Chapter 2
Alexa sank onto the edge of her small bed, letting the weight of the day press against her shoulders. The apartment was quiet, the faint hum of the city outside the window a soft accompaniment to her thoughts. The room smelled faintly of brewed coffee lingering from her shift and the faint trace of Magnus's cologne, or maybe it was just her memory playing tricks—but either way, it made her heart skip in a way that was both thrilling and unnerving. She traced her fingers along the chipped surface of her desk, her mind replaying the moments they had shared over the past few days, the quiet dinners, the long walks, the laughter that had felt so real it almost hurt.
She thought about Magnus now, about his absence. He hadn't appeared today, and a small pang of disappointment flickered through her chest. Her first impulse was to worry, to imagine him busy with something more important than her, or worse, that he was losing interest. But she caught herself, inhaling slowly, reminding herself of his words: "Let's take it slow." She understood the caution behind them, the patience he seemed to exercise deliberately, as if every movement, every interaction, was measured. It both frustrated and intrigued her.
In the quiet of her room, Alexa let herself imagine other possibilities. Maybe Magnus was wealthy, a man of means who had chosen to blend in, to move among humans unnoticed. Maybe he was searching, subtly, for the right woman, someone capable of understanding him without fear, without awe, without the shallow infatuation that most others would surely feel at the sight of him. And if that were the case, she admitted to herself with a mix of longing and caution, she might just be that woman. Like any other, she liked the idea of meeting someone extraordinary who was also kind, attentive, and real. But unlike a fairy tale, she knew this wasn't about magic; this was about a man who had chosen to be present, who had chosen her company without force or demand.
Her curiosity stirred next. Magnus's charm wasn't brash, it wasn't obvious, it was subtle, almost imperceptible at times, a quiet confidence that hinted at something vast and unknowable beneath the surface. And yet, for all his restraint, there were moments where sparks of intensity—or perhaps mischief, broke through, fleeting but unforgettable. A glance held too long, a half-smile that promised amusement without revealing secrets, a soft laugh at something she had said that seemed to unlock a part of him she didn't often allow anyone to see. Those tiny gestures, imperceptible to anyone else, had begun to sway her. She liked it. She liked him. And perhaps more dangerously, she wanted to see how far she could let herself feel without losing control.
Still, she hesitated. She remembered the walls she had built around herself, walls erected over years of disappointments, betrayals, and heartbreaks. The last thing she wanted was to hand herself over to someone, to trust too quickly, to let another person into the vulnerable corners of her life she had worked so hard to protect. Yet Magnus was different. His presence wasn't invasive; it didn't demand her trust. Instead, it teased her curiosity, gently tugging at it until she found herself wondering, planning, imagining what might happen if she let herself step a little closer.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The world outside her window was ordinary, familiar the distant hum of cars, the neon glow from the coffee shop down the street, the occasional laughter of students walking home, but her mind was anything but ordinary. She considered the subtle power in his restraint, the way he never crossed boundaries but still made her feel seen, considered, even understood. It was intoxicating in a way she couldn't fully explain, a mixture of comfort, excitement, and danger wrapped together into one compelling presence.
As sleep crept toward her, Alexa made a small, private promise to herself: she would let herself test his boundaries, carefully, playfully, without surrendering the autonomy she cherished. She would explore the mystery of Magnus, the way he moved in and out of her life like a shadow of something bigger, without giving away too much, without leaping too quickly. And maybe, just maybe, she would allow herself to enjoy his company, to laugh and tease and learn him in ways she had never allowed anyone before. Because in these moments, quiet, fleeting, and utterly human, she felt alive again, as if a tiny spark had been reignited inside her, bridging the gap between caution and curiosity, between fear and desire.
Alexa lay back on her thin mattress, staring at the ceiling as if it might deliver answers she didn't know how to ask for. Her heart still fluttered with the leftover warmth of thoughts about Magnus, his quiet gestures, the soft steadiness of his hands, the way he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear as though the moment mattered. Too perfect. Too precise. Too gentle. A man like that didn't simply walk into her life and just… fit.
That's exactly why you should be careful, she reminded herself.
She knew her patterns, her weaknesses. She was the kind of woman who fell too deeply, too quickly, with too much hope. And every time, the men she trusted revealed pieces of themselves she had been too blinded to see, the selfishness, the lies, the quiet manipulations. Her last relationship alone had carved enough damage to leave scars she still traced unconsciously on lonely nights.
Magnus was nothing like her ex. Not even in the same universe. Her ex had been careless, dismissive, barely attentive. Magnus… Magnus listened. Really listened. He touched her with a strange, disarming softness, never possessive, never demanding, just present. He held her hand without hesitation when crossing crowded streets. He steadied her elbow when she lost her balance. His eyes, God, his eyes, carried a hunger that felt both reverent and restrained, like he wanted her but refused to rush her.
And that stare… not crude, not predatory, but undeniably heated. A low burn of desire wrapped in gentlemanly control. It left her breathless.
Too perfect, she whispered again, rolling onto her side.
She was afraid, not of him, but of herself. Afraid that she would fold too quickly, that she would give him everything before she truly understood who he was beneath that polished calm. Afraid of repeating the past, of walking blindly into another heartbreak disguised as warmth.
Her phone buzzed on the pillow beside her, jolting her from her spiraling thoughts. A news alert.
She squinted at the headline:
NASA Detects Unidentified Object Near Lunar Atmosphere , "No Known Trajectory Matches."
Alexa blinked. For a second, she thought she misread. But no, the words stared back at her, sharp and bold.
Curiosity tugged at her fingers, and she tapped the notification.
A video clip loaded: a solemn-faced NASA spokesperson standing before a press panel, screens behind him showing the moon in stark grayscale. Beneath the surface shadows, something small, a dark, geometric speck, hovered just beyond the boundary where darkness met reflected sunlight.
"We are tracking an object of unknown origin," the spokesperson said calmly. "It does not resemble any artificial satellite, debris, or known celestial body. Our spectrometric analysis shows unusual energy fluctuations."
