In the tender light of twilight, peace reigned across the world. The skies glowed in amber hues as birds returned to their nests and the rivers shimmered beneath the waning sun. In this time, there were no wars, no cries of suffering, and no threat looming on the horizon. But that peace—however beautiful—had been hard-won.
Long ago, the realm of humans, known as The Mortal Veil, was invaded by beings beyond imagination—creatures of immense cruelty and power: demons. These monsters had once crossed over from the shadows of the unknown, bringing with them chaos, fire, and death. Yet, even as the Mortal Veil trembled, it did not fall. That salvation came from beyond—from the celestial domain known as Tianhua Realms, home to the immortals: gods and goddesses of divine origin and unparalleled strength.
Now, in the present day, high within the misty ranges of Mount Linghua, an old woman sat in quiet contemplation. The room around her was adorned with ancient scrolls, ink brushes, and art long faded by time. She sat alone in the Hall of Arts, where history was preserved through painting and poetry. Through the tall window lattices, her gaze stretched far across the valley to a distant mountaintop where a single golden monument stood—a sword, gleaming even from miles away.
"Grandmother Ling'er," a gentle voice called out, breaking her thoughts. A young girl, no more than ten, stepped inside the chamber holding a paper scroll and brush. "Why do you always stare out there?"
The elderly woman turned slowly. Her silver hair was neatly braided, her eyes lined with the grace of age. Though she appeared no more than a kind old artist, the child knew differently. She was Grandmother Ling'er, the one spoken of in stories—the mortal who once faced down an army of demons.
At sixty years of age, Ling'er had long left the battlefield behind. She now lived in peace, teaching art and stories to orphans and wandering disciples. But the title she held—The Savior of the Mortal Veil—was not easily forgotten.
She smiled faintly. "Do you like stories, child? Especially those of gods and goddesses?"
The girl's eyes lit up. "I love them! They're the reason our world is still here today, aren't they?"
A long silence followed. The old woman looked back out the window. "That's what most people believe," she said quietly. "But let me ask you this… do you think all gods helped us from the kindness of their hearts? Or was it just… one of them?"
The girl tilted her head, unsure how to answer.
Grandmother Ling'er gave a small chuckle. She reached for a carved wooden stick and slowly pointed toward the golden sword monument far away.
"Do you see that?"
The girl nodded. "It looks like a giant sword in the mountain."
"Yes. That is where something sacred and sorrowful happened," she said. "It's not merely a statue. It's a grave—a tribute to someone who bore a pain unlike any other. A goddess with a heart so pure it could not be tainted, even by tragedy."
The child blinked, curiosity blossoming across her face. "What was her name, Grandma?"
The old woman's voice became soft, almost a whisper carried by the wind.
"Her name… was Yueqing."
The room fell into stillness. Outside, the wind stirred the petals of plum blossoms in the garden, and the shadows of dusk began to deepen. The name alone held weight, a whisper of divine sorrow, forgotten by time.
"She was once among the gods," Ling'er continued, her voice growing more solemn. "But not all deities are alike, child. Some rule from ivory towers and never lift a hand for mortals. Some whisper false promises, only to abandon the world when it cries for help. But Yueqing… she was different. She came down from Tianhua not to rule, but to protect. And she paid the highest price for it."
The girl clutched her scroll tightly. "Did she fight the demons?"
"She did more than fight them," Ling'er said, her eyes now shimmering with memories. "She bled for us. She wept for us. And she was betrayed."
"Betrayed?" the girl repeated, shocked.
"Yes," said the elder. "By those she trusted. Even by the gods."
There was a long pause as the child took in the weight of those words.
"Do you want to hear her story?" Ling'er asked.
The girl nodded vigorously.
"Then come," she said, rising from her seat. She moved slowly to a nearby wall where an enormous scroll hung, rolled at both ends and bound by threads of gold. With careful hands, she pulled it down and unfurled the edges. The ink had faded, but the painting was still powerful: a lone woman with flowing robes of white, holding a long sword drenched in crimson. Her eyes were gentle, yet filled with unspoken sorrow. The background showed a burning sky and a sea of demons collapsing around her.
"She came when all hope was lost," Ling'er began. "While others fled, she descended. They called her the Sword Goddess of Heaven, but I remember her not by that name. I remember her as Yueqing—the one who chose kindness over cruelty, sacrifice over glory."
The girl stepped closer, mesmerized. "What happened to her in the end?"
The old woman closed her eyes.
"No one truly knows. Some say she fell in battle and her soul returned to the heavens. Others believe she still walks among us, hidden in the veil between worlds. But if you ever feel the wind whisper your name, or see a white flower bloom in the dead of winter… perhaps, just perhaps, she is still watching over us."
The child looked at the golden sword once more, now glowing in the final rays of sunlight.
And thus, a story long buried began to stir again.
The name had been spoken.
And the world… would remember.