The Eternal Emmpire:Elegance Under Pressure
Yuēn Sīzhào launched his attack. His spirit projection surged forward—massive, gilded, bristling with ornamental fury. The sword arcs weren't wild. They were rehearsed. Precise. Showy, but lethal. The Glass Lotus Sect's shield flared in response—petals locking into flawless formation, talismans lighting up like a constellation around the perimeter. The barrier didn't react to the shape of the attack. It responded to intent. And Sīzhào's intent bled through the air like vinegar in wine. The shield held—for now. But its pulse was shifting. Ren didn't need to touch it to know: It wouldn't be about breaking the defence. It would be about how long it could stay elegant under pressure.
Yuēn Sīzhào stood at the early stage of Step Ten—a rare threshold few dared approach.
The air around him still trembled faintly with residue from his Heavenly Tribulation, the scars of divine scrutiny not yet fully sealed.
He hadn't stumbled into power.
He had endured it.
And Heaven—stern, impartial, ancient—had permitted it.
It wasn't mercy.
It wasn't favouritism.
It was recognition.
No one passed through a Heavenly Tribulation by accident.
If he hadn't deserved to climb higher, the heavens would've cracked him where he stood.
Lady Yueh and Fairy Jin—formidable cultivators revered across the Glass Lotus Sect—had just broken into the early stages of Step Eight.
A significant achievement, no doubt.
Yet something about their cultivation felt... restrained.
They weren't stagnating.
They weren't failing.
But they also weren't rising as swiftly as their talent might allow.
Perhaps the heavens had placed unseen weights on their path.
Perhaps the world was waiting for something to shift.
Yuēn Sīzhào, fresh from his Heavenly Tribulation and standing tall at early Step Ten, studied Lady Yueh with a mixture of scorn and regret.
"I expected more," he said, voice cool and cutting.
"All your work. All your control. And you've only just reached Step Eight?"
His gaze slid to the trembling shield—its petals straining to remain beautiful under pressure.
"This won't take long," he continued.
"Your barrier might survive one more hit.
You should've built something more substantial."
A breath passed, then:
"Goodbye, Yueh."
Yuēn Sīzhào watched Lady Yueh in silence, thoughts spiralling beneath the surface of his composed expression.
You cultivate the Dao now, he thought bitterly,
not love. What stalled you? What broke you?
He glanced toward her two disciples—Liáng Xu and Fei Yan.
He knew their game.
Knew they were using him for position, prestige.
And he saw the way they looked at her: reverent, yes… but tinged with desire.
It twisted something in him.
But he was the sect leader.
And that meant duty came first—strength before sentiment.
He wasn't doing this for revenge alone.
Not just because her master killed his father.
He was doing this because the sect needed clarity. Strength. Direction.
Still… he had come hoping to see Yueh again.
To see her.
The girl he once knew.
His childhood sweetheart.
The one who was meant to become his Dao partner.
And there she stood—unchanged in appearance, more breathtaking than ever.
But colder now.
Detached.
Like the years had carved away the warmth, leaving only refinement.
He wondered what that coldness cost her.
And whether she still remembered who he had been.
Lady Yueh looked at Yuēn Sīzhào.
No rage.
No sorrow.
Just a stillness sharpened by history.
If it came to it, she would kill him.
Not for vengeance.
But to protect the truth—the one buried beneath blood and legacy.
The truth of why her master had taken his father's life.
He must never know.
Some burdens are born in silence because saying them aloud would unravel more than just the past.
She had once cherished him.
Loved him deeply.
Promised partnership beneath moonlit vows and shared discipline.
But that woman no longer stood here.
Not entirely.
What remained was colder, steadier, and forged from necessity.
This was her choice.
Made long ago.
Carved into her path like a hidden formation: designed to hold, never to bloom.
The final swing came down like a judgment.
Yuēn Sīzhào's spirit projection split the sky—radiant, wrathful, exact.
The Glass Lotus shield shattered, petals torn and talismans flaring into light.
And with that, the barrier fell.
So did the heavens.
The sky cracked open as the Glass Lotus Sect and Blood Orchid both descended—no ceremony, no restraint, only war.
Chaos bloomed.
The battlefield stretched vast and merciless.
Disciples scattered.
Elders summoned old techniques, some of which were too costly to repeat.
The air turned bitter with qi and blood.
Losses mounted.
Lady Yueh stood her ground.
She stepped forward—alone.
