The hall had quieted, though no one dared to call it silence. It was the hush of waiting—a stillness before some invisible chord was struck.
Silver light bled through the paper windows, mingling with the golden lanterns until the world seemed painted between two realms, half dream, half reflection. The scent of old wine lingered like nostalgia, and the murmur of gossip slithered beneath the tablecloth of ceremony.
"A marriage… between the Zhou and Shen families?"
"The Shen daughter and the son without an inner world?"
"Truly, fate enjoys its little jokes."
Laughter disguised as whispers. Politeness coated in venom.
Zhou Fang heard every word, yet not one stirred his expression. His eyes, dark as still water, reflected nothing—neither anger nor amusement. He simply watched the ripples form and die.
"Humans call it conversation, he thought. But it is merely the sound of hunger."
He rose from his seat. Every motion was deliberate, like the turning of an ancient gear. Across the wide floor, nobles and envoys paused mid-sentence, curiosity veiled behind their smiles.
At the end of the hall stood his father, Zhou Tian, beside the Shen patriarch—a man wrapped in calm dignity, his eyes as deep and unreadable as old bronze. The moment Zhou Fang approached, the laughter began to fade.
"Father," Zhou Fang said, his voice low but steady, "I wish to speak of this marriage."
Zhou Tian's brow creased faintly. The Shen patriarch tilted his head a fraction, perhaps surprised by the boldness.
"I will not accept this arrangement," Zhou Fang continued. "This alliance was forged by the will of others, bound to a time and intention that no longer exist. I have no wish to be chained by a promise neither heart nor reason remembers."
The murmurs returned, but softer now—curiosity sharpened with disbelief.
He dares reject the Shen family?
The boy must be mad…
Or perhaps he finally understands his worth.
Zhou Tian opened his mouth to speak, but before a word could form—
—the great doors of the hall creaked open.
And then she entered.
The moment was neither loud nor grand. It was slow—deliberate—as if time itself inhaled and held its breath.
A single step echoed upon the polished floor. Then another. The air grew faintly colder, touched by a fragrance like falling snow over the ruins of spring. She was robed in layered silk the color of dusk, her face hidden beneath a veil so fine it seemed woven from moonlight. Yet her eyes—those eyes—shone through.
They were a quiet cosmos.
Not bright like stars, but deep—vast enough to drown meaning itself. Looking into them felt like standing at the edge of a dream and realizing the dream was looking back.
Even the murmurs died. The nobles who had whispered forgot their words. Lanterns flickered, as though bowing in instinctive reverence.
Zhou Fang felt his breath slow. For one heartbeat, his body forgot to move. His mind—so disciplined, so armored—hesitated.
It was not desire that gripped him, nor admiration. It was recognition. The inexplicable weight of something once known yet long forgotten.
And then, within him, a soft voice stirred.
Emma: "Zhou Fang… that girl… she is the one."
Her tone was not excitement, but quiet awe—like a priest whispering before a sealed tomb.
Zhou Fang: "You're certain?"
Emma: "More than certain. She bears the Desolation Body."
Zhou Fang's gaze remained still, unmoving from the figure now gliding closer through the crowd. Inside, his thoughts began to spiral—not in confusion, but in silent calculation.
Desolation Body… so it is her.
He had read once, hidden in the forbidden sections of an ancient record:
"When the heavens give birth to Desolation, creation itself holds its breath. Where she walks, fortune turns to silence, destiny loses its voice."
If this was true, then her existence was not blessing, but paradox.
Emma: "You know what this means. The technique your Master left within you—the one beyond all systems—requires the unity of two opposites. Your Divine Dao Body and her Desolation Body. When love binds you both, the technique awakens."
Zhou Fang: "Love."
He almost laughed, but there was no humor.
"So the gate to transcendence is sealed behind emotion. How poetic of fate—to make attachment its price."
Emma's voice softened.
"Do not mock what you will one day need to understand. Without her, your path cannot open."
"And without my goal, there is no need for any path," he replied inwardly.
