It had been a long day.
Not the kind of long that came with battles, blood, or narrow escapes—but the far more exhausting kind: endless walking, endless circling, endless déjà vu.
Xing Yue and Jiang Yunxian were still nothing more than wandering cultivators, drifting through the mortal realms in search of the Yanli Continent. A journey that felt less like a path forward and more like an elaborate cosmic joke. Every mountain ridge they crossed seemed to lead them back into the same forest. Every stream they followed curved around and spilled into the same shallow riverbank. Even the stars above them—Xing Yue had checked—hung in the sky in the same crooked pattern each night, as though the heavens themselves had decided to trap them in a loop for amusement.
There was no signpost.
No guiding beast.
No spiritual fluctuation to mark progress.
Only trees.
Ancient, towering, pale-barked trees with silver-blue leaves that chimed softly whenever the night wind passed through them. Their trunks were so wide that three grown men could not have wrapped their arms around a single one. Their roots coiled across the forest floor like sleeping dragons, glowing faintly with cold luminescence.
Beautiful.
Serene.
Infuriating.
Even the ever-carefree Jiang Yunxian had gone unexpectedly quiet.
That alone was alarming.
Xing Yue noticed it the moment the sun dipped below the canopy and the forest sank into its bluish dusk. Yunxian usually filled silence the way a storm filled a valley—loudly, chaotically, without mercy. He talked when he was bored. He talked when he was hungry. He talked when he was injured. He even talked while meditating, much to the fury of every master who had ever tried to teach him.
Yet now, he walked several steps behind her, hands tucked into his sleeves, boots crunching idly over frost-dusted leaves. His brows were furrowed. His lips pressed into a thin, restless line.
Too quiet.
Xing Yue knew him well enough to know there was never a day when Jiang Yunxian was truly quiet.
Unless…
Unless he was battling with his forefathers in his mind.
And she knew very well that if his ancestors were standing before him in flesh and spirit, he could defeat them all with his mouth alone.
They had wandered this same forest for what felt like the nth time.
The same winding path.
The same crooked birch tree split down the center by lightning.
The same moss-covered stone shaped vaguely like a kneeling monk.
The same hollow clearing where spiritual energy pooled gently, making it the most convenient resting spot.
Each time, they convinced themselves it was new.
Each time, they realized—too late—it was not.
They stopped there again.
Jiang Yunxian stared at the clearing as if it had personally offended him.
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Slowly—very slowly—this was getting on his nerves.
He wanted to prick someone.
Anyone.
Preferably someone small, feathered, and eternally dignified.
But too bad that that person had decided to abandon him.
No.
Worse.
Sold out.
"Well," Yunxian muttered darkly to himself, dropping onto a fallen log and leaning his head back against the glowing bark of a tree. "If this is what betrayal feels like, I finally understand tragic heroes in mortal novels."
Before he could stop himself, the boredom clawed its way out of his chest and into his throat.
"Rong Qi!" he suddenly yelled into the forest, his voice echoing off trunks and dissolving into the blue mist. "You tiny feather! Where are you?!"
A flock of pale spirit-birds burst out of the canopy in alarm.
No answer.
Yunxian slumped forward, elbows on his knees.
"I am so frustratingly bored," he added, glaring at the fireless ground. "That I am now afraid playing with a lady would be indecent."
Xing Yue, who had already seated herself gracefully on a flat stone, shook her head.
She extended one slender hand.
A soft constellation-like glow gathered in her palm, then descended gently to the forest floor. Cold starlight licked against fallen branches and dried leaves, igniting into a low, silver-blue bonfire that gave off warmth without smoke.
"Stop whining," she said calmly. "You sold him out, remember?"
Jiang Yunxian sighed with the gravity of someone betrayed by the universe itself.
"Which is exactly why we need to go get him," he replied mournfully. "I miss pricking him."
Xing Yue didn't answer.
She only closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap, posture straight, breath even.
Meditation.
Again.
Yunxian watched her from across the bonfire, chin propped on his palm.
In all the loops they had wandered together, there was something he had noticed.
Something that unsettled him far more than the forest maze.
She always meditated.
Not just sometimes.
Not just when wounded.
Always.
Whenever they stopped, whenever there was silence, whenever there was even a moment of stillness—Xing Yue turned inward, sinking into herself like a star collapsing into its own gravity.
He found it more than boring.
For a Star Goddess like her—someone who carried the authority of the heavens in her veins, someone who could command constellations and bend fate threads with a flick of her wrist—it felt… wrong.
Why did someone like her need to cultivate at all?
And worse—
Why did she cultivate like someone who was afraid of running out of time?
