Beneath the Jade Sky

Above Zantrayel, where once only the Lwa watched and the stars bowed to Bassoon's rhythm, the heavens opened in a quiet, ancient way.

Not with thunder.

Not with fire.

But with perfect silence, the kind that humbles even the wildest god.

A long, vertical seam split the sky—smooth as jade, endless as memory. From within, light fell like rain without weight. Children wept without knowing why. Elders rose to their feet instinctively. The priestesses stood in unison at the edge of the temple. Even the wild beasts of the forest bent their heads low.

From that light descended a presence the world had not known—but had long been written in the bones of creation. The air shimmered with discipline, with balance, with something not unfamiliar, but unforgotten.

Minister Gu Longshen descended first, his body coiled like a river serpent, glinting with gold scales and ivory beard. His eyes were like ancient tombs—silent, watching, weighing. Behind him followed gods in formal array, robed in embroidered constellations, their hands clasped respectfully, their mouths speaking no words yet.

The Xianzhou Pantheon.

Children of Heaven. Architects of order. Gods of the east wind.

They walked with harmony bound to their very breath, the scent of mountain incense curling from their garments. Each of them bore sigils etched not into skin, but into the space around them—blessing the very air they moved through.

Atop the Temple Plateau, Zion waited. The stone below his feet held memory—of death, of love, of oath and madness. Behind him stood his wives: Ayola, Sael, Ayomi, Thalia, and Elis, their divine marks glowing faintly in anticipation.

Above them floated the Lwa, watchful. Even Tijan Petro, god of chaos and fire, held still, his laughter absent.

Zion stepped forward. He placed a hand over his heart and inclined his head—not bowed, but respectful. A leader greeting equals.

"Zantrayel welcomes the gods of Xianzhou. May your journey here have been swift, and your reasons noble."

Minister Gu Longshen did not bow, but his serpentine body lowered to the earth in a gesture as regal as it was alien. His voice rolled like distant thunder:

"We heard the crying drums. We saw the soul of the old woman taken by the gates. We watched as the veil between divine and mortal thinned. In such moments, balance wavers. We come not with war—but with remembrance."

Behind him stepped a woman dressed in silk threads that shimmered with water and moonlight—Goddess Nüye Xiang, keeper of compassion, sister of stillness.

"Your land stands on the edge of something vast. The drums you beat echo beyond your sky. The Devoured hear it. The Hive turns. The unsated stir."

A silence fell.

It was Zion who finally replied.

"We do not fear echoes. We fear silence. You have seen what comes—will you help us hold the world together?"

A quiet murmur passed among the Xianzhou gods. They were not a pantheon that answered swiftly. In their culture, patience was the highest honor, and words were weighed like jade stones.

"Help," said Gu Longshen slowly, "must be earned. As your grandmothers once did for ours, so now you must offer what cannot be measured."

"We will send our youngest," said Nüye Xiang. "Mortals bearing our blood. Let them walk among your people, study your ways. Let them live. And from that living, perhaps harmony will grow."

Across the Mountains of the World

In distant lands, across black oceans and red deserts, other nations stirred.

Kasa, of the Flame Serpent, sent scholars to observe Zantrayel's shifting power.

Kalonji, the Turtle God beneath the ocean, sent a message wrapped in sea-silk:

"The deep stirs. My bloodline fears what even time cannot name."

And now, the heavens opened once more.

Other realms saw Zantrayel not just as a refuge—but as a crucible.

Young gods. Mortal dreamers. Rulers of hidden realms.

All began to send their emissaries to Bassoon.

Some for peace.

Some for prophecy.

Some… for power