The wind howled across the heights like a living thing.
At the far edge of a groundless cove—where land ended and nothingness began—fog churned endlessly below, thick and pale, swallowing sound, depth, and distance alike. It was a place abandoned by paths and memory, where even echoes dared not linger. Snow drifted sideways in thin, biting sheets, stinging bare skin and whispering against stone.
Cui Wulei stood alone at its center.
Her crimson-black robes snapped violently in the gale, edges fluttering like torn banners after war. Snow clung to her sleeves and darkened against the heat still leaking faintly from her aura. Her long hair streamed behind her in disarray, yet she did not lift a hand to restrain it.
She did not move at all.
Her eyes—sharp, blood-bright only moments ago beneath the Red Moon—now stared distantly into the fog, as though searching for something buried far beyond sight.
The omen had vanished.
The moon had returned to its pale silver calm.
But the curse had not loosened.
Black and red energies still coiled around her frame like spectral serpents, tightening, refusing to dissipate. They crept beneath her skin, searing through meridians, grinding against bones, as if the river of corruption that sustained her now demanded payment.
For a long moment, she endured in silence.
Then her knees buckled.
She staggered forward, breath shuddering, one hand bracing against nothing but wind. The pain surged violently, tearing through her chest in waves so fierce her vision dimmed. Blood welled at the corner of her lips.
She laughed weakly.
"Damn… that star wretch…"
Her fingers fumbled at her lapel and drew forth a slender dagger—its blade dark, etched with ancient runes that pulsed faintly as though alive. Without hesitation, without ceremony, she drove it straight into her own chest.
The blade sank deep.
Blood spilled freely, staining silk, steaming against the cold.
Her body convulsed as she forced her hands into motion, fingers twisting through rapid seals despite trembling limbs. Each movement carved agony deeper into her flesh, but her eyes burned with stubborn resolve.
Black and red light erupted.
Threads of corrupted moon-qi unfurled from the wound, spiraling upward, weaving into a vast sigil in the air. The symbol grew—stretching, widening—its curves echoing the shape of the moon, yet warped, fractured, hungry.
The Moon Heal Seal.
Forbidden.
Reckless.
Dangerous even to its bearer.
The sigil swelled, towering over her, casting crimson light across the fog and snow. Cui Wulei coughed violently, blood splattering onto frozen stone as the seal began drawing power directly from the lunar veins of heaven itself.
The air trembled.
The void beneath roared.
And then—
A second force struck.
Clear.
Cold.
Absolute.
The sigil shattered.
Light exploded outward, fragments dissolving like dying embers, and Cui Wulei was hurled backward, skidding across stone until she lay gasping, dagger still embedded in her chest.
She lifted her head—
And froze.
A woman stood before her.
Clad in layered robes of deep crimson and twilight blue, embroidered with sigils older than most dynasties. Her presence alone quieted the wind. Snow fell more gently around her, as though unwilling to disturb her passage.
Her hair, long and pure white, flowed down her back like fresh snowfall beneath moonlight. Pins of jade, gold, and star-crystal adorned her crown, which rested upon her head with effortless authority.
She walked forward with slow, measured grace.
Not hurried.
Not cautious.
Certain.
Her face was beautiful—terribly so—but utterly devoid of warmth. Eyes pale as frost regarded Cui Wulei with open contempt, the faintest scowl tightening their edges.
"You failed your task," she said coolly. "And yet you dare disturb the moon for such petty desperation?"
It was not a question.
It was a verdict.
Blood dripped from Cui Wulei's lips as she laughed hoarsely.
"And what brings the crowned ornament here?" she sneered. "Did Master send you… or did you simply come to gloat?"
The woman's gaze hardened.
"The Master did not send me," she replied. "But if I wished, I could make this very moment your last."
She glanced at the shattered sigil, disgust barely veiled.
"The Moon Heal Seal is not meant for reckless hands. Yet here you are, wasting it to patch a wound born of your own incompetence."
Cui Wulei spat blood onto the snow.
"Says the fool wearing a crown with no throne," she mocked weakly. "Perhaps keep your pride for court games instead of pretending you understand cultivation."
