the balance."
Lingxu frowns slightly. "Impurities?"
"I saw signs. Just a flicker. But it was enough to shatter a minor star in the eastern quadrant. I've never seen a star fall without cause."
Dijun stands slowly. Now barefoot and serious, the weight of his mantle unfurling behind him.
"The skies have held peace for too long," he murmurs. "When still waters stir... they drown."
Xuanyan's voice lowers. "I suspect the corruption is divine in origin."
A beat.
Lingxu's jaw tenses.
"That's not a suspicion," he says, voice sharp. "That's a warning."
Another silence falls, heavier than before.
Xuanyan breaks it. "We need your brother. We need the Strategist." Xuanyan's eyes lifted toward him, gaze sharp. "We need to act. Before it's too late."
Dijun smirked, letting his head fall back. "Ling Huai's still hiding in his little starlit cave, isn't he? Meditating, healing."
Xuanyan says. "I'm telling you. This realm stands because he holds it steady. He was born to keep balance and when balance shifts, he must return."
Lingxu walks toward the edge of the observatory, hands folded behind his back, gazing up at the dome. Stars pulse above him, cold and perfect. Except for one, near the corner of the celestial map, a flicker of red.
A fracture.
"Ling Huai's body still bears the wounds of the last war," Lingxu says quietly. "He's not fully mended. If he breaks again-"
"Then this time, he will shatter," Xuanyan finishes for him.
A pause. Long. Like the space between breaths before a sword is drawn.
Then Lingxu straightens. He turns to Xuanyan with a grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
He waved a hand, brushing a thread of light from his sleeve. "Well, we'll have to hold the skies until he decides to open his eyes again."
Xuanyan didn't speak. His gaze shifted-past Dijun, beyond the open arches of the palace, toward the distant edge of the Ninth Heaven, where the Floating Mountain of Stillness hung silent.
And above it, just faintly-the starlight had begun to burn red.
Zhao Yan's quarters were still and dim, lit only by a few flickering moon-lotus candles. Her spear leaned by the door, untouched. The air smelled faintly of plum tea and sandalwood.
Then her mirror shimmered.
Without a warning, Meihua stepped through the glass, barefoot, wrapped in sheer dream-silk, her hair loosely braided and swinging like a bell rope.
"Finally," she sighed. "Do you even live here?"
Zhao Yan didn't move from her seat. "Meihua."
"That's it? Just Meihua?" The dreamweaver put both hands on her hips. "I haven't seen you in months. You vanished."
"You vanish every time I blink."
Meihua scoffed, dropping onto the cushion across from her like she owned the place. "That's my job. I travel in dreams. You run off into wars."
"Also my job."
"You could write. Or send a little cloud note. Or, I don't know... say hi in the astral corridor?"
"I've been busy."
Meihua leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Busy sulking?"
Zhao Yan raised an eyebrow. "No."
"Training?"
"No."
Meihua gasped. "Don't tell me... you've been resting."
Zhao Yan took a sip of tea to avoid answering.
Meihua smiled in triumph. "I knew it. You've been hiding. Like a hermit. A quiet, brooding, dramatic hermit."
"I'm not dramatic."
"You're dramatic in silence. That's a skill, by the way."
Zhao Yan set her cup down with a quiet clink. "What do you want, Meihua?"
"I missed you," she said simply.
Zhao Yan blinked. "You... what?"
"I missed you," Meihua repeated, arms crossed, lips slightly pouty. "You're the only person who doesn't look at me like I'm made of mist and sugar."
Zhao Yan tilted her head. "You kind of are."
"Rude."
Zhao Yan's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.
Meihua spotted it and beamed. "There it is! I saw it. The tiniest smile. You should do that more. You might make friends."
"I don't need friends."
"Everyone needs friends."
Zhao Yan leaned back slightly, eyes calm. "You're enough trouble on your own."
Meihua clasped her hands over her heart. "Aw, is that your way of saying I'm your favorite?"
"No."
"That sounded like a yes."
"You hear what you want to hear."