Alexa sat up slowly.
Energy fluctuations?
The next slide appeared, color-coded bands sweeping across a false-color spectrograph. Bursts of faint violet signatures, scattered irregularly.
Residual energy readings, the caption noted.
The spokesperson continued, "We have deployed an advanced inter-dimensional analysis probe to evaluate potential anomalies, including space-time distortions or non-terrestrial energy patterns. We are not drawing conclusions at this time. All findings will be reviewed."
Inter-dimensional?
Alexa let out a breath, half-laugh, half-disbelief. The world was strange enough lately; now even NASA was acknowledging things beyond normal understanding.
Her eyes drifted from the screen to the window. The moon hung low and silver, half-veiled by slow-moving clouds.
Something about that quiet sphere in the sky unsettled her. Not in a terrifying way, more like a reminder. A reminder that the universe was larger than she could ever comprehend. A reminder that not everything had answers. A reminder that the extraordinary existed, even when she convinced herself she was just an ordinary woman with an ordinary life.
And yet Magnus… he was anything but ordinary.
Her thumb hovered over her phone screen, tempted to message him, to ask if he'd seen the news, to break the silence he'd left today. But she hesitated. She didn't want to seem clingy, or desperate, or too eager.
Her chest tightened.
You always do this, she chided herself. You fall fast, then you panic the moment you want something real from someone.
She put the phone down.
Magnus's absence felt heavier now, not in a fearful way, but in a way that made her wonder more. About him. About herself. About what she was stepping into, and whether she would survive the emotional impact if she misread him.
She hugged her pillow, pulling it close to her chest.
He was kind. Gentle. Attentive. Attractive almost to the point of unreality. The way he moved—silent, smooth, like he belonged in a world where people didn't rush or stumble. The way he looked at her, like she was something precious he didn't want to damage.
People weren't perfect like that.
Men weren't perfect like that.
And yet Magnus existed.
Alexa closed her eyes again, listening to the faint hum of her apartment and the distant news anchor transitioning to another topic. Her heartbeat slowed, but the thoughts didn't leave her.
She wanted him. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to lean into the warmth he offered, the safety he carried so effortlessly.
But she had learned long ago that the most dangerous men were the ones who felt too good to be real.
So tonight, she wrapped her doubts around her like a thin blanket and whispered to herself:
Not yet. Don't give in yet. Not until you know more. Not until you're certain he's not another mistake waiting to happen.
Outside, the moon glowed faintly.
Somewhere far above it, something watched back.
Magnus hovered in the open night sky, high above Alexa's dimly lit apartment, the city lights below blinking like scattered embers. From this height, everything felt quieter, gentler, almost as if the world itself dared not intrude on his thoughts. He drifted effortlessly, arms loose at his sides, legs relaxed, gravity meaning nothing to him. Whenever he rose into open space like this, he felt an old kind of calm settle in his chest, a calm he rarely experienced on the ground among humans.
No machine could detect him. He ensured that.No satellite, no radar, no thermal scanners had ever once registered his existence.Being unseen was second nature.
Tonight, though… tonight he lingered.
He angled his head toward Alexa's apartment window. She was already asleep, curled on her side, unaware of his silent presence above her. A faint golden hue radiated from her small lamp, casting a warm glow around her room, soft, fragile, peaceful.
That fragility both drew him closer and forced him to stay away.
Humans were delicate. Too delicate. And Alexa… Alexa was even more so. Her hesitations, her fears, her quiet bravery, he felt them even when she didn't speak them aloud. He sensed how easily she could be hurt, how deeply she had been hurt before. That was why he kept his distance today. Why he was careful with every gesture, every touch, every lingering stare.
But if this was going to continue, if she was going to trust him, he would need to give her a story.A history.A truth that wasn't really true, but close enough to comfort her, close enough to explain what she sensed but could not name.
He had done it countless times across thousands of years.
He never placed himself in thrones or temples.Never claimed to be a king, a god, or a ruler in any recorded history.That would be absurd, and exhausting.
Kings fell.Empires collapsed.And humans would tear each other apart trying to worship or destroy anything they misunderstood.
So Magnus always stood on the margins of history, just outside the frame. Present, unseen, a witness to civilizations rising and dying like sparks in the dark.
As he floated higher, stars spilling across the sky around him, his thoughts drifted deeper, beyond Earth, beyond this small blue world that had become unexpectedly significant.
He remembered the High Imperials.
Twelve-foot-tall war giants, each weighing over 300 kilograms of pure, sharpened muscle.Humanoid in silhouette, monstrous in reality, four arms built for crushing, three eyes burning like molten iron, voices like thunder cracking in the dark.
Born for war.Engineered for domination.A species whose entire identity revolved around proving strength through conquest.
They had hunted him once, long ago, in the farthest corner of the universe. A full clan of them, an entire war-caste bred for pursuit, chasing him across shattered moons and dying stars. They pursued him not for justice, nor survival, but for the thrill of seeing if they could kill something like him.
They didn't succeed.
But they came close enough that Magnus remembered the echo of their roars, the heat of their weapons, the indomitable hunger in all three of their eyes.
In that era, High Imperials could be hired as war guards or elite mercenaries, if one possessed the currency.
Mithril Gold.
A single coin, roughly 50 grams, two inches across, four millimeters thick, held the value of a quarter of a million dollars by Earth's standards. Entire campaigns were funded with only a handful of them. The shimmering alloy was recognized across countless galaxies, a universal standard long established before Earth's starlight was even born.
Magnus frowned slightly.
Earth… the Milky Way… this entire corner of the cosmos was considered too young. Too primitive. Insignificant.A quiet little pocket of reality brimming with life that no one cared enough to observe.
Except him.
He lowered himself gradually, drifting downward with silent control, until he could see the faint outline of Alexa's sleeping form through the half-drawn curtains. She looked peaceful, unaware of cosmic hunts or mercenaries or ancient wars. Unaware of the beings who once tried to tear him apart. Unaware of the weight of the universe resting on his shoulders.