It reminded him too much of himself.
He, too, knew his cultivation was weak.
Knew his meridians were flawed.
Knew there was a ceiling he would never break through.
He had long since given up on formal meditation. It was agony for him—physically, mentally, spiritually. Every attempt left him dizzy, hollow, and furious at the world. So he had turned to spells, tricks, borrowed power, talismans, and sheer shameless luck.
Xing Yue, however, had no such limitations.
And yet she cultivated harder than anyone he had ever seen.
It scared him.
He cleared his throat, poking at the bonfire with a stick.
"Care to tell a story?" he asked lightly.
Xing Yue did not respond.
Her breathing remained steady.
Her lashes did not flutter.
Yunxian clicked his tongue.
"Tough crowd."
He lay back on the grass, staring up at the canopy where cold fireflies drifted like fallen stars.
"You know," he went on casually, "normal companions at this point would be complaining, flirting, or threatening to murder each other."
Still nothing.
He rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow.
"You're really going to let me die of boredom, huh?"
Silence. That was all he got.
So, he decided to tell himself a story.
___
The fire had burned itself into a quiet, steady glow by the time Jiang Yunxian began speaking.
Not the lively, crackling kind that leapt and hissed, but a patient flame, breathing softly, as though afraid to disturb the night. Its light spread across the clearing in wavering gold, catching on the edges of roots and stones, on the folds of Xing Yue's pale robes, on the quiet curve of Yunxian's tired face.
Above them, the forest pressed close—ancient trunks rising like pillars into a ceiling of leaves and drifting mist. Beyond that veil, stars shimmered faintly, blurred by thin clouds that moved like slow rivers across the sky.
"See, Star God," he said at last, voice low but playful, breaking the long hush between them. "Here's one thing. I'll tell you the story of the Cloud Peak Sect. And you tell me the complicated rules of the heavens. Fair exchange, yes?"
Xing Yue did not open her eyes.
She remained seated in meditation, spine straight, hands resting loosely upon her knees. Only the slightest tightening of her lashes betrayed that she had heard him.
Her silence did not discourage him. It never had.
"I was little when I entered the sect," he continued, leaning back on his palms, gazing into the fire. "Almost twelve. Thin as a bamboo shoot, stubborn as a mule. They said my bones were too ordinary, my meridians too fragile. But I begged. I always beg when I want something."
A faint smile curved his lips.
"I carried a pendant then. Still do." His fingers drifted to his chest unconsciously, brushing the shape beneath his robes. "An elder gave it to me on the day I arrived. Was it Elder Shou? Or Elder Qin? I don't remember anymore. Faces blur when too many years pile up."
The fire sighed. Somewhere in the forest, an unseen insect sang.
"He told me, 'This pendant has always been with you since you were born.' Strange thing to say to a boy who barely knew what cultivation meant." Yunxian chuckled softly.
"I wanted to thank him properly, but he… died that very night. Lightning deviation, they said. By morning, his room was sealed and his name already fading from people's mouths."
The humor slipped from his voice, leaving something quieter behind.
"And then," he went on, more gently, "I met that feather."
Rong Qi's absence settled between them like a second shadow.
"He introduced himself as Rong Qi and decided, for reasons I still don't understand, that I was his responsibility. Followed me everywhere. Complained about everything. Warmed my sleeves when winter came." A soft laugh escaped him. "Has been my companion ever since."
Xing Yue's breathing slowed, deeper now, steadier. Though her posture did not change, something in her attention shifted—like a star subtly altering its course.
"And then things became… difficult," Yunxian said.
He poked at the embers with a stray twig.
Sparks lifted, flared briefly, then vanished into the dark.
"I tried. Truly. Sword forms until my arms shook, breathing cycles until my chest burned. But each time I thought I'd advanced even half a step, something inside me would rebel. My qi scattered. My veins burned. All that effort… gone."
His smile returned, crooked and self-mocking.
"Eventually they stopped calling me by my name. Just 'that useless cultivator of Cloud Peak Sect.' Quite poetic, don't you think?"
The forest seemed to listen.
"But I wasn't alone," he said softly. "I had Rong Qi. And spells. And a few friends who failed as spectacularly as I did. We weren't strong. We weren't brilliant. But… we laughed. We stole wine. We sneaked into forbidden libraries and pretended we understood the manuals."
His eyes softened.
"With friends like that, even Cloud Peak didn't seem so cruel. For a while, I thought… maybe this is enough."
His voice faded into the crackle of dying embers.
For a long moment, only silence remained.
Then the slow, even rhythm of breathing.