"Always," she said proudly. "That's what dreamweavers do."
They sat in silence for a few moments, sipping tea.
Then Meihua wrinkled her nose. "Why is your room so empty?"
"I don't need much."
"You need a rug. And pillows. Maybe a hanging light orb or two."
"I don't like clutter."
"You don't like joy."
"I like peace."
Meihua gave her a look. "Peace is boring."
"You're chaos in silk."
"And you love it."
Zhao Yan didn't answer. Which, from her, was practically a yes.
Meihua leaned her chin on her palm, watching her. "You're really okay?"
Zhao Yan replied, "I'm... not not okay."
Meihua nodded slowly, satisfied with that non-answer. "Good. As long as you're somewhere in between."
She yawned and stretched her arms above her head, bracelets sliding down her wrist.
Zhao Yan glanced at her sideways. "You're staying?"
"I just got here."
"You always just get here."
Meihua grinned. "Exactly. So I'm staying."
Zhao Yan sighed, pushing the teapot closer to her. "Fine. But no floating while you sleep. You scared my sentries last time."
"Oops." Meihua sipped. "No promises."
The candles burned lower. Outside, the celestial wind hummed gently through the jade lanterns.
Meihua lay sideways on Zhao Yan's lounge couch, wrapped in one of her spare robes-far too large for her. She looked like a sleepy dumpling in silk.
"Your couch is stiff," she mumbled into the pillow.
"It's not meant for sleeping."
"Then why is it here?"
"For sitting."
Meihua flopped onto her back. "How do you live like this?"
Zhao Yan didn't answer. She was seated at her small table, quietly sorting through scrolls. Or pretending to.
Meihua peeked at her from one eye. "You know, I could weave you a nicer bed. One that dreams when you sleep on it."
"I don't need dreams."
"Everyone needs dreams."
"I already see too much."
"Not my kind of dreams," Meihua said, stretching her arms with a soft sigh. "Mine are soft. Gentle. No swords. No blood. Just clouds and stars and old memories that don't hurt anymore."
Zhao Yan glanced at her, amused. "Do you rehearse those lines in your mirror?"
"Every morning," Meihua said proudly. "With extra sparkle."
A soft silence followed. Meihua slowly closed her eyes.
"You're staying the night?" Zhao Yan asked.
Meihua nodded sleepily. "Just a little nap... then I'll go."
"You said that last time."
"Mm. And it was true. A very long nap is still a nap."
Zhao Yan rose and walked over. Meihua peeked again.
"You're hovering."
Zhao Yan raised an eyebrow. "You're halfway off the couch."
Meihua extended her arms like a child. "Tuck me in, then."
Zhao Yan rolled her eyes-then gently lifted the end of the robe and draped it back over Meihua's shoulders. "There."
"You're such a warrior," Meihua whispered with a teasing grin. "Very scary."
"You talk too much."
"You listen too well."
Another pause. Meihua's voice softened.
"You always come back a little quieter."
Zhao Yan said nothing.
"I don't ask where you've been," Meihua added. "But when you leave, everything feels... still. Like the world's holding its breath."
Zhao Yan looked down at her for a moment.
Then quietly: "I always come back."
Meihua smiled faintly. "I know. That's why I wait."
Her breath evened out. The candles flickered, casting soft shadows on the walls.
Zhao Yan stood there a while longer, watching her friend sleep.
Then she sat back at her desk-scrolls untouched-eyes lifted toward the quiet mirror.
For the first time in weeks, the room didn't feel so empty.
The moon was still high when Meihua stirred. She blinked, stretched like a cat, and sat up with her hair half-loose, looking very pleased with herself.
"I dreamt of peach buns," she murmured.
"You always do."
"They were floating! On clouds!" Meihua pointed at Zhao Yan like it was her fault. "You were there too. But you were scowling because someone ate yours."
"That sounds accurate."
Meihua giggled and padded barefoot across the floor to the tea table. She poured two cups of moon-plum tea and sat cross-legged.
"You're not escaping this, by the way," she said slyly.