Unaware of what he truly was, Alexa still feared letting her heart open. She feared trusting him, feared the slow, dangerous pull of falling for someone who seemed too perfect, too gentle, too controlled, too unshakable. And Magnus understood. He had seen the hesitation in her eyes, felt the tiny tremor in her pulse the night he brushed her hair behind her ear, sensed the heat rising in her chest when his fingers grazed hers by accident… or what she thought was accidental.
He noticed the way she stiffened whenever she caught that fleeting, carefully concealed spark of hunger in him, a spark he let slip only for a fraction of a second. Humans sensed more than they admitted. Alexa sensed more than most.
She was right to be cautious; no human man was that flawless. Which meant part of him would have to break that illusion, softly, strategically, just enough to soothe her doubts without exposing the truth he had buried across galaxies. A fabricated background. A life constructed with careful seams. A past designed to look human, flawed, believable.
Something she could hold on to without fear. He closed his eyes, letting the thought settle like dust on stone. For the first time in millennia, he wasn't creating a disguise for survival. He was creating a version of himself she could trust. A version she could eventually love. Because Alexa Davenport, small, fragile, painfully mortal, had become important to him, and Magnus had not allowed anyone to become important in a very, very long time.
With a breath that shimmered faintly in the cold air, Magnus vanished from her apartment without a ripple, slipping from Earth's atmosphere in a single silent thought. Space folded around him like liquid glass, weightless and obedient to his will. The next heartbeat placed him on the dark side of the moon, where sunlight never reached and no human eye could ever find him. He stood alone on the powder-soft surface, the stars sharp and countless above him like frozen shards scattered across an endless black ocean. Below,
Earth hung in the void, blue, bright, delicate. A world loud with life, unsteady with emotion. A world that now held one woman who occupied more space in his mind than she should. He wasn't here for NASA's panicked alerts or the unidentified object drifting nearby; he knew it was harmless, knew it had nothing to do with him. His concern lay elsewhere. His concern, disturbingly, was Alexa, her doubt, her fear, her trembling hope. And somewhere in the cold stillness of lunar shadow, Magnus realized he would do something he had never done before: reshape his existence, not for power, not for deception, but for her.
Magnus leaned back on the rise of lunar dust, elbows resting on his knees as he gazed down at the glowing blue planet below. Humans had always been fragile, soft bodies, brief lives, irrational hearts, but they carved their existence into the universe with a kind of defiant intensity that even he, ageless and unbreakable, found himself drawn to. For the first time in millennia, he was not merely considering another mask or temporary identity.
He was contemplating creating an entire history for himself, a believable, human one, something that could stand firm beneath Alexa's questions, something grounded enough to anchor him in her world without exposing the truth that would destroy her. Time slid through him like a river as he sifted through memories older than their nations, older than their languages.
So many eras. So many civilizations. So many faces that flickered like sparks in the storm of his eternity. Most humans died so quickly around him that their lives barely registered, but a rare few had left impressions, shadows carved into his thoughts despite the vastness of his existence.
One such memory rose from the depths, glowing with a stubborn golden warmth. AD 184. A dusty trade road, the long reach of the Silk Road stretching over harsh, sun-scorched landscapes. Spices laced the air, saffron, cinnamon, smoke, blending with the bustling noise of caravans. Magnus had taken the name Zhou Yu then, not the famed general of later centuries but an earlier wanderer who borrowed the identity the way humans changed clothes.
He walked with a merchant caravan, an unlikely sea of color and life in the barren expanse, and that was where he met the Qiao family, wealthy, educated traders beloved along the trade routes. With them traveled two daughters: Da Qiao, poised and gentle, with eyes that hid quiet intellect; and Xiao Qiao, bold and bright, who fell headlong for the mysterious foreign-looking traveler who seemed to carry the calm of the world in his silence.
Another traveler joined them as well: Sun Ce, a fierce, charismatic young man with a laugh too big for his age and a heart that trusted too easily. He had taken to Magnus instantly, calling him "Brother Zhou Yu" even before Magnus offered the name.
Those months had been unexpectedly peaceful, a rare respite in a life that rarely knew stillness. Dusty roads stretched lazily into the horizon, nights were spent beneath star-strewn skies, and the faint hum of music drifted through the campfires, weaving with the smell of wood smoke and tea. Disputes were settled simply, over cups of warm, fragrant tea, while laughter, soft and cautious, lingered in the air. Xiao Qiao clung to him with youthful devotion, a mixture of admiration and quiet longing that made the edges of his otherwise detached presence soften.
One day, she had asked him for children before he left, and he had given her three: two sons, Zhou Xun and Zhou Yin, and a daughter, Lady Zhou, each born to carry fragments of him into a future he would not always inhabit. The children grew under her care, knowing only a few fleeting years with their father, until he departed, leaving only a promise, that he would return. Magnus, at the time, had been almost entirely emotionless, responding to requests with a cold, detached compliance that rarely hinted at inner thought.
Yet, in granting her wish, he acted not out of warmth but out of recognition of what was right, appropriate, necessary. Xiao Qiao understood him in ways few could; she knew he was not human in the truest sense, that he had never been hurt in battle, that he gained prominence and titles without effort, and that even the greatest warlords feared the silent hunger that flickered behind his calm eyes. Yet she also saw the other side of him: a longing to explore, to reach beyond the confines of the immediate, the tangible.
He had never truly known love, but she never minded, for he filled the void in his own way, with care, attention, and a methodical support that humans could feel, even if it was not born from human emotion. Magnus understood, through what he had learned of human hearts and connection, that intimacy was more than the act itself, it was a bridge, a thread that bound people into shared existence. And so, with measured intent, he made love to her, not from desire, but from comprehension: a calculated, yet tender response to her need, a silent lesson in human connection, giving her not only what she asked for but what he understood she required to remember him, to feel his presence lingering even in absence.