Her robes whispered discipline. Her silence promised devastation.
Fairy Jin hesitated only briefly.
She turned to Ren.
He didn't speak.
He didn't move.
He looked back.
And Fairy Jin understood.
She turned.
Joined her junior sister at Yueh's side.
Together, they faced Yuēn Sīzhào—the man who had once shared vows and childhood dreams with their sect leader.
Now, the enemy.
Liáng Xu and Fei Yan struck fast—blood hot, breath sharp, blades finding direction amid chaos.
They aimed for Shen Wuyin.
But Shen Wuyin turned.
And the world paused.
His gaze—steady, unblinking—met theirs. And for a single heartbeat, he became unrecognisable.
Not disguised.
Unveiled.
In that breathless moment, both disciples felt their minds twist with a single, unspoken thought:
This feels like facing one of the Cultivator Gods.
Not the mortal elites.
Not Step 100 or even Step 300.
They were thinking of the Six Ascendant Cultivators—those who broke through Step 500, transcended the final Heavenly Tribulation, and carved homes in the sky.
The kind of beings who didn't just pass through Heaven's gate—they settled there.
Built their realms.
Became myth.
And Shen Wuyin, plain as parchment seconds ago, now shimmered with a terrifying subtlety.
No glow.
No shouting wind.
Just a presence so vast and tightly sealed it made both men feel like children tugging at a door that wasn't meant to open.
Liáng Xu nearly dropped his blade.
Fei Yan stepped back as if his spirit had rejected the attack.
Then—
The moment passed.
Shen Wuyin blinked.
And just like that, he looked ordinary again.
Quiet. Unremarkable.
Like nothing had happened.
But something had.
They knew it.
Even if they would never speak of it.
And somewhere above the battlefield, the sky itself seemed to hesitate
They tried to dismiss what they'd seen.
That flicker—just a moment—where Shen Wuyin became something else.
But the more Liáng Xu and Fei Yan thought about it, the harder it became to explain.
Or ignore.
He hadn't simply radiated power.
He hadn't just looked terrifying or beautiful.
It felt like reality itself had adjusted around him.
As if the world were centred on him.
Not a powerful cultivator.
Not a rival.
Something more.
Something not of this world at all.
They could no longer pretend he was merely one of them.
Not when every instinct screamed that he was an anomaly—an anchor point in existence.
A fracture in the script.
And the thought whispered louder than qi:
He is the beginning. And the end.
The alpha. The omega.
And suddenly, the battlefield seemed too small.
Too temporary.
Because Shen Wuyin wasn't caught in this war.
He was beneath it.
Or beyond.
In the vast skies of Heaven, realms stretched endlessly—a mosaic of divine kingdoms, immortal strongholds, and sanctified cities built on light and law.
The Six Legendary Cultivators stood among their celestial dominions, each one sovereign over their realm. Titans in form, ancient in soul. They had surpassed Step 500, pierced through the veil of mortality, and carved existence within Heaven's sacred bones.
But they were not alone.
There were countless others—cultivators who had ascended, transformed, and become something more than mortal. Gods by declaration, masters of qi and fate. Their numbers formed civilisations: cultures older than any world below, built atop the wreckage of forgotten eras and glowing spirit veins.
And in perfect synchronicity, they all looked at him.
At Shen Wuyin.
Interest burned in their eyes like kindled starfire.
But beneath it—fear.
Not the kind bred from legend, but the instinctive fear of something beyond comprehension.
He had not entered Heaven through ascension.
He had not shattered it with force.
He had appeared.
And in his stillness, Heaven trembled.
They didn't know his origin.
Only that he did not belong to this order of gods.
And if all their power were gathered—all realms united, every divine technique unleashed—
They would die. Instantly.
Without resistance. Without comprehension.
As if the laws of reality themselves had chosen him over them.
Shen Wuyin did not speak.
But something beneath Heaven's structure whispered:
He is not a visitor.
He is the axis.
He is why gods remember to be afraid.
Ren was... irritated.
Just enough to crack the restraint.
He let instinct take over. Not strategy. Not courtesy. Just the unfiltered pulse of his true self—raw, quiet, vast.
For an instant, he stopped playing the background character.
The illusion trembled. The mirage he'd worn for so long rippled.
Every formation built to conceal him felt it.
And so did the One Above.
The Supreme Authority—who never looked directly, only through veils of doctrine and orbiting messengers—noticed him.
Ren could fix it.