Zhao Yan looked up from her scrolls. "Escaping what?"
"Gossip."
"I don't do gossip."
Meihua smirked. "You say that, but your ears always perk up when I mention Tianji."
Zhao Yan didn't reply, but her hand did pause slightly.
Meihua grinned like a cat who just saw cream.
"Speaking of Tianji, the Starsmith?" she leaned in, voice hushed like they were in a tavern. "He got caught sneaking out of Yueling Pavilion again. With lipstick on his collar."
Zhao Yan raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he courting the River Maiden?"
"He was. Now he's courting a demotion."
"Who tattled?"
"The Pavilion's birds," Meihua said with mock solemnity. "You can't out-sneak a flock of spirit cranes, Zhao Yan. They've seen everything. Even your midnight spear drills."
"I don't sneak."
"You glide silently. Like an ominous breeze."
Zhao Yan sipped her tea. "What else?"
"Oh!" Meihua's eyes lit up. "The Vermillion Bird's temple had a minor explosion."
Zhao Yan blinked. "What kind of explosion?"
"Incense explosion," Meihua said, whispering dramatically. "Apparently some new devotee was offering infernal blossom sticks instead of lotus ash. Set the whole altar smoking. They say the flame spirit inside started coughing."
Zhao Yan shook her head slowly. "Mortals shouldn't be allowed unsupervised prayers."
"Some of them pray really hard," Meihua said. "Once, someone prayed for their ex's next seven lifetimes to be 'ugly and unloved.' The heavens had to intercept it."
"We intercept those?"
"Yes!" she said, appalled. "You can't go around cursing people for being bad boyfriends. That's not what divinity is for."
Zhao Yan coughed lightly to hide a smile.
Meihua watched her with a sly tilt of her head.
"You're smiling."
"No, I'm not."
"Your mouth twitched. That's progress."
Zhao Yan rolled her eyes.
Meihua leaned back against a pillow, sipping her tea. "You know, I think the Realm would fall apart without us."
"Without you, maybe. They'd barely notice me."
"They notice," Meihua said quietly.
Zhao Yan looked up.
Meihua smiled, gentle this time. "They notice when you're gone. Even if they pretend not to."
The room fell quiet again, warm and full of candlelight.
Outside, the stars began to shift. Slowly, lazily, like they, too, were listening.
The wind wasn't cold, but it pressed against his skin like memory.
Lingxu Dijun stood alone on the outer balcony of Tiangong Palace. The sky above churned with quiet motion, stars shifting, planets aligning, constellations blinking with slow, indifferent light. He'd memorized their patterns long ago. Not out of wonder. Out of duty.
From here, the heavens looked calm. But stillness could lie. He knew that better than anyone.
His arms were folded behind his back, mantle trailing against the tiles. Somewhere behind him, officials and attendants whispered through the corridors, their voices filtered out by the height. He didn't want to hear them. He didn't want prophecy or counsel or more reports of subtle disruptions across the eastern sky.
He wanted silence. But even silence had weight.
That fracture Xuanyan mentioned... he hadn't told the others, but he'd felt it too. Something pulsing beneath the divine fabric. Something not loud enough to name, not yet, but loud enough that it sat in his chest like a stone he couldn't cough out.
His gaze drifted past the curve of cloud palaces and the scattered light of spirit towers, all the way to the distant mountain suspended at the edge of the Ninth Heaven.
The Floating Mountain of Stillness.
Ling Huai hadn't left it in years.
He told himself it was fine. Healing took time. Balance couldn't be rushed. But deep down, there was a part of him a quiet, bitter part, that wanted to shake his brother awake and ask: How much longer?
Because peace was thinning.
And the gods? They were too used to pretending.
A soft breeze lifted his hair.
Lingxu Dijun sighed, low and quiet. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Just watched that mountain like it might answer him back.
Then he said, almost to himself, "Stars are still burning. But I don't know if they're guiding... or warning."
The sky offered no answer.
Only the stars above, flickering like old promises, and one, a red one, still pulsing faintly in the dark.