The night was unnaturally still.
Xing Yue sat cross-legged upon the cold stone terrace, her crimson sleeves pooled around her like spilled starlight. The courtyard was silent except for the faint rustle of night leaves and the distant murmur of water flowing beyond the walls of the estate. Above her, the moon hung full and pale, its glow silvering the world in a soft, dreamlike haze.
Her back was straight. Her breathing steady.
To any wandering spirit, she would have appeared tranquil—like a deity carved from jade, untouched by mortal restlessness.
But her mind was anything but calm.
Meditation should have quieted her
thoughts.
Instead, they wandered.
Memories rose uninvited.
The mortal realm.
The scent of incense and rain on cobblestone streets. The warmth of mortal admiration. The whispers that followed her like drifting silk—beauty, grace, otherworldly.
She had been adored there.
Untouchable.
And then—
An Xie. Her master.
With a single decree, he had secluded her.
Not punished.
Not reprimanded.
Simply… sealed away.
As though she were something precious that must not yet be seen.
Her lashes trembled faintly.
Why?
The question lingered like frost over her thoughts.
A sudden gust of wind tore through the courtyard.
Not natural wind.
It cut through her robes, sharp and deliberate, brushing past her shoulder as though someone had run by at impossible speed.
Xing Yue's eyes snapped open.
The air shifted.
There, on the highest ridge of the tiled rooftop—where moonlight pooled brightest—sat a familiar figure.
Perched casually as though the world were her stage.
Cui Wulei.
Crimson robes mirrored Xing Yue's own, though worn with far less discipline. Her legs dangled over the edge of the roof, one hand braced behind her, the other holding a bright red apple—the color nearly identical to the silk she wore.
She bit into it lazily.
The crunch echoed in the stillness.
Xing Yue closed her eyes briefly.
Of all nights.
Why now?
"It's been a long time," Cui Wulei said, voice light and almost affectionate. She didn't look down. Her gaze was fixed on the moon, as if speaking to it instead.
"It has," Xing Yue replied evenly. "And I wish it could have been longer."
Cui Wulei froze for a second.
Then laughter burst from her lips.
Not gentle laughter.
Not warm.
It rang sharp and bright, echoing against stone walls as though she had heard the most amusing jest in existence. She clutched her stomach dramatically, nearly tipping backward from the roof.
"But why?" she asked between giggles.
"We're friends. Best of friends."
The sarcasm was thick enough to cut.
Xing Yue's expression didn't change, though something flickered in her gaze.
"Why does it feel," she said quietly, "like I am the only one who remembers when that was true?"
The wind shifted again, tugging at both their robes.
"How far have we drifted?" she added.
Cui Wulei stopped laughing.
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them.
Then she smiled.
It wasn't a kind smile.
"Don't worry, my friend," she said lightly. "Soon—very soon—you'll want to kill me as badly as I've longed to kill you."
The words were spoken as casually as a weather report.
No heat.
No rage.
Just certainty.
Xing Yue exhaled slowly.
Another sigh.
This one deeper.
"Think what you want," she said. "I will not fight you."
Her tone was calm—but not weak.
"You're too careless to be worth the trouble."
Cui Wulei's eyes narrowed.
Then she scoffed.
And then—laughed again.
It was strange how naturally it came to her, as though cruelty amused her more than kindness ever could.
"Next time, my friend," she said. "Next time."
She took another bite of the apple, juice glinting briefly in the moonlight before disappearing.
"But I didn't come to duel tonight."
Xing Yue finally lifted her gaze fully.
"What did you come for?"
Cui Wulei tilted her head.
"For news."
The courtyard seemed to grow colder.
"Three nights from now," she said slowly, savoring each word, "at moonlight."
Her eyes gleamed.
"Where the moon kisses the river."
Xing Yue's brows knit faintly.
The phrase felt deliberate. Measured.
"Meaning?" she asked.
Cui Wulei only smiled wider.
"Do with the information as you see fit."
She rose smoothly to her feet atop the roof, balancing effortlessly along the narrow ridge. The moon hung behind her now, casting her silhouette in silver and shadow.
Her back faced the moon.
Her face half-lit.
"I suppose we'll duel again the next time we meet," she added lightly.
Then, almost in a whisper carried by the wind—
"Though I doubt it will take long."
A smirk curved her lips.
And in the next breath—
She was gone. Not a leap. Not a flash.
Just absence.
The courtyard fell still once more.
Only the distant sound of the river remained.
Xing Yue stayed seated for a long while, staring at the empty rooftop.
"Where the moon kisses the river…" she murmured.
The phrase was not poetic nonsense.
It was a location.
A timing. An omen. Three nights.
Her fingers tightened slightly over her sleeve.
Cui Wulei never delivered information without purpose.
And never without consequences.
Above her, the moon drifted quietly across the sky—unbothered, distant, eternal.
But in Xing Yue's chest, something subtle had begun to stir.
Not fear.
Not yet.
But anticipation.
And beneath it—
The faintest ache of something that once might have been friendship.
----
For the nth time that day, Xing Yue unrolled the Scroll of Hundred Memories across her lap.
The parchment shimmered faintly under her touch, its surface veined with silver lines that pulsed like dormant constellations. Each line represented a fragment of time—sealed, preserved, waiting for her to trace them back to their origin.
A hundred thousand years ago.
She inhaled slowly.
Closed her eyes.
Focused.
Nothing.
Her thoughts refused to settle. They drifted like scattered petals caught in a restless current.
Again.
She steadied her breathing, guiding her spiritual energy through her meridians, attempting to anchor herself to the present moment before reaching backward into the abyss of history.
