Back at the Serene of Truce, twilight had fallen upon the marble courtyards like silk shadow.
The air was still, scented faintly with iron and sandalwood.
Within the Hall of Silence, Iron Fist Dao stood before a portrait that hung from the ancient stone wall — a painting so hauntingly elegant that even the centuries hadn't dulled its allure. The candlelight trembled softly against it, reflecting in his eyes.
The woman in the portrait looked serene yet sorrowful — her robes a storm of white and crimson mist, her gaze distant as though trapped between two realms. The brushstrokes shimmered faintly, painted with a technique lost to time. No one knew who the artist was. No one even dared to claim it.
They only whispered.
That this painting — this sacred image — represented the heart of the Dragon Saintess, the divine being who had willingly sacrificed herself to seal the Grandmaster of Chaos ten thousand years ago.
To most, the portrait was a relic of faith. To Iron Fist Dao, it was something else — something personal, something he could never name.
He studied the eyes in the portrait again; they were too alive.
Too knowing.
The artist must have seen her, he thought. Or… known her.
But he shook the thought away. These musings had haunted him for too long. Still, every time he looked upon the painting, the world around him grew strangely distant — as though the portrait was quietly breathing.
He felt another presence enter the hall before the man even spoke. The air itself seemed to tighten, filled with the weight of an authority both divine and dangerous.
Iron Fist Dao bowed deeply, his posture disciplined, every muscle controlled.
"Supreme Leader Huang," he greeted, hands clasped together in perfect form — like a butterfly bowing mid-flight.
A deep chuckle resonated behind him.
"We're still alone, and yet you can't call me father?" the man asked, voice smooth like tempered jade, but with an undertone that could cut through steel.
"Between balance and fate," Dao replied evenly, his head still lowered, "there's no need for honor."
A pause. Then the faint sound of silk shifting.
"Still the same boy," his father murmured, not disappointed — not exactly proud either. "Always drawing lines between things that should never be divided."
Supreme Leader Huang sat with the effortless grace of a celestial who had grown bored of heaven. His robes were deep violet, embroidered with serpents of gold. He poured tea from a crystal jade bowl, the faint steam carrying the scent of ancient herbs.
"Aren't you going to join me?" he asked casually, raising one perfect brow.
Iron Fist Dao didn't move. "There are many matters to attend to. I came only because you summoned me."
"Boring," Huang sighed, setting down his bowl. "You've become too rigid. You'll break before you bend."
Dao's jaw tightened. He knew his father well — the man would never speak plainly unless his whims were indulged. So, with quiet resignation, he stepped forward and sat opposite him, folding his legs over the silk cushion.
For a long while, neither spoke. Only the quiet hum of burning incense filled the silence.
Finally, Huang broke it.
"Aren't you going to ask why I called you here?"
"I have a guess."
"Guess?" A faint smirk played across the elder man's lips. "Then enlighten me."
Dao's eyes narrowed. "Why the girl?"
That earned a small chuckle. "What girl?"
"You know who," Dao said flatly. "By the laws of the Serenes, she should belong to the Serene of Harmonies, not here. Why did you want bring her to the Serene of Truce?"
Huang lifted his jade bowl again, the faint green light glinting in his gaze. "Because this must be fulfilled."
The finality in his tone struck like a blade.
Dao stood abruptly, his chair shifting slightly with the motion. He didn't bow. Didn't speak another word. He simply turned and left.
Outside, the night wind hit his face, carrying the faint echo of celestial chimes. He walked past courtyards and golden bridges until the light of the Serene faded behind him.
He didn't go to his pavilion — the Mystery Cove.
Instead, he headed down the winding path toward Broken Heaven, the mortal world below.
The scent of roasted chestnuts, sweet buns, and river incense filled the streets. Vendors shouted, children laughed, and paper lanterns floated like drifting stars.
He walked among them silently, his tall frame half-hidden by the mortal crowd. The liveliness here was almost foreign — a rhythm too wild, too human.
He stopped before a small tea shop with a wooden sign that read Cake Manor. A warm laugh erupted from inside. He sighed — so this was where Feng Dong had holed himself again.
The place was small, yet full of life. Steam curled up from bamboo trays, and voices rose in cheerful argument. He watched the mortals with faint envy.
For a moment, he remembered—
The days when he, too, had chased kites in open fields. When he had stolen candied fruits from street vendors only to run crying to his mother.
"Mother, I've been bullied!" he'd wail.
And his mother would smack his forehead with that exasperated gentleness, scolding him, "Stupid boy! Always trouble!" Then, she'd smile apologetically at the vendor and pay twice the cost to soothe their anger.
Now even that memory felt like a luxury.
His father had taken him away, forged him into a weapon instead of a boy.
A life so rigid that even sleep felt like training.
A rough shake on his shoulder snapped him back to the present.
"Brother Dao!" boomed a familiar voice, thick with cheer.
Dao turned. There stood Feng Dong, the plump merchant, his round face beaming and a half-eaten cake in hand.
"What are you doing here?" Feng Dong asked, crumbs on his lips and joy in his tone.
Dao's expression darkened. His brows furrowed deeper. Again with this man's awful timing, he thought.
Perhaps coming here had been another bad decision.
---
Meanwhile, at the Spring Serene
The air shimmered with music. Bells rang, laughter rose, and the entire Serene pulsed with light. It was the day of the Talent Celebration — a festival so radiant that even the heavens seemed to pause to watch.
It was said that on this day, even the humblest cultivator could feel the echo of celestial power through their veins. The skies glittered with suspended ribbons of spiritual light, and flowers that hadn't bloomed in centuries unfolded their petals.
For the disciples, it was a day of freedom — the only day etiquette was forgotten, when even the stern masters of the six Serenes allowed mirth.
Swords were sheathed. Rivalries paused. Music from the Serene of Harmonies spilled like silver rain, filling every heart with warmth.
The celebration was more than ceremony — it was unity. A fragile peace between the six Serenes, the mortals, and the heavens.
Even in Broken Heaven, the mortal world below, the excitement was palpable. Vendors doubled their sales. Children carried paper lanterns shaped like spirit beasts. Bards sang stories of the Dragon Saintess and the chaos she sealed.
And though joy filled the air, some said that this year's Talent Celebration would mark the beginning of something else —
A shift.
A ripple in fate itself.