He could weave silence back around his identity.
Push the memory of that instant into ambiguity.
Unmark himself again.
But maybe...
This may be better.
Let them remember.
Let them whisper.
Let the gods grow nervous.
He hadn't planned for this.
But it might just work in his favour.
Because sometimes the blade dulls itself so thoroughly...
That is when it finally gleams.
Even Heaven blinks.
The Six Legendary Cultivators were the first to ascend together.
Not one-by-one, not over centuries—together, in defiance of Heaven's order.
Their ascension shattered records.
Their unity forged a dynasty.
And from that moment, they became gods, each ruling a celestial realm and shaping the cultivation paths of untold generations.
Within the celestial territories, they remained the foremost leaders.
Their authority was absolute.
Their history is sacred.
And now, they watched him.
Ren.
Plain-looking. Silent.
His presence was disguised beneath layers of cultivated obscurity.
But that was only surface.
Because behind that quiet posture…
His actual appearance shimmered with impossible symmetry.
Handsome in a way that defied mere admiration—elegant, refined, ageless.
Like the first sketch of what beauty was meant to be, before the world learned how to copy it.
It was the kind of appearance that made mortals question their memories.
And made gods question reality.
The Six could see it.
Others, too.
And that glimpse cracked Heaven's calm just enough to remind them:
Whatever Shen Wuyin was hiding, it was never to shield himself from them.
It was to shield them from what he truly was.
"He's absurdly handsome," murmured one of the Six Legendary Cultivators, her tone soft but edged with surprise.
"I've seen beauty draped across emperors and carved into starborn heirs… but this?"
"This borders on divine exaggeration. As if the heavens got bored and decided to sculpt a muse."
She studied him longer than she meant to.
Then, almost playfully:
"It's been a very long time since I felt intrigued by the opposite sex," she admitted.
"Perhaps I should make him my disciple. For cultivation purposes, of course…"
The others shifted—some amused, some quietly unnerved.
A soft scoff came from her right.
"I'm just as handsome as him," he said, straightening his robe with feigned indifference.
"How am I any different? I've cracked more mirrors than tribulations."
Several nearby deities coughed into their sleeves.
A few choked back laughter.
Even the wind in Heaven seemed to stifle a smirk.
The sky itself paused—just long enough to notice.
But beneath the jest, even that proud cultivator knew:
Ren's allure wasn't born from symmetry or charm.
It came from something more profound.
Older.
Ancient in the way starlight remembers its origin.
As if reality itself leaned toward him—not dramatically, not violently…
Just enough to acknowledge him as the axis.
That subtle tilt—barely perceptible—was what made the gods grow quiet.
Not his beauty.
Not his silence.
But the sense that the universe, for one fragile moment… pivoted around Ren.
Master Zhaoyan
stood with hands clasped behind his back, his posture composed, his gaze locked on Ren—not with admiration, nor envy, but with the quiet precision of someone measuring a faultline that refused to behave.
"Xuanhe," he said, glancing at the poised woman beside him.
"You speak with curiosity."
He turned slightly, just enough to regard Lord Yanxie, who bristled with pride even in stillness.
"And Yanxie—predictably—shouts with it."
Zhaoyan exhaled softly, like a man trying not to sigh at the arrogance of stars.
"But neither of you is asking the right question."
Lady Xuanhe arched a brow, intrigued.
Lord Yanxie grumbled beneath his breath, clearly unimpressed.
But Zhaoyan didn't look at them again.
His eyes remained on Ren—unwavering, calculating.
As if Ren were the question itself.
"This isn't about beauty," he murmured.
"It's about origin. And I believe we've just stumbled into something older than any of our realms."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was respectful.
Even the divine winds quieted as if to listen.
Master Zhaoyan's eyes remained fixed on Ren, even as the celestial winds shifted around them.
"How old is he, truly?" he asked, his voice low—not out of doubt, but reverence.
"You felt it too, Xuanhe. That presence isn't new. It's not even ancient. It's foundational."
Lady Xuanhe didn't respond right away.
She watched Ren with the kind of intensity reserved for things that don't belong—unsolvable mysteries, unspoken truths.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, touched with reluctant wonder.
"He's not from our timeline," she said, almost to herself.
Her gaze followed him like one follows a falling star—fascinated, cautious, drawn against reason.
"Or even our world."
A pause. Her lips curved in a subtle smile.
"But... I like him."
"He's my type."