For the briefest instant, fury flashed through the woman's eyes.
Then it vanished.
She straightened, composure restored like ice sealing over a crack.
"I hold our intention to heart," she said quietly. "We both desire the same future. We both share the same enemy—Juan Xing Yue. But I will not lower myself to bicker with you in the snow."
She raised two fingers.
Calm.
Precise.
And plunged them into her chest.
Power burst outward in a silent surge—pure, refined, terrifyingly controlled. Light washed through Cui Wulei's shattered meridians, knitting flesh, sealing veins, forcing corrupted qi back into obedience.
In seconds, the bleeding stopped.
The pain receded.
Cui Wulei stared, breath unsteady.
"Shen Yaoguang…" she muttered bitterly. "You are impossible. If we share the same foe, why weren't you beside me tonight?"
Shen Yaoguang withdrew her hand, blood evaporating into frost before it touched the ground.
She smiled.
A slow, knowing smile that carried secrets far heavier than snow.
"Because Master sent me elsewhere," she said softly. "It is time… to release them from the Loop Forest."
Cui Wulei's eyes widened slightly.
"…You mean—"
But Shen Yaoguang had already turned away.
Her robes whispered against the wind as she walked toward the mist, crown glinting faintly beneath the returning silver moon.
The fog closed behind her.
Leaving Cui Wulei alone once more—
Healed.
Humiliated.
And burning with a hatred now sharpened by prophecy.
____
The courtyard lay drenched in color.
Rainbow flowers bloomed in quiet profusion beneath the lattice shadows of ancient orchids, their petals shifting softly between hues—violet bleeding into gold, pale blue dissolving into rose—as though light itself had learned to rest there. Dew clung to every leaf, reflecting fragments of sky, and the air carried the faint sweetness of nectar mixed with cool stone.
It should have been peaceful.
But peace had never lingered long where Cui Wulei stood.
She sat upon the low jade steps, posture rigid, gaze fixed on the bed of blossoms before her without truly seeing them. In her hand rested a small jade plant, its thick leaves polished smooth by time and touch. The surface still carried warmth from her palm.
Her fingers tightened around it.
The world blurred.
Memories rose unbidden, like ghosts summoned by scent and color.
Laughter—soft, careless, real.
A courtyard not unlike this one, bathed in sunlight instead of dusk. Voices unguarded, echoing freely. A time when hands had reached for one another without calculation, when smiles were not weapons and silence was not armor.
She saw herself then—young, reckless, still capable of believing.
And just as swiftly, the vision fractured.
The laughter faded.
The warmth vanished.
Trust turned brittle.
Betrayal came, quiet and precise.
Cui Wulei's jaw clenched.
She did not welcome memories.
She never had.
They were weaknesses—fractures in a will forged by necessity.
Yet tonight, the jade plant had betrayed her.
A tiny rustle broke the silence.
From beneath the orchids emerged a small spirit—no taller than a child's knee, shaped like a pale orchid blossom given limbs and eyes. Its petals glowed faintly, soft as candlelight, as it padded toward her with curious steps.
It stopped before her knees, tilting its head.
"That thing…" the little orchid spirit said gently, voice like wind through leaves. "It looks important."
Cui Wulei's hand moved instantly.
The jade plant vanished into her lapel, secured as though it had never been there.
Her gaze snapped down, sharp and cutting.
"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "Shouldn't you be cultivating—or tending the southern beds?"
The orchid spirit blinked, startled by the sudden cold in her tone.
"It is… long past our training hour," it said timidly. "And the garden was tended before dusk…"
It studied her face with open, childlike scrutiny, as though seeing something unfamiliar behind her eyes.
"You look… different today."
The words struck closer than intended.
Cui Wulei's glare flared, killing the softness in the air.
"Go."
The command was quiet.
But it carried the weight of thunder.
The tiny spirit recoiled, petals trembling, and fled back into the orchids, vanishing among leaves and roots without another sound.
Silence reclaimed the courtyard.
Alone again.
Only then did Cui Wulei allow her shoulders to loosen—barely.