The scroll remained silent.
The silver veins did not respond.
A faint crease formed between her brows.
It was impossible.
The Scroll of Hundred Memories was bound to her. It resonated only with her because she was a pure soul and divine aura. Though she wasn't aware of that. If she could not activate it, then something in her was unstable.
Or—
She was too distracted.
She exhaled sharply and rolled the scroll back up.
Only in Yujin Cave could she fully channel her power.
Only there did the spiritual currents align perfectly with her divine frequency. The cave was ancient, carved into the spine of a sacred mountain, its walls etched with star-scripts that amplified memory and perception. Within its depths, even the faintest trace of the past could be drawn forth like a reflection from still water.
But Yujin Cave was many miles away.
And time was not on her side.
She stood abruptly.
Enough.
With a flicker of light beneath her feet, she ascended effortlessly, robes fluttering as she rose above tiled roofs and arching courtyards.
She landed atop the highest tower in the city.
And then—
She looked.
Truly looked.
Below her, lanterns glowed like scattered fireflies. Streets bustled with life—vendors calling out prices, children darting between stalls, laughter spilling from teahouses. The scent of roasted chestnuts and steamed buns drifted upward with the evening breeze.
Music played somewhere in the distance.
It was vibrant.
Alive.
For a long moment, she simply watched.
It had been centuries since she allowed herself to observe mortal joy without detachment.
She had forgotten how loud life could be.
How messy.
How warm.
A memory surfaced.
Green fields stretching endlessly beneath an open sky.
Jiang LuCi laughing as he chased after a stubborn goat they had "borrowed" from a farmer.
And that little boy—clueless, wide-eyed, stumbling over rocks while trying to keep up with them.
They had wandered mountains without purpose.
Cursed at rainstorms that drenched them.
Thrown pebbles into rivers and argued about whose splash was larger.
Back then, immortality had not weighed on her shoulders.
Back then—
She had simply been Xing Yue.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides.
She had lost much along the way.
The boy had vanished into history, his innocence swallowed by fate.
Jiang LuCi…
Her gaze darkened.
He was sealed away in the Eastern Planes—a secluded realm locked and forgotten by the world. When she had finally emerged from her own confinement, the world she returned to was no longer the one she remembered.
It had been chaos.
True chaos.
Debris scattered like broken bones across the land. The sky cracked open with thunderous veins of lightning that bled red instead of white. The air had tasted metallic—thick with the scent of blood and burned spiritual energy.
Elders lay fallen.
Immortals reduced to husks.
The battlefield resembled the aftermath of divine wrath.
And at its center—
A boy.
Blood-stained.
Half-dead.
It should have been grotesque.
But it wasn't.
Because above him hovered a Phoenix.
Its wings spread wide, blazing in defiance against heavenly tribulations. Each bolt of lightning that struck was swallowed by its feathers, flames bursting outward in golden arcs.
A creature of rebirth shielding something fragile.
At the far edge of that destruction stood Jiang LuCi.
Still.
Silent.
Staring at nothing and everything all at once.
She had run to him then, heart pounding, breath uneven.
"LuCi, are you alright?" she had asked, reaching for him.
But he hadn't looked at her.
His gaze was fixed on the boy and the Phoenix.
And in that moment—
He looked like the only one who didn't belong in the chaos.
As though he had arrived too late.
Just like she had.
When he tried to move, he collapsed.
Blood spilled from his lips in a violent cough.
She had caught him before he hit the ground.
Her spiritual sense scanned his body.
And her heart had sunk.
His meridians were nearly shattered.
Fractured like cracked glass barely holding together.
If he used even a trace of spiritual energy, deviation would claim him.
Death would follow swiftly.
"No!" she had shouted, shaking him despite knowing better. "You cannot die here!"
He had coughed again, voice faint but stubborn.
"I'm not dying."
But she had known.
He was.
Or at least—he should have.
The memory dissolved slowly.
Xing Yue blinked, returning to the present.
The bustling city below felt strangely distant now.
"It has been long indeed," she murmured.
A sigh escaped her lips.
As she turned to descend, her gaze caught something across the plaza below.
A statue.
Tall.
Carved from white jade that gleamed under lantern light.
Her breath stilled.
Hong Yanli.
Yanli.
The statue's robes flowed as though caught mid-breeze, expression serene yet resolute. Even in stone, the presence was unmistakable.
It wasn't possible.
Unless—
Her eyes widened.
"She's in the Yanli Continent."
Realization rippled through her like a sudden tide.
No wonder the air felt different.
Clear—but not overly so.
Balanced—but with an undercurrent of restrained power.
The Yanli Continent was unlike other lands. It carried its own rhythm, as if governed by unseen laws distinct from the rest of the world.
And—
It was the same place where Lady Cangyin had once stood the first day she descended from the heavens.
History converged here. Fate tightened here.
"Unbelievable…" Xing Yue whispered.
The Future Spirit.
That damn meddling entity. It had not dropped her here by accident.
This was deliberate. Carefully calculated.
Her gaze hardened slightly.
What was his game?
Was it to force her to into something else?
To confront something buried in the Yanli Continent's history?
Or—
To make her cross paths with someone she was not yet prepared to face?
The wind lifted her hair gently.
Below, laughter continued. Life went on, unaware of divine manipulations unfolding above their heads.
Xing Yue looked once more at Hong Yanli's statue.
At the continent that held secrets older than kingdoms.
Perhaps things would change now. Perhaps they would not.
But one thing was certain—
The Future Spirit had moved a piece on the board.
And she intended to understand why.