Lord Yanxie groaned audibly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if the heavens themselves had disappointed him.
Master Zhaoyan remained perfectly still—his expression unreadable, his silence deliberate.
As Ren stood beneath the gaze of Heaven's finest, the remaining three of the Six Legendary Cultivators quietly stepped forward.
The first—a woman wrapped in robes of shadow and starlight—spoke with reverence.
Her name was Meilan.
"He's not just timeless," she said. "He's unaligned. I don't feel Heaven's rhythm in him... I feel something older. Something untouched."
She blinked once, slowly.
"And yet, I can't help but want to learn from it."
Beside her, the second woman, glowing faintly with golden flame, crossed her arms.
Her name was Yurei.
"I don't trust him," she said flatly. "Not because he's powerful. Because he's too familiar. Like a name I forgot to fear."
But then she sighed.
"Still... there's something magnetic about him, I'll admit."
And finally, the last—tall, silver-eyed, always quiet—spoke last.
His name was Tenzin, often referred to as the Voice That Waits.
"He shouldn't exist," he whispered.
"But if he does... perhaps we've been wrong about what Heaven truly is."
The Six stood together now—Xuanhe, Yanxie, Zhaoyan, Meilan, Yurei, and Tenzin.
Each shaped by centuries of divine conquest.
Each was unsettled by one silent man who hadn't moved, hadn't spoken... and still commanded the sky.
The Six now stood together—watching, wondering, warily admiring.
Ren scratched his ear.
Just casually. Not divinely. Not theatrically.
As if centuries of monologues and suspicion had been nothing more than background noise.
Lady Xuanhe blinked.
Lord Yanxie looked offended.
Meilan stifled a laugh.
Yurei narrowed her eyes.
Tenzin tilted his head.
Zhaoyan, as expected, didn't move.
Ren stretched his pinky finger, imagining he could silence them all with it—and sighed internally.
Jeez… what a monologue, he thought.
Do I talk that much, too?
Must be a drag to hear me lecture.
The air shimmered.
A divine scribe paused mid-scroll.
Heaven held its breath.
Ren scratched his ear again.
And the universe leaned, just slightly.
Ren had stopped paying attention to the Six completely.
Their monologues—rich with celestial ego and divine theory—blurred into background noise. He'd already moved on.
His gaze settled where it belonged: the battle.
Fairy Jin and Lady Yueh fought shoulder to shoulder against Yuēn Sīzhào, their movements slicing through fractured sky like calligraphy in motion. Blades shimmered. Petals scattered. The battlefield bloomed and bled in equal measure.
They were still fighting.
Still beautiful.
Still unbearable to watch.
Nearby, Liáng Xu and Fei Yan had backed away, but their eyes betrayed them.
No reverence.
No humility.
Only analysis—cold, mechanical, desperate.
They were still trying to kill him.
Ren knew the look.
He'd seen it in every cycle, every script that mistook drama for truth.
They hadn't learned.
Not really.
Not yet.
Ren didn't brace or speak.
He watched, unmoved, like a weary teacher observing two pupils lost in their illusions.
Still trying, huh? he thought.
Still convinced my flaw is a secret to unravel, instead of a mirror you refuse to face.
He stretched his pinky slightly, a flick of idle power the heavens chose to ignore—for now.
Typical cliché, he mused.
This brand of anti-protagonist never learns. Always chasing the fall instead of understanding the ascent.
He didn't smile.
Didn't speak.
But the sky around him seemed to listen anyway.
Above it all, fate kept scribbling furiously—writing him in ink it still didn't know how to pronounce.
Ren looked out over the field strewn with fallen bodies—some twisted, some strangely serene. The aftermath smelled of ash, grief, and wasted ambition.
He recognised a few faces.
Disciples who'd joined the sect the same year he did.
A couple he remembered training beside.
One, he remembered lending his robes after a fight left him shivering in the rain.
Now they were still.
Silent.
Meaningless, in the grand scheme. But not invisible to Ren.
In the distance, a fat cultivator groaned—a heap of robes and bruises, barely breathing, somehow still alive. Ren didn't move toward him. Just noted the stubbornness.
Still hanging on, huh? he thought. You never did know how to die properly.
Then he felt a soft weight shift against his shoulder.
The squirrel.
She nestled deeper into the fabric, her tail curled around his collar like royalty in repose.
Ren glanced sideways.
"What should I call you then, huh?" he murmured. "Little Missy? You do love sleeping on my shoulder."