She asked him to watch over her family's future as well, to protect them even when he was gone, and he did. Long after he walked away, stories and paintings circulated of the enigmatic Zhou Yu who traveled with the Qiao merchants, legends stitched from memories of a man who had never truly been human.
Another memory surfaced, pulled forward by the shimmer of red light he conjured with a small motion of his hand. The constellation of crimson points hovered before him, pulsing softly in the lunar darkness. Each point represented a descendant of another human he had once encountered, this one long after the Silk Road days. Saudi Arabia, 1697.
A storm-torn night. A caravan ambushed by bandits. Magnus, calling himself Uallah then, wandered the desert as easily as breathing; heat could not burn him, sandstorms could not touch him, the harsh landscape soothed him in a way no world ever had.
He had watched the ambush from a dune ridge, silent and unseen, never interfering as the family fought with desperate ferocity. They won, barely, but the young boy, ten years old, stubborn as stone, was gravely wounded. That night the sandstorm forced them to camp, the wind shrieking like a living thing as the boy lay feverish, biting his lips so he wouldn't wake his exhausted parents.
Magnus entered their tent, the storm sliding through him like smoke, and asked the child only one question: "Why struggle desperately?" And the boy, pale and shaking, answered with fierce clarity: "I want my family to prosper.
I want my parents to live in luxury. They worked their whole lives for us. If I die now… I fail them." Magnus remembered the fire in those eyes even now, here on the moon. The boy survived, later reshaping a kingdom, and Magnus had watched over him silently, nudging death away but nothing more.
He lowered his hand and let the constellation of red lights collapse into a single fading spark. The Earth hung quietly beneath him, a fragile orb filled with the descendants of those he once brushed against, Qiao daughters whose lineage flowed through ancient China, desert merchants who birthed kings and scholars, humans who lived and died never knowing the ageless being who stepped briefly through their stories.
These memories were proof of something he had never admitted aloud: that humanity, with all its fragility and fire, had shaped him in ways he could not fully escape. And now Alexa Davenport, sharp, perceptive, wounded but brave, was pulling him into that world again.
She wasn't the first human to affect him… but she was the first who made him hesitate. The first who made him consider crafting a lie gentle enough not to shatter her. The first who made him wonder whether he could shape a past close to truth without revealing the cosmic weight behind it. Lunar dust shifted beneath him as he stood, ancient and unchanging, and yet uncertain for the first time in eons. It was time to decide who "Magnus" needed to be for her, and whether he could protect her without losing the fragile, dangerous thing she had awakened inside him.
The High Imperial probe, an alien machine older than most human civilizations, drifted silently toward the crater where Magnus stood. Its metallic body glided with predatory caution, sensors sweeping, lenses rotating like unblinking eyes. As it approached him, something impossible occurred. The probe slowed… hesitated… then abruptly turned a full circle around him, as if dragged by an unseen force or compelled by a command it did not understand.
A second later it snapped back into its original flight path, perfectly aligned, perfectly still, as though the strange movement had never happened. The machine's core flickered with confused signals; it had no data to parse, no energy anomaly to log, no gravitational shift to calculate. It simply did not understand what, or who, it had encountered. And far away, in hidden control rooms and military tracking stations, every observer saw nothing unusual. No spike in radiation. No distortion in space-time. No measurable event at all. For them, the probe simply continued its routine scan. But Magnus had already turned his attention elsewhere.
Before him hovered a faint holographic constellation of dots, genetic markers, bloodlines traced across centuries. Among them, one glowed brighter than the rest, pulsing with ancient memory. The moment he recognized it, Magnus vanished again, space folding soundlessly around him. In the time it took for a speck of lunar dust to fall, he reappeared inside a fortified structure buried deep beneath China's most restricted territory.
The building was colossal, constructed of reinforced black stone and alloy, sealed behind multiple layers of biometric locks, quantum cipher doors, and atmospheric vacuum chambers. No satellite had ever captured its existence; no civilian map showed its location. It was hidden in a mountain hollow far from any city, accessible only through a mile-long subterranean tunnel guarded by autonomous weapons platforms and neural-pattern scanners that could kill intruders before they took a single breath inside. The air within was still, cold, and filtered through fifty different sterilization systems. Every footstep echoed like a whisper through a tomb.
At the very center of the structure, encased behind layers of triple-tempered crystal and framed with lacquered wood carved in the intricate style of ancient dynasties, hung a painting unlike any other, a singular, irreplaceable relic believed lost to the annals of history. It depicted Xiao Qiao and Zhou Yu, poised with quiet dignity, their expressions a mixture of strength, serenity, and the subtle weight of the lives they had shaped. Between them stood their only daughter, Lady Zhou, a child rendered with startling lifelike detail, her gaze both innocent and knowing, as if she already carried the echoes of generations past.
The brushstrokes, delicate and precise, captured not only the physical likeness of the trio but also something ineffable: the bond that tied them, the love that had endured through the unseen and the impossible, and the legacy of a family that had existed at the intersection of legend and memory. The painting radiated a hushed reverence, drawing the eye even through the protective layers of crystal, and in its presence, time itself seemed to slow, as though the centuries it had survived were suspended in the glow of its colors.
Magnus, standing alone in the sterile, humming silence of the fortified vault, felt the weight of history pressing lightly against him, and yet, in the stillness, he also recognized the faint imprint of something personal, something human, threaded through the art, a memory, a choice, a life once lived, now immortalized in pigment and devotion.
The chamber surrounding it was a remarkable fusion of shrine and high-security laboratory, a space where reverence and technology coexisted in stark harmony. Red silk banners, carefully preserved behind glass, hung like silent witnesses to history, their delicate threads glowing softly under the ambient light. Biometric drones hovered silently in the corners, their sensors scanning in constant, invisible motion, while thick infrared grids sliced through the air in precise, crisscrossing patterns, forming an unseen lattice of protection that could detect the smallest intrusion.