She leaned back against the stone pillar behind her, exhaling slowly. The cool surface bit through silk, grounding her, anchoring her to the present.
Her hand drifted to her chest.
Not to the wound.
To the memory of power.
"That force…" she murmured, voice low, almost reverent in spite of herself. "That energy…"
Her eyes narrowed, reflecting the colors of the flowers like fractured jewels.
"Too refined… too vast… too deliberate."
She had fought gods.
She had challenged immortals.
She knew the weight of divinity.
"Xing Yue possesses divinity," she continued softly. "Star-born authority. Heavenly law bound in flesh."
Her fingers curled against her lapel, touching the hidden jade plant.
"But that… was not divinity."
The image replayed in her mind.
The burst of power.
The pressure that had crushed the air itself.
The way the energy had struck—not wild, not destructive, but precise. Controlled. Ancient.
Her breath slowed.
Her pulse steadied.
"…That was something older."
Something not meant to walk among mortals.
Something that should not have awakened.
Her lips curved—not in a smile, but in a thin, dangerous line.
"Whatever you are," she whispered into the quiet garden, "you nearly destroyed me."
A pause.
Then, colder:
"And anything that can threaten my design… must be erased."
She drew the jade plant out again.
Moonlight kissed its surface, illuminating faint veins of gold hidden within the green.
Her thumb traced its edge with surprising gentleness, a relic of the past she pretended no longer mattered.
"For once," she said softly, eyes hard as winter, "I will not allow fate to outrun me."
The flowers swayed.
The orchids whispered.
And beneath the serene beauty of the courtyard, something ancient shifted—
as if the future itself had just taken notice.
___
The Firelands of Cold Flames lay hushed beneath a sky of pale silver.
Unlike the violent infernos spoken of in legends, this sacred domain glowed with restrained elegance. Frost-touched fire drifted like slow snowfall across terraces of crystal stone. Pillars of translucent blue flame rose in gentle spirals, shedding neither smoke nor ash, only warmth that did not burn and light that did not blind. The air shimmered faintly, humming with cultivation currents so pure they felt like breath drawn from the heavens themselves.
Here, beasts did not roar.
They listened.
Upon a circular platform veined with frost-gold runes, Rong Qi hovered.
No longer merely a drifting ember, no longer a trembling feather at the mercy of wind, he now possessed a fragile human outline—formed from condensed flame and phoenix essence. His figure remained half-translucent, edges wavering like heat over snow, but arms and legs obeyed his will, and breath flowed where once only sparks existed.
Progress.
A marvel, they called it.
A miracle.
His teacher, Bai Wei Wei, had nearly choked on her own smoke the first time he managed to maintain a torso for more than ten breaths.
Yet Rong Qi himself felt no pride.
Only unease.
He folded spectral hands before him, steadying his form as Wei Wei's earlier instructions echoed faintly in memory.
Shape follows intent. Flame obeys clarity.
Form is not forced—it is invited.
And he had invited it.
Too easily.
That alone unsettled him.
He was a monarch.
He had once ruled blazing skies, commanded phoenix legions, sung war into existence.
Learning had never been difficult.
But cultivation… true rebirth… should not have come this fast.
He studied himself in the reflection of the frost-flame pool below.
A young man's silhouette stared back—narrow shoulders, unformed face, eyes like molten gold barely contained behind mortal structure.
A month.
At most.
That was how long this form would last without deeper anchoring.
A temporary miracle.
And miracles, he knew too well, always demanded payment.
His thoughts drifted—unwillingly—to the price.
The relic.
Yanli Continent.
The oath.
If they failed…
Rong Qi's flame dimmed.
The stake was not merely cultivation.
It was existence.
If Xing Yue and Jiang Yunxian did not return with the relic the Dragon Emperor demanded, his essence would unravel. Not death in the mortal sense—no body to bury, no soul to mourn.
Simply… dispersal.
Memory scattered into wind.
A phoenix erased from the cycle.
He lowered himself slowly onto the cold-fire dais, wings absent, weight unfamiliar.
Around him, young dragons practiced breath shaping; ifrit children guided threads of azure flame through jade hoops; elders traced sigils in air that shimmered then vanished.