The squirrel twitched an ear.
Not in protest.
Not in reply.
Just acknowledgement.
Above them, the winds forgot to scream for once.
And the battlefield, momentarily, belonged to a tired man and a sleeping rodent.
He paused, considering.
"Alright. You want a name? How about... Mianmian."
The squirrel didn't move, but something about the way her tail curled told him she approved.
It meant soft in one tongue—sleepy breeze in another.
Fitting.
She was quiet, loyal, and completely unbothered by gods or disciples scheming nearby.
The wind picked up again—but Mianmian slept on, unfazed.
And Ren, with death at his feet and war behind his eyes, finally had something warm pressed to his shoulder.
Lady Yueh
and Fairy Jin were barely holding on.
Fairy Jin had been hurled into the mountainside with bone-shattering force. Her delicate frame cracked against stone and silence. She lay there—unconscious, blood blooming around her like petals in reverse—until two elders found her. They tried to carry her away.
But she got back up.
Wounded, broken, eyes unfocused…
She stood.
She flew.
She returned to the battlefield like a promise that refused to break.
Lady Yueh was dying slowly.
Her robes were torn, her breathing ragged—every step she took left a smear of effort behind. A single blow would've ended it. And yet—
Yuēn Sīzhào never delivered it.
He toyed with her. Tortured her. The strikes were sharp, precise, and relentless—yet always just shy of finality. Every time his blade whispered close, something in him held back. His technique screamed death… but his heart refused.
Because he loved her.
Still.
Deeply.
Painfully.
Each blow was a contradiction—rage wrapped in longing.
Lady Yueh knew.
Everyone watching knew.
But it didn't make it easier to endure.
When are those two going to kiss and make up already? Shen Wuyin mused, watching Lady Yueh and Yuēn Sīzhào trade divine agony like lovers reenacting the same heartbreak across lifetimes.
He scratched his ear, then smiled—soft, sly, and perfectly unsuspicious.
He was now fully inhabiting the role.
Shen Wuyin, the Fool.
Clever enough to be overlooked.
Playful enough to be dismissed.
Unassuming enough to stroll through fate while it shouted at someone else.
Then, without gesture or expression, he sent a private transmission.
Thin as moonlight.
Frayed like silk tossed in a dream.
Only Lady Xuanhe received it.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't look his way.
But somewhere behind those still, composed eyes… her mind smiled.
He knows we're watching.
No surprise. But now he's teasing.
Handsome creature, this Shen Wuyin.
Her reply laced smoothly into the thread—cool, deliberate, unmistakably hers.
"So… you've chosen to speak with me privately."
"What is it you're after, Shen Wuyin?"
"I'm willing to help—if the bargain is worth my attention."
There was no warmth, only precision—a blade wrapped in silk.
"I could become your disciple, if fate insists."
"But not until my role here is complete."
Then, quieter, sharper:
"So tell me, fool with a charming face—what is it you truly seek?"
Even in spiritual transmission, her tone was half invitation, half test.
And Shen Wuyin, beneath the fool's mask, smiled as the world tilted slightly in anticipation.
Shen Wuyin's smile curled wider.
"That's my little secret, younger one."
His voice—if one could hear it through transmission—would've been wrapped in velvet mischief.
"But following a beautiful woman like you? Doesn't sound like a bad deal to me."
Lady Xuanhe didn't respond at once.
But her smile deepened—internally, imperceptibly.
"Flirting won't work so easily on me," she replied, calm as moonlight.
"But…"
"…even so. I appreciate the compliment. Who doesn't enjoy being called attractive?"
There was no blush, no falter—only calibrated grace. But behind her spiritual voice lingered something warmer.
An echo.
A glint.
Shen Wuyin tilted his head, satisfied.
It wasn't a victory.
Just momentum.
And somewhere above them, fate pressed its quill to the margins—scribbling possibilities with each breath they refused to waste.
Just as Yuēn Sīzhào prepared to deliver the final, unforgivable blow to Lady Yueh
The sky rippled.
Time did not stop—
But the world hesitated.
And into that hesitation stepped Lady Xuanhe, a marvellous force draped in clarity and command.
She walked between the dying and the killer without fear.
No flash of blades.
No sermon of righteousness.
Just one gesture:
She raised her hand.
And with the slightest flick of her finger, she tapped Yuēn Sīzhào's forehead.