The crowd was oblivious to their silent exchange. The woman now stood before Zhou Tian and the Shen patriarch, bowing gracefully.
Her movements were water flowing over stone—smooth, inevitable. Every gesture seemed rehearsed by the stars themselves.
"Patriarch Zhou," she said softly, her voice a melody drawn from frost and rain, "I heard my name mentioned. Forgive my delay."
Then she turned to Zhou Fang.
Their gazes met.
In that moment, something invisible passed between them—something wordless, fragile, yet heavy enough to tilt the balance of heaven and earth.
Her eyes lingered for half a breath longer than formality required. Beneath that veil, her expression could not be seen, but Zhou Fang felt it—the faint vibration of curiosity, or perhaps… recognition?
Does she sense it too?
The thread between us—woven long before either name was spoken?
"Zhou Fang," she said quietly, her tone gentle but measured, "I have long heard of your restraint and intellect. It is my honor to meet you."
"Honor?" he echoed, voice low. "Honor is a fragile word, Lady Shen. It bends with the wind."
She smiled faintly behind the veil—no offense taken, no emotion shown. "Then perhaps," she said, "we shall see whether the wind favors you or me."
A ripple of laughter passed through the hall, light but uneasy. Her wit had turned his words to art, yet Zhou Fang only bowed in return, neither humbled nor flattered.
Inside, Emma's presence quivered.
Emma: "You feel it, don't you? The resonance between your Dao and her silence?"
Zhou Fang: "Resonance, or illusion. The mind is fond of tricks when it desires purpose."
Emma: "Purpose is not found—it is remembered."
The words faded like incense smoke.
Zhou Fang lifted his gaze again. The hall seemed brighter now, though no light had changed. It was as if every color had sharpened around this single figure standing across from him.
So this is the beginning, he thought. Not of love. Not yet. But of convergence.
Shen Yue—though he did not yet know her name—turned her face slightly toward the moonlit window. For the briefest instant, her eyes softened, as though hearing a distant melody none else could. Then, faintly, she spoke:
"Strange, isn't it? The moon seems closer tonight."
No one answered. Yet her words hung in the air, stirring something beneath the surface of Zhou Fang's thoughts—a quiet intuition that meaning hid beneath her calm tone.
Closer, yes, he mused inwardly. But not brighter. Even light must learn distance to preserve its form.
The banquet resumed around them, but now the voices were hushed. Every noble measured their breath, careful not to break the invisible thread binding the two figures at the hall's center.
To the crowd, it looked like ceremony.
To the wise, it smelled like fate.
Zhou Fang finally turned his head toward his father. "Patriarch," he said, voice level, "let the agreement remain—for now."
Zhou Tian studied him, surprise flickering behind his calm eyes, but he only nodded once. The Shen patriarch's lips curved in satisfaction. The crowd murmured approvingly.
Yet deep within, Zhou Fang's heart remained untouched by sentiment.
Not affection. Not surrender. Calculation.
If fate insists on binding me, then I shall learn the art of pulling its strings.
Emma's faint laughter brushed against his mind like wind through a dying flame.
Emma: "You hide your resolve well."
Zhou Fang: "Resolve needs no witness."
He raised his cup once more. The liquor glimmered gold beneath the lantern light. Around him, the nobles resumed their chatter—cautious, testing, forgetful.
They see an engagement, Zhou Fang thought, but not the storm it conceals.
He drank.
The taste was bitter.
Outside, the moon climbed higher, casting its silver reflection upon the floor—a pale mirror to the golden hall.
And beneath that reflection stood Zhou Fang, silent as a statue, his gaze lost in thought.
The world moves by unseen hands, he reflected.
Some call them gods, others call them destiny. But I… I call them players of a larger game.
And if I must be moved like a piece upon their board—then let me be the kind that turns and cuts the hand that plays it.
The lanterns swayed. The music began again.
But though the crowd laughed and drank, a strange quietness lingered, subtle as a warning.
The night had shifted.
And in the heart of Zhou Fang, a new design had begun to unfold—one woven not from love or obedience, but from the cold fire of purpose.