The walls themselves were a testament to forgotten dynasties, etched with gold characters whose meaning had been preserved only by time and careful guardianship, each line catching the glow of soft white lanterns that never flickered, never dimmed. The light revealed the room's every detail without revealing its secrets, casting a quiet, almost sacred brilliance across the chamber. It was a place of contradictions: warm yet sterile, ancient yet impossibly modern, a sanctum where history and science intertwined, holding the weight of centuries and the vigilance of the present in equal measure.
The painting itself seemed to radiate an aura of age and reverence, brushstrokes so delicate they appeared almost alive, colors impossibly vibrant for something over a thousand years old. Lady Zhou's expression, gentle, composed, hauntingly serene, drew Magnus closer, each step pulling him into a past that felt both intimate and monumental. And yet, as his eyes sharpened, he realized it was not the painting commanding his attention. In the corner of the chamber, seated silently in a wheelchair, was an old woman. Her hair, silvered and thin, framed a face lined with ninety years of life, and despite the layers of wealth, power, and influence she had once commanded, none of it mattered now.
Nearing the edge of her life, she possessed only memory, curiosity, and the quiet fascination that had always drawn her to the legends of her family. She had lived her entire life enthralled by stories of her ancestors, tales that wove together the supernatural and the real, myth and history, bloodlines that carried power long forgotten by the modern world.
She was a direct descendant of Lady Zhou, the living thread of a legacy that Magnus had tracked across centuries, the final witness to secrets that had endured through wars, dynasties, and the relentless passage of time. Her eyes, sharp despite age, held a spark of recognition as Magnus stepped closer, and in them, he glimpsed both the weight of history and the quiet, persistent pulse of bloodline magic that had summoned him here.
The old woman's eyes, sharp and unyielding despite her frailty, never left the figure hovering silently a few feet above the polished floor. Her gnarled hands rested on the arms of her wheelchair, knuckles white against the worn wood, as memories long buried stirred within her. "Zhou… Yu?" she whispered, her voice trembling yet carrying the weight of recognition. The name sounded fragile on her lips, but the room seemed to lean in, holding its breath. Her gaze flicked from the painting behind the bulletproof glass, where her ancestor's composed, eternal face stared back at her, to the man before her, who looked impossibly like the Zhou Yu she had studied in books, traced in genealogies, and revered in family lore.
"No… it can't be…" she muttered, her mind racing. "You… you shouldn't exist. I've seen the stories, the accounts… but not like this. Not alive… floating… here." The man, Magnus, remained silent, his presence calm yet overwhelming, a quiet gravity pulling the very air around him. The old woman's eyes softened, a mixture of awe, fear, and something closer to hope threading through her words.
"You… you are him, aren't you? Or… a part of him? You've crossed time… and yet you stand before me." Her voice quavered, but there was a sharp edge of command in it, a lifetime of authority and curiosity that refused to be ignored. Magnus tilted his head slightly, observing her, not with recognition, for she was new to him, but with the weight of someone who understood the fragile pulse of human legacy, and the stories that could never truly be contained behind glass or ink.
Magnus did not flinch, did not display even the slightest trace of the overwhelming power that radiated from him; he remained composed, allowing the room to breathe with him. Slowly, deliberately, his features shifted, smoothing and reshaping themselves until the resemblance to Zhou Yu, her great-great-grandfather, was undeniable.
The old woman's eyes flickered, a mixture of disbelief, awe, and recognition rippling across her face, and Magnus sensed her initial shock, the fragile thread of human perception straining against the impossible. He did not want to cause her any discomfort. That bright red dot he had seen among the holographic bloodlines, yes, that was her.
He allowed a soft, warm smile to curve his lips, the energy he radiated subtly shifting to a mild, comforting warmth, something more angelic than ghostly, more present than spectral. For once, he desired no fear, no awe rooted in terror, only understanding.
Floating down with silent grace, he stepped toward her, each movement careful, measured, intentional. The old woman bowed her head, a gesture of profound respect honed over decades of tradition and ancestry, her hands resting lightly in her lap. "I am Deng Mei-ling," she said, her voice fragile but clear, carrying the weight of a lifetime and the reverence she felt for the man, or spirit—before her.
Magnus inclined his head, his tone gentle yet firm, carrying the calm certainty of someone who had lived far beyond mortal constraints. "Hello, my beautiful jade," he replied, the words warm, affectionate, intimate in a way that transcended simple familial connection.
Her eyes widened slightly at the address, a faint smile touching her lips despite the trembling of age. "You… you look just as the portraits describe… as the stories tell," she said softly, fingers tightening around the arms of her wheelchair. "I never thought I would see… anyone like you. Not alive… not here… not in my lifetime."
Magnus allowed a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Stories are fragile things," he said, moving closer so the warmth of his aura brushed against the edges of her consciousness. "They survive because someone remembers them… because someone preserves the truth in whispers and in ink. And now… I am here, because I must know the history, the lives lived, the choices made that brought you to this moment."
Deng Mei-ling's eyes glimmered, a mixture of pride and hesitation. "You… you visit your descendants?" she asked cautiously, a quiver of disbelief still lingering. "Is this… common for you?"
Magnus's expression softened, almost reflective. "Not common," he admitted. "But necessary. I ensure the line endures, that the blood remembers, that the legacy… is honored." He paused, studying her carefully, allowing the warmth of his presence to ease the tension in her body. "I must understand… everything that came before. I need a story rooted in truth, one I can share… with someone who does not yet know it."
Deng Mei-ling's brow furrowed slightly, sensing the weight in his words. "Someone… like who?" she asked.
Magnus tilted his head, eyes focusing on her with an intensity that carried centuries of knowledge, experience, and restraint. "A woman," he said simply, "one who will one day need to know the truth, or at least a version of it that makes sense to her. Someone I care for… deeply."
A faint gasp escaped her lips. "And… you cannot tell her directly?" she whispered, almost to herself.