Qi bloomed violently through the contact, yet he did not fall.
Instead, he and his allies were reversed.
Forced back to their sects like ink pulled from parchment.
Then Xuanhe rose into the air, her voice folding across the battlefield with effortless authority:
"Let all realms hear me."
"From this moment forth, no one is permitted to raise arms against the Glass Lotus Sect—
not for a year, not for a decade—
But for as long as I live."
"Test me if you wish."
"But do not blame me for being arrogant—
or unkind."
"I will kill every last one of you who dares to disobey."
She didn't shout.
She didn't roar.
Yet her spiritual pressure tightened like a noose around the necks of her enemies.
Only they could feel it.
A targeted storm—
Suffocating, precise, divine.
Allies felt nothing.
But those who had raised their blades against Glass Lotus trembled.
Some vomited Qi.
Some could no longer speak.
One fainted with his eyes still open.
Xuanhe lowered herself.
She looked not at Yuēn Sīzhào, but at the dying petals still clinging to Lady Yueh's robes.
"This sect has suffered enough."
She looked at Shen Wuyin.
not openly, not obviously—
But deliberately.
A glance hidden in stillness.
Only he noticed.
Then, stepping forward, she addressed the survivors of the Glass Lotus Sect with effortless finality:
"You know who I am."
She spoke as a fact, not a boast.
The sky didn't respond. It bowed.
With a single gesture, she mended the shattered shield that once protected the sect.
Not just repaired it,
but raised it to its maximum potential,
infused fully with her god-level cultivation.
The air changed.
Qi saturated the atmosphere,
purified, densified, concentrated to the threshold of her refinement.
It clung to walls, seeped into roots, glowed in the veins of the disciples.
She gave generously.
Scrolls unfolded like petals.
Vaults brimmed with celestial-grade resources.
Artefacts long buried beneath time reawakened beneath her touch.
But though none questioned her motives—
None truly understood them either.
She did not explain.
Not because she owed none,
but because there was only one recipient who mattered.
This wasn't a declaration.
It was an invitation.
A provocation.
A reminder.
For Shen Wuyin.
To keep him from wandering.
To keep him from slacking.
To urge him forward—toward her.
Because Lady Xuanhe does not wait for others.
Others wait for her.
But if he made her wait?
She would let it slide.
Quietly.
Briefly.
Because even gods accommodate...
When the one they're waiting for walks beyond confrontation.
And because she—undeniably, silently—
already had a soft spot for him.
She felt it.
Not a ripple of Qi.
Not a surge of killing intent.
But something far smaller—far dirtier.
Eyes.
Lingering where reverence should have ended.
Staring where worship had soured into hunger.
It came from disciples scattered across the sect—men and women both—awed and unworthy.
But two stood out.
Liáng Xu.
Fei Yan.
They had dared once before—jealous, petty, reckless—plotting against Shen Wuyin with the desperation of children reaching for lightning.
And now they looked at Lady Xuanhe with twisted excitement.
Their gazes were full of craving.
As if her power were meat to be stolen.
As if they had any place in the same breath as her name.
She turned—slow, poised, divine.
No fury.
No theatrics.
Just one motion.
Liáng Xu's cultivation collapsed inward, his Qi sealed in a recursive state of stasis.
Fei Yan's meridians folded, not broken, but silenced.
Both dropped instantly—unable to summon energy, unable to look her way again.
The others?
They felt it too.
Those whose eyes wandered too far—who let awe mutate into greed—found themselves unable to draw breath.
Their cores stirred painfully, as if ashamed.
Then Lady Xuanhe spoke.
Not loud.
But absolute.
"Do not gaze upon what you will never earn."
"Do not hunger for what you are forbidden to taste."
"When desire outweighs cultivation, punishment follows."
She didn't name the two.
She didn't need to.
Her glance had already passed through them like judgment.
A moment ago, she had given generously—divine Qi, perfected defences, ancient treasures.
Now she gave something colder:
Placement.
A reminder that gifts do not mean entitlement.
And that even gods have boundaries.
Shen Wuyin did not move.
Did not speak.
But something in him tightened—in recognition, not surprise.
She had acted.
Deliberately.
Precisely.
Not for vengeance.
Not for ego.
For him.
And somewhere within that silent exchange,
Something mythic braided itself deeper.
For her final gift
Lady Xuanhe stepped toward Shen Muyin.
the plain-faced youth who looked no older than eighteen—
quiet, ordinary, forgettable to the untrained eye.