Jiang Yunxian had fallen asleep.
His head had tilted forward, chin resting against his chest, one hand still loosely curled near the fire. The restless energy that always clung to him had finally loosened its grip, leaving behind the quiet vulnerability of an exhausted man.
Xing Yue opened her eyes.
They were dark as the space between stars.
Her gaze drifted to him, lingering—not on his face, but on the faint outline beneath his robes, where the pendant rested.
It pulsed.
So faintly it might have been imagined.
Her breath caught.
She did not reach for it.
She did not dare.
Memory, sharp and unwelcome, rose within her.
A night long past. Thunder splitting the heavens. A man kneeling amid shattered talismans, blood staining his sleeves, forcing a fragment of fate into a child's trembling hands.
Protect him.
Anchor him.
If the heavens discover this—
Her fingers tightened against her knees.
"Guess he died after all," she murmured to the empty air.
The word she carried more weight than it should have.
The one who forged that pendant.
The one who defied retribution to change a thread of destiny.
The one who had vanished into punishment, or oblivion, or something far worse.
Perhaps he had forgotten.
Perhaps he had paid.
Perhaps he still lingered somewhere, watching, waiting.
Xing Yue lowered her gaze to Yunxian's sleeping form.
So unaware.
So alive.
"So many knots left untied," she whispered.
Above them, a cloud drifted aside, and starlight spilled gently into the clearing—silver and patient, illuminating the pendant's faint glow, the sleeping cultivator's peaceful face, and the quiet sorrow in the eyes of a star who remembered too much.
The night accepted the secret without protest.
__
Midnight arrived without warning.
One moment the forest still breathed in twilight, the next the hour tipped quietly into its deepest hush—and the stars began to emerge, one after another, as though summoned by an unseen hand.
At first they were gentle. Pinpricks of silver scattered across the velvet dark.
Then the pressure came.
It did not howl, nor strike like lightning. It descended.
Invisible. Immense.
An ancient will unfurled across the heavens, spreading downward through clouds, through mountains, through the marrow of every living thing. It pressed upon minds, upon breaths, upon fragile mortal souls.
Sleep followed.
Not the tender rest of weary travelers, but a command.
Eyes closed. Limbs slackened.
Consciousness loosened its hold.
And if one surrendered too deeply—
they would never wake again.
This had happened every night since she fell from heaven.
Since the stars no longer recognized her as their sovereign.
Xing Yue remained seated, unmoving, while the world around her slowly surrendered.
The fire dimmed. Insects fell silent mid-song. Even the wind softened, as though afraid to disturb the descending decree.
Jiang Yunxian shifted once in his sleep, murmured something incoherent—and then grew utterly still.
Tong, curled against her robes, gave a small, troubled sound before sinking into unnatural slumber.
Only Xing Yue remained awake.
Because she would not allow them to die.
Her lashes fluttered. Veins of pale starlight traced briefly beneath her skin as she drew upon what little authority the heavens still permitted her to hold.
The pressure bent toward her like a tidal wave.
She met it.
Silently.
Patiently.
With control learned through endless nights of quiet agony.
She spread her will outward, thin as mist but vast as sky—wrapping it around the sleeping forms near her. Weak souls, fragile spirits, mortal frames that could not survive the weight of celestial law.
"Sleep… but do not fall too deep."
The command trembled as it left her.
Somewhere, far above, the stars hesitated.
They no longer obeyed her.
But they remembered her.
Barely.
Enough to soften their cruelty.
Around her, breath steadied. Hearts continued beating. Death retreated, dissatisfied.
Only then did Xing Yue exhale.
Slow. Controlled.
Heavy.
This was why she meditated.
Not for enlightenment.
Not for cultivation.
For survival.
For defiance.
For holding back a heaven that no longer wished her to exist.
She lifted two fingers, forming a subtle sigil in the air. Starlight condensed, threading itself into a message that shimmered faintly before vanishing upward.
Dreamer Long.
Across realms, across laws, across the sealed borders between mortal soil and celestial domains, her call traveled.
It would take a century to reach him from here.
Three years in the heavens.
Too long.
Far too long.
But she had no other choice.
Because Dreamer Long alone could unravel what the stars were doing.
Creator of dreams.
Weaver of nightmares.
The Hallucinator.
A being without master, without allegiance—answerable to no throne, yet bound to all realms that slept.
If anyone could untangle this curse, it was him.
And so, every night, she waited.
Gathered strength.
Forced the stars back inch by inch.
And endured.
But tonight—
Tonight the heavens broke pattern.
The moon rose.
And it bled.
At first, she thought it illusion.
A trick of tired sight.