Magnus's smile was gentle, patient, filled with the warmth he always used to calm those around him. "Some truths," he said softly, "are too vast, too complex for the first introduction. They must be built, carefully, one thread at a time, woven into something human… so she can understand without fear."
Deng Mei-ling leaned forward slightly, curiosity and respect warring with the tremor in her hands. "Then tell me," she said, voice firmer now. "Tell me all you know. Every memory, every choice, every story of our family. I will help you… and I will ensure it is preserved, as it should be."
Magnus's gaze softened, and for the first time in centuries, he allowed something human to pass through his presence: a nod of gratitude, quiet and profound. "Very well," he said, settling closer, the warmth of his aura enveloping her like sunlight through glass. "Then we begin." And as he spoke, the centuries between past and present seemed to fold around them, the chamber alive with the weight of memory, the promise of revelation, and the careful construction of a story that would one day be given to Alexa Davenport, a story that had to feel human, and yet, remain true.
Magnus and Deng Mei-ling spoke for what felt like hours, their conversation weaving through centuries of memory, stories of battles and victories, whispers of love and loss, and the lineage that bound them across time. Yet in the flow of real time, only a few heartbeats passed, the outside world unaware of the temporal stretch that had unfolded within the chamber. Magnus spoke with careful deliberation, every word chosen to preserve the balance between truth and comprehension, guiding her through the complex tapestry of his existence, his human descendants, and the threads of history that connected them all.
When he finally paused, his expression calm but probing, he asked softly, "Tell me… is this reason… acceptable to you? Does it align with logic, with what is reasonable for someone like her to understand?" Deng Mei-ling's eyes, still bright with clarity and the sharpness of a mind honed over nine decades, softened as she regarded him. Her gaze traveled from the man hovering before her to the painting of her ancestor behind the glass, and she nodded slowly, deliberately, as if weighing each word in her heart before speaking.
Then, with a quiet smile, she offered her answer, not in mere affirmation, but in a reflection that felt like poetry, echoing the depth of her family's history. "Every shadow you leave behind," she said, her voice trembling yet melodic, "every secret whispered to the wind, carries a seed of truth. The past, the present, and the unseen threads between… they are as rivers, ever flowing, carving valleys that the future may one day bloom upon. If she walks that river wisely, guided by the echoes of our blood, she will know you, even what you cannot speak outright." Magnus inclined his head, absorbing her words, feeling their weight and resonance. In that instant, he knew that her understanding, tempered by wisdom and reverence, was exactly what he needed to craft the story for Alexa, a story that could bridge worlds, human hearts, and the shadows of immortality, without shattering the fragile perception of the one he cared for.
Deng Mei-ling's gaze softened, though a hint of mischief and calculation flickered in her sharp eyes. "Patriarch," she began, her voice quiet but deliberate, carrying the weight of centuries and the respect of one who understood her lineage intimately, "may I… offer a humble suggestion?" Magnus tilted his head, attentive but patient, allowing her to continue. She leaned slightly forward, her gnarled hands resting lightly on her wheelchair, the lantern-light catching the faint shimmer of age in her skin. "Consider this: if your goal is to gain a human background, one that can answer your need for history and belonging… perhaps there is a way to weave yourself into a family that already exists. A name, a lineage, a place where your presence would be… plausible." She paused, letting the idea settle, and Magnus did not interrupt, observing her with the stillness of someone used to waiting centuries for the right words.
"I have lived in secrecy," she continued, voice low, almost conspiratorial, "known only to a few who respect the old ways. But my family… my bloodline continues." Her eyes darkened slightly, reflecting the weight of decades spent guarding both legacy and wealth. "I have two sons, four daughters… each with families of their own. They wait only for my passing, for the inheritance they believe is theirs by right. Greed shadows their hearts, even as duty compels them to honor me. None can be trusted to preserve the stories I hold—not fully, not as I would wish." She exhaled slowly, the faintest smile touching her lips. "But you, patriarch… you could step into that void. Become part of this clan. Take a name, a place among us, one that carries legitimacy and bloodline history. Your presence would be unquestioned. You could live in humanity's memory as one of us, and it would grant you exactly what you seek—a background, a connection… a reason to exist in ways humans understand."
Magnus's eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the weight of her words settling in the quiet hum of the chamber. "You suggest I… adopt a life I did not earn?" he asked, voice calm but curious, the faint warmth in his aura softening the edges of his presence.
Mei-ling nodded, her expression resolute. "Not steal," she replied, "but inherit in a way that respects both the bloodline and the story. You would not disrupt the living; my children are impatient and self-interested. You would step into the truth of our lineage, without harm, and carry it forward as you need. It is… practical, and it is honorable. A bridge between your need and our history."
Magnus considered her words, the silence stretching as he weighed centuries of human tradition against the simplicity of what she offered. Finally, he inclined his head slowly, a faint smile brushing his lips. "Very well," he said, voice low but certain. "Then we shall see if your suggestion… can be made real." Deng Mei-ling's eyes glimmered, a mix of triumph and relief, as if a century of careful thought and secrecy had converged into this singular moment, and in the calm aura between them, the first threads of a new family narrative began to weave themselves into existence.
Magnus's gaze lingered on Deng Mei-ling, his voice calm but edged with curiosity as he asked, "Then… who should I be this time?" The words seemed simple, yet they carried the weight of centuries, of decisions that could ripple across time and human memory. Deng Mei-ling's eyes twinkled with quiet amusement and calculation, her frail hands tightening slightly on the arms of her wheelchair. "Ah…" she murmured, leaning forward as if to offer a secret too precious to speak lightly, "that depends on what you seek. Do you desire a name that commands respect, one remembered in history for strength and honor? Or do you wish for something quieter, a presence that passes unnoticed, blending with humanity while carrying your story in secret?" Her voice dropped to a near whisper, thick with the careful cadence of someone used to centuries of diplomacy and discretion. "You could be a branch of our lineage, one who walks among them, yet carries the weight of your past within you. Perhaps a son returned, a cousin thought lost, a guardian who stands in the shadows of our family's legacy… there are many ways to exist, patriarch, many forms that would grant you both legitimacy and… discretion."
