The next morning arrived far too quickly.
Sunlight bled through the high windows of the courtyard, bathing the old pear tree and worn stone bench in a soft golden hue.
Birds chirped overhead—ordinary ones, thankfully. The air smelled of dew and old incense.
Tian Shen didn't move.
Under the pear tree, he was slumped: dark circles under his eyes, a hollow look frozen on his face, and a cup of tea gone stone cold at his side.
Drowsy—the tiny divine chick—was curled inside his collar, head tucked beneath golden fluff, radiating a sleepy brilliance with each breath.
Feng Yin strolled into view, dressed in pale‑blue robes embroidered with silver clouds.
She took in the scene as if assessing a mildly amusing painting that had gone terribly off‑script.
"Still alive, I see."
She teased, seating herself beside him with measured grace.
"Barely," he muttered.