But her eye was trained beyond lifetimes.
And what she saw in him made the stars hush.
She didn't say his name.
She didn't summon him.
She approached—
And kissed him.
Soft. Unhurried.
A teasing brush against his lips, delivered with divine precision.
She expected hesitation.
She found skill.
His mouth responded not with innocence but with practised ease.
Refined control, gentle depth, just enough restraint to make her heart do something absurd.
He knows how to kiss, she thought.
He's done this before—a lot.
Her jealousy surprised her.
Not in a holy way.
In a stupid way.
The kind that makes gods wish they weren't competing with mortals who giggle during cultivation drills.
She saw it now—how dangerously alluring he'd become
if he ever stopped hiding.
If he ever showed his proper form.
And so she gave him something no kiss could match:
Her Qi.
Divine. Refined. Ruthlessly pure.
She allowed him—and only him—to absorb it.
Directly. Deeply.
It surged into his core with tailored precision.
Shattering his bottleneck without violence.
He soared to Step Thirteen—the very peak.
And Mianmian, his squirrel-shaped spirit beast companion,
curled silently beside him.
A ripple ran through her tiny body.
One twitch.
One pulse.
And she rose with him.
Not by accident.
But by proximity—as if fate had earmarked her cultivation the moment he breathed her name.
Lady Xuanhe turned her gaze toward the squirrel.
Her irritation wasn't angry—it was aesthetic.
She saw the creature's entire future in a glance.
"Lucky little thing, aren't you?" she murmured.
Not loud enough for others to hear.
Just enough to let the squirrel know:
Some favouritism runs too deep to explain.
Ren noticed it first.
Not because it was apparent.
Not because it slipped through a crack.
But because Ren never missed anything—unless he chose to.
And this time, he noticed.
The Goddess—so famously composed, so universally untouchable—
was distracted.
Not by power.
Not by threat.
But by something unbearably innocent:
Mianmian, nestled as always on Shen Muyin's shoulder—
a squirrel-shaped spirit beast whose presence didn't just warp fate.
It rewrote it.
Lady Xuanhe's glance slipped once.
Then corrected itself.
But Ren caught it.
He felt the tug of jealousy ripple through her refined soul.
She hadn't expected it.
Hadn't prepared for it.
He's kissing well, isn't he? Her thoughts nearly whispered.
Too well.
Someone taught him—several someones, probably.
Ren didn't react with amusement.
He reacted with silence.
Because silence, from someone with no limits, carries weight.
Ren could do everything.
He could intervene.
Could rewrite the moment.
Could track Mianmian's fate to its final thread.
But he didn't.
Because he chose not to know.
There's something sacred about an unspoiled miracle.
Even one shaped like a squirrel.
And she meant it.
Mianmian blinked, then sneezed softly—one paw twitching as she nestled deeper into Shen Muyin's shoulder. Oblivious. Serene.
Lady Xuanhe watched her with a look that could slice dimensions. Not to harm. To understand.
Because it wasn't just luck.
It was narrative affection—the kind the heavens give to things that sparkle when they shouldn't. A squirrel-shaped spirit beast whose presence twisted future pathways like it was doodling in fate's margins.
She'd seen countless prodigies.
Endless monsters.
Demigods born under comet storms.
But this little creature—who chewed on robes and curled up in cosmic turbulence like it was bedtime fluff—carried something rarer than prophecy:
Unjustifiable charm.
And it made her feel something she hadn't in a thousand years.
Not envy.
Not rivalry.
Just… gentle disbelief.
That the universe would lean this far in favour of something so small.
So cute.
So lucky.
"Lucky little thing," she said again, voice like lacquer over silk.
Ren heard it.
Of course he did.
And though he could've peeled open the squirrel's entire destiny in a breath, he didn't.
Because some futures deserve to be watched slowly.
Like flowers blooming out of turn.
She looked at Shen Muyin again.
Not with longing.
Not with uncertainty.
Just with a gaze so still, so deliberate,
The world itself slowed to catch it.
A god's gaze, measured and absolute.
And then—
She was gone.
Not a flash.
Not a ripple.
Just absence.
The wind didn't shift.
The light didn't change.
She vanished the way divinity should.
as if reality politely stepped aside
And let her exit without drama.
Only Shen Muyin felt the echo.
A thread still warm.
A Qi signature that hadn't entirely faded.
She had left nothing behind.
Except that glance.