Magnus tilted his head slightly, the faintest curve of a smile brushing his lips, his aura warm and calming, yet unmistakably powerful. "I see," he said, tone low, almost reflective. "I will need a life that humans will believe, a past that feels real, yet allows me freedom… and a reason to connect to those I choose. One that your descendants will accept without suspicion, yet will honor the bloodline that called me here." Deng Mei-ling nodded slowly, her eyes gleaming with a mix of approval and satisfaction. "Then let us choose wisely," she said, her voice steady, "for this identity will serve not only your purpose but protect the legacy of our family. It must be flawless, yet invisible enough to pass as truth. And when the time comes, you will step forward… as one of us, and yet apart from us, as you always have been."
Magnus inclined his head in acknowledgment, the silence between them filled with unspoken agreement, the soft hum of the chamber blending with the faint glow of lantern-light and the solemn weight of history. "Very well," he said finally, his tone carrying the certainty of one who shapes reality itself, "then I shall become who I must… for both your lineage and my own purpose." Deng Mei-ling's lips curved into a knowing smile, and in that quiet, suspended moment, centuries of bloodline, memory, and legacy seemed to converge, ready to birth the story Magnus would one day offer to Alexa Davenport.
Deng Mei-ling's eyes gleamed with quiet conviction as she suggested, her voice steady despite the years etched into her face, "Then retain him, patriarch… but let him carry the family name of Zhou. It belongs to us, and it will give him the roots he seeks." Magnus allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible smile, the corner of his lips lifting as he replied, "Zhou… it isn't even a real surname. It was given to me centuries ago by a politician, Sun Ce, a man who befriended me for reasons I still cannot fully explain. Yet it has endured." His voice carried a soft amusement, tinged with a trace of irony, yet there was also acceptance. Deng Mei-ling's lips curved into a knowing, gentle smile, as if reading not just his words but the weight of the centuries behind them. "Perfectly fitting," she said simply, her tone firm yet kind, "for a man like you.
A man who walks through time and memory alike, carrying what cannot be erased." And then, almost hesitantly, her gaze softened further, tinged with vulnerability. "But I… I am feeling tired," she admitted, her fingers loosening slightly on the arms of her wheelchair. Magnus, ever attuned, felt the subtle ebb of life slipping from her, the quiet fading of vitality that even years of wisdom and discipline could not resist. He reached toward her, his voice lowering to a soothing timbre, "My beautiful jade… you must stay awake. You must not leave me yet, for I need to see what this plan, this legacy, will bring me. I need your guidance, your memory, your insight."
Almost immediately, the chamber seemed to respond, not with magic, but with a quiet, tangible shift in perception. Deng Mei-ling's wrinkled skin, once mapped with the decades of age and care, began to smooth. The fine lines around her eyes softened, her cheeks lifted, and the sagging folds of her neck tightened as if time itself was folding backward. Her hair, once silver and thin, regained a muted but rich brown streaked with the dignified gray of a woman in her sixties, thickening in a natural, human way. Her posture shifted as well, the slight curve in her spine straightening, shoulders lifting with renewed strength, as if some invisible weight had been lifted from her bones. Eyes that had clouded with fatigue regained clarity and sparkle, sharp and discerning, alive with the brilliance of experience tempered by renewed vitality.
Magnus observed every subtle change, noting the warmth that returned to her aura, the gentle flush to her skin, the energy that hummed through her movements now that life had returned to her frame. She looked younger, yes, but still herself, forty or fifty years younger, yes, but every detail reflected the same woman who had commanded respect, preserved secrets, and carried the legacy of Lady Zhou through centuries. It was as if time had been carefully peeled away, leaving behind the essence of her vitality, renewed without violating her identity. The change was neither abrupt nor fantastical in a way that would defy understanding; it was deliberate, measured, almost scientific, yet undeniably extraordinary.
And as Magnus watched, a quiet satisfaction settled over him. Deng Mei-ling, now rejuvenated yet still wise, met his gaze with that same gleam of insight and authority. "Better," he murmured softly, voice tinged with relief, "much better… now we can continue." She nodded, the strength returning to her hands and voice, and in the still, warm light of the chamber, centuries of history, legacy, and the promise of new stories stretched out before them like a path waiting to be walked.
Deng Mei-ling rose slowly—at first out of instinct, then with dawning realization as her renewed legs carried her weight effortlessly. A trembling gasp escaped her lips, and before Magnus could speak, she lowered herself to her knees and bowed deeply, forehead nearly touching the cold, polished floor. Her shoulders shook, not from weakness but from overwhelming emotion—gratitude, reverence, and a lifetime of longing to witness the truth of her bloodline. Magnus sighed softly, a warm, patient sound, and with a gentle motion of his hand he lifted her back to her feet—not by force, but by guiding her as though she were weightless, as though the universe itself wished to spare her humiliation. "My beautiful jade," he murmured, brushing her hand lightly as she steadied herself, "this is only a small token. A gift for your sincerity… and the years you held our history alone. I wish to hear more of your stories—and perhaps explore the layered, complicated life of your kind. Humans have changed more in a century than we did in millennia." Mei-ling wiped her tears, her voice barely more than a reverent whisper. "Great… great-grand patriarch… may I be so bold as to ask—may I see a glimpse of who you truly are? Not just the face in the portrait, not just the man history remembers… but the being behind all those centuries." Her eyes, now youthful yet still heavy with wisdom, searched his with hope and a hint of fear—as if she asked to see a god behind a mask. Magnus held her gaze for a long moment, the air shifting as a subtle warmth radiated outward, and a faint cosmic shimmer flickered around the edges of his silhouette. His smile softened, deep and ancient. He stepped closer, lowering his head the slightest bit so only she could hear his next words. "Very well… jade of my lineage. For you alone—I will show a fragment of what I am."