All of them had bodies.
All of them belonged here.
And he…
Rong Qi closed his eyes.
Yanli Continent.
The name alone carried frost.
Where Red Omens bled into prophecy.
Where the Snow Queen's domain slept beneath eternal veils.
Where ancient masters gathered and wars were written into geography.
He knew the stories.
Everyone did.
Red Omen and Snow Queen—once allies, now powers that tilted fate with mere presence.
Three other sovereign cultivators bound to them by friendship older than dynasties.
And between all of that…
The Loop Forest.
A place where direction dissolved, where time folded upon itself, where even gods wandered until memory broke.
The Trapped Cage.
He exhaled slowly.
That one… was worse.
A prison built not to hold bodies, but destinies.
Even monarchs had vanished there.
Xing Yue and Jiang Yunxian were both walking into nightmares they didn't know they were pawns to.
And Jiang Yunxian…
His flame flickered.
That shameless human, laughing at death, ignorant of how deeply the heavens had already carved his path.
Rong Qi clenched spectral fists.
They are in danger… and I am here.
The realization hurt more than any wound.
A faint flutter of wings disturbed the stillness.
He did not notice at first.
Only when the air shifted—carrying unfamiliar warmth—did he glance sideways.
A small sky-bird perched upon a nearby frost pillar, feathers pale gold edged with indigo. Its eyes glimmered with curiosity.
In a blink, it transformed.
A young woman stood there, robes light as drifting cloud, hair braided with wind charms that chimed softly when she moved.
She smiled.
Bright.
Unconcerned.
"What are you doing here?" Yiyuan asked lightly, head tilted.
The sudden voice shattered his focus.
Instinct surged.
Flame burst.
Not wild—but sharp, defensive, the reflex of a creature long hunted.
A ring of pale-blue fire exploded outward, scorching frost-sigils and sending startled cultivators leaping back.
Wei Wei's distant cough echoed faintly.
Rong Qi yelped—quite undignified for a phoenix monarch—and nearly lost his form.
"Yiyuan!" he barked, struggling to stabilize. "Do you announce yourself by attempting assassination now?!"
She blinked.
Then laughed.
Clear, bell-like.
"How dramatic," she said, fluttering closer. "I barely said a word."
"How did you get here?" he demanded, still flickering dangerously.
She stared.
"…I flew."
Rong Qi gawked.
For a long moment.
Then pinched the bridge of his spectral nose.
"Whatever," he muttered. "Why are you here?"
She circled him slowly, studying his unstable human form with undisguised fascination.
"So this is what a phoenix looks like when he pretends to be human," she mused. "Interesting. Fragile. Cute, in a tragic way."
"Answer the question."
"I came to hear a story."
He froze.
"…You startled the hell out of me for a story?"
She shrugged. "Stories matter."
Then her expression softened.
"I heard your friends are left you here to cultivate."
His flame dimmed.
"You heard that too?"
"Everyone has," she said quietly. "News flies faster than wings in this place."
Silence settled between them.
Rong Qi looked away.
"They are in danger," he said at last, voice low. "And I cannot help them."
Yiyuan studied him.
"But you can transform now," she said gently. "Why are you still hiding as this...when you could walk beside them?"
She's ignorant of what was happening. He can't blame her. Just a bird as carefree as ever.
His hands tightened.
He did not answer.
Because how could he explain?
The oath.
The anchor spell.
The fact that leaving now would destabilize his form completely.
That stepping beyond the Firelands without completion would cause his essence to fracture mid-flight.
That he might never reach them at all.
"It's… complicated," he said finally.
She smiled faintly.
"Everything important is."
He turned away.
"I have to practice."
Without waiting for her reply, he rose, flame gathering beneath his feet, drifting toward the higher cultivation rings where silence was enforced and distractions burned away.
Yiyuan watched him go.
Her gaze lingered.
Soft.
Thoughtful.
Above them, the Cold Flames whispered.
Far away, beneath bleeding moons and forgotten forests, fate continued to tighten its threads.
And a phoenix—half reborn, half broken—remained behind, guarding hope with fire he could not yet carry into war.