Then the red deepened.
Spread.
The silver disk stained as though some unseen blade had carved it open, crimson light pouring across its surface and staining the clouds beneath.
The forest shuddered.
Even the stars dimmed, uneasy.
Xing Yue rose to her feet in a single motion, breath catching in her throat.
Red omen.
The first since her fall.
Her heart began to pound—not with fear, but recognition.
"This is wrong…"
She turned, scanning the treetops, the shadows, the empty air.
And then she saw her.
Perched lightly upon the ruined edge of a nearby rooftop, as though gravity itself were merely a suggestion.
Robes of black and crimson draped around her like living flame. Long hair stirred in a wind that did not touch the forest. Her posture was languid, careless—yet every line of her radiated danger.
Cui Wulei.
Xing Yue's voice sharpened instantly.
"Cui Wulei. What are you doing here?"
The woman laughed softly, tilting her head.
"Ah… if it isn't the fallen Star Goddess, Juan Xing Yue." Her eyes gleamed like wet rubies beneath the bleeding moon. "To what do I owe this… nostalgic encounter?"
"I should ask you the same," Xing Yue replied coldly. "This realm is not yours to enter."
"Oh, but everything is mine to enter." Cui Wulei rose smoothly to her feet, robes whispering like silk against bone. "And I thought… we should talk. It's been so long since we last did."
Her smile was bright.
And merciless.
Xing Yue did not answer.
She moved.
Starlight exploded around her as she launched upward, robes flaring, palms already shaping ancient sigils.
Their collision cracked the air.
Heaven and corruption met in a storm of light and shadow, power tearing through clouds, scattering sparks across the bleeding sky. Blades of qi slashed past rooftops. Shockwaves rippled through treetops, bending branches as though bowing before war.
They moved faster than mortal sight—striking, vanishing, reappearing—each blow heavy with centuries of hatred.
The moon watched.
The stars whispered.
Ten minutes.
Ten brutal minutes of clashing wills.
Then Xing Yue faltered.
Just once.
And that was enough.
A crimson strike pierced her guard, slamming into her chest. Pain detonated through her meridians. She was hurled backward, crashing onto stone, blood bursting from her lips.
She coughed.
Again.
And again.
Each breath burned.
Cui Wulei landed lightly, not a hair out of place. She laughed, delighted, robes fluttering around her ankles.
"What a shame," she purred. "How can a goddess be this… weak?"
Xing Yue forced herself upright, clutching her chest, vision blurring.
"Cut the theatrics," she rasped. "I can still take you down if I wish."
That only made Cui Wulei laugh harder.
"With what?" she asked softly, approaching.
"You are merely an immortal now. Isn't it pitiful… that I could crush you with a thought?"
She knelt, cruel grace in every motion, leaning close.
Her breath brushed Xing Yue's ear.
"And piece by piece," she whispered, "I will make sure that everything you cherish… disappears."
Her fingers closed around Xing Yue's throat.
The moon pulsed red.
And then—
Power erupted.
Not celestial.
Not demonic.
Something raw.
Wild.
Ancient.
A blast of energy tore through the space between them, striking the ground before Cui Wulei with the fury of an enraged dragon. The impact flung her backward like a broken doll, blood spraying from her lips as she crashed through stone.
She staggered, stunned.
And looked up.
A man stood at the edge of the clearing.
Hair loose. Eyes sharp.
Jiang Yunxian.
But the gaze he fixed upon her—
was not the gaze of a wandering cultivator.
It was the gaze of a predator who had finally recognized his prey.
For one breath, the world held still.
Xing Yue turned, heart lurching.
"Yunxian…"
Fear threaded her voice—not for herself.
For the truth standing too close to the surface.
Cui Wulei's eyes narrowed.
"You… who are you?"
Jiang Yunxian blinked.
And the storm vanished.
In its place, lazy confusion.
A crooked smile.
"Me?" he said lightly. "Just a man… looking for wine. And you are?"
Cui Wulei stared between them, irritation flickering across her face.
"Tch."
She snapped her robe with a sharp flick.
"This is not over."
Her gaze pinned Xing Yue.
"I will deliver the message. Prepare yourself."
And then she leapt—straight toward the bleeding moon.
Red light swallowed her.
The omen faded.
Silence crashed down.
Xing Yue swayed.
The world tilted.
Blood stained her lips as her strength finally abandoned her.
She collapsed.
Strong arms caught her before she struck the ground.
Jiang Yunxian held her, eyes wide with something dangerously close to fear.
"Xing Yue… what in the heavens just happened?"
She tried to answer.
But darkness claimed her first.