Deng Mei-ling's breath caught in her throat as the subtle shimmer around Magnus intensified, expanding outward like liquid starlight, soft at first but growing into a radiance that seemed to fold space itself. His human form blurred, stretched, and then dissolved into something utterly incomprehensible, a being beyond the measure of gods,
a presence that defied centuries of human understanding. She saw an infinite depth in his eyes, a spectrum of existence that spanned eons, civilizations, and entire worlds she could not even imagine. His aura pulsed with light and shadow interwoven, colors shifting in ways her mind could barely register, yet every shift carried meaning: power, wisdom, sorrow, curiosity, and an unfamiliar warmth that reached straight into her chest, steadying her racing heart.
The air in the chamber thickened and trembled, yet no walls shook; the lanterns glowed steadily, yet the illumination was secondary to the radiance emanating from him. Stars, or fragments of stars, danced along the edges of his form, orbiting him like tiny worlds bound to a gravitational force she could feel but not name. Time itself seemed to slow; seconds stretched into eternity, and yet the world outside would never notice a thing.
She saw the sheer scale of him, the patterns of energy and consciousness flowing like rivers of light, connecting to everything and nothing all at once, a mind that had existed long before humanity, and yet now choosing, deliberately, to stand here before her. Her knees weakened, and she instinctively reached out, trembling, as if the contact could anchor her sanity.
"I… I see you," she whispered, awe, fear, and reverence coiling together in her voice. "Not a man… not a god… something… beyond everything I've ever imagined." Magnus's voice, deep and resonant, echoed not only in the chamber but in the spaces of her mind, calm and steady despite the overwhelming display.
"Yes… jade of my chosen mortal bloodline. This is who I am, but only a fragment. The rest… is beyond comprehension, beyond what you could bear. I show you this because you are the guardian of memory, the keeper of lineage, and I trust you to hold it without fear." And in that instant, Deng Mei-ling understood the impossible truth: she was witnessing a being whose existence alone reshaped reality, yet despite his boundless power, he chose to engage with her, with humanity, with the fragile thread of her life, and that choice, more than any display of force, filled her with awe and quiet hope.
With her renewed vigor and sixty-year-old vitality, Deng Mei-ling set about crafting a history that would allow Magnus to walk unnoticed among humans, yet carry a lineage both authentic and profound. She chose a name with care, weaving together symbolism, meaning, and legacy: Wěi dà Zhou. "Wěi dà," she murmured as she inscribed the characters with deliberate grace, "great… like him, as if the cosmos itself whispered through his being."
The name carried the weight of power tempered by wisdom, a mortal echo of a force far beyond ordinary comprehension. And the surname, Zhou, she explained softly, "completeness… the all… a vessel that contains a legacy without end." Every stroke, every choice of character was intentional: the identity would be believable, resonant, a thread of humanity strong enough to withstand scrutiny, yet symbolic enough to honor the depth of his existence.
She outlined a family tree, a place of birth, early achievements, and social connections, all meticulously designed to withstand human curiosity while giving Magnus a life that felt grounded. Her hands, steady and precise, moved over the parchment with the quiet authority of someone who had guided generations, blending historical plausibility with a careful touch of legend, crafting a persona that could carry the weight of centuries without ever revealing the truth. And as Magnus observed, the faint warmth of his aura blending with hers, he realized that through her work, he would gain more than just a name, he would gain a bridge into humanity, a mask that allowed him to walk among mortals, and a story that even Alexa Davenport could believe, while still holding a shadow of the vast, impossible being he truly was.
As the massive steel doors of the secure chamber hissed open, the flood of security personnel and clan members poured in, fifty strong, each one trained in centuries-old discipline yet bound by loyalty and tradition. Deng Mei-ling's heart quickened, a fleeting tremor of fear passing through her as she anticipated the shock her younger appearance might cause. But the moment their eyes fell upon her, a wave of reverence washed through the room. Each member dropped into a deep bow, voices in unison resonating with the weight of generations:
"Greeting, Matriarch Deng Mei-ling, and her honorable guest, Wěi dà Zhou." Magnus, standing beside her, inclined his head slightly, a controlled, measured gesture of acknowledgment. His presence alone radiated quiet authority, yet it was tempered by the warmth and calm he always carried, and his gaze softened as he turned slightly toward her, hearing her unspoken thoughts. You were never old and weak in their eyes… what you have written has already come to pass, he whispered mentally, a quiet affirmation meant only for her.
Deng Mei-ling stepped forward, her rejuvenated form straight and commanding, voice clear and steady as it carried across the chamber. "Family," she began, her tone both proud and deliberate, "today I present to you a guest not merely of flesh, but of legacy and purpose. He is a keeper of stories, a guardian of memory, and one who walks through time as we walk through a garden. From this moment, he is among us, bound by blood, honor, and history. I introduce to you… my distant cousin, a direct continuation of our lineage, Wěi dà Zhou."
A murmur ran through the assembled clan, reverence and curiosity mingling in their expressions as they processed the weight of her words. Magnus, now fully Wěi dà Zhou in appearance and mortal identity, inclined his head once more, voice low yet resonant, carrying the subtle cadence of centuries: "It is an honor to meet all of you.
I am here not as a stranger, but as family… to learn, to observe, and to walk alongside you in the preservation of our shared legacy." Deng Mei-ling smiled, a gleam of pride and satisfaction in her eyes as she continued, "He carries the name, the strength, and the purpose that our family has long revered. Treat him with the respect due to one of our blood, for he is bound to us by more than chance, he is bound by history itself."
The clan members, still bowed, nodded in solemn acknowledgment, and a quiet murmur of acceptance rippled through the room. Deng Mei-ling stepped closer to Magnus, a reassuring hand brushing lightly against his arm. "You are now among us, my jade," she whispered, soft enough for only him to hear. "Your mortal identity begins here… but your essence remains eternal."