The small cottage creaked quietly beneath the pressure of the fog outside. It was not an ordinary fog. It pressed against the wooden walls like something alive—thick, gray, and heavy, seeping through the cracks of the village like a slow, patient predator. Even through the tightly shut windows, the dim glow of lantern light struggled to hold its ground against the creeping darkness.
Inside, the room was cramped but warm.
A small clay stove burned in the corner, its flame low but stubborn, casting soft orange shadows across the wooden beams overhead. The scent of smoke mixed with the faint sweetness of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. On the rough table between them sat three chipped bowls and a kettle of water that had long gone lukewarm.
Only three people occupied the cottage.
The girl, Xing Yue. And the quiet man who had been with them since they slipped inside. The silence inside felt strange.
Too quiet. Xing Yue had been watching the room for a long while, her sharp eyes observing every detail—the worn furniture, the patched roof, the absence of personal belongings that would suggest a large household.
Something did not add up. Villages were rarely this empty. Even the poorest families crowded together for warmth and safety.
But here—There were no extra bedding rolls. No additional bowls. No spare shoes by the door. Her brows drew together slightly. If this was truly the girl's home, then where was everyone else? Where were her parents? Where were the siblings who should have filled the space with noise and quarrels?
The question pricked at Xing Yue's patience until she could no longer ignore it.
She leaned forward slightly and asked,
"Eh, young girl… this place feels rather lonely with only the three of us. Where is your family?"
The girl's head snapped up immediately.
Her glare was sharp enough to cut stone.
It was the kind of glare one might give a thief who had just stolen something precious—like a celestial stone.
Celestial stones were small, glittering fragments of spiritual crystal that children adored. Some cultivators used them to soothe injuries or ease exhaustion. Others crushed them into powders for medicine.
But in the mortal world, they were simply pretty little treasures—sparkling trinkets that children treasured like candy.
Being glared at like that was not something Xing Yue appreciated. She prided herself on her calm demeanor. She knew exactly how far her patience could stretch before it snapped. Usually, she dealt with irritation in two ways. She could act. A sharp flick of her sleeve could send someone flying across a courtyard. Or she could meditate, allowing silence to dissolve whatever anger remained.
Both methods worked well. But this situation felt… different. Perhaps it was because Jiang Yunxian wasn't here. He had always been the strange buffer between her temper and the world. No matter how tense a situation became, he would simply laugh and say something absurd enough to make everyone angry in equal measure. And somehow that ridiculous humor diffused everything.
Now, without him, she found herself far less tolerant. The girl's glare did not soften.
Xing Yue sighed quietly. "Instead of glaring at me," she said, her tone steady but firm, "perhaps you could do us all a favor and answer the question. And tell me what exactly that fog outside is about."
Her patience was thinning.
And Xing Yue was not known for endless patience. Perhaps it was her voice.
Or perhaps it was the way she sat—straight-backed, composed, like someone who expected obedience.
Whatever the reason, the girl finally snorted.
"I don't know where those dimwits are," she muttered bitterly. "And why should I care? All they ever do is make me cry."
Xing Yue blinked once. Then raised an eyebrow. "A hot-tempered brat like you… cry?" she said flatly. "That's a first."
The girl's expression twisted with frustration.
"What can I do?" she burst out. "They treat me terribly! It's not my fault I was born an orphan! It's not my fault—but they treat me like it is!"
The words echoed briefly in the cramped room. Then silence returned. Both adults paused. Xing Yue did not respond immediately. She could not speak for the man sitting quietly nearby, but as for herself—She felt no sudden surge of pity.
Because life had not been gentle to her either. Long before she was a goddess. Before she became a star. She had been nothing more than a fragile cloud drifting in the violent skies of heaven. And the day she was born had not been peaceful. It had been a stormy day.
A storm so fierce that even the enormous BaoTang Tree in the Heavenly Cloud Woven trembled beneath the wind. Its branches, thick as mountains, had swayed like fragile grass beneath the raging sky. If even the BaoTang Tree struggled to stand…
What chance did a newborn cloud have?
She could not speak then. She had no voice.
But she understood enough to know one thing clearly. If she did nothing, she would disappear. Scattered by the wind before she ever had the chance to take form. So she clung. Clung to the BaoTang Tree with everything she had. Storm after storm.
Season after season. While other clouds drifted freely across the heavens, she stayed wrapped around that ancient trunk like a stubborn patch of mist refusing to vanish.
That was why the immortals once called her:
"The Cloud That Clung". She had no parents. No siblings. No one to protect her.
So the girl's words—I'm an orphan—did not stir the pity others might feel.Life did not promise fairness. Still…
Xing Yue tilted her head slightly and asked again, "What exactly is that fog outside?"
The question hung in the dim room.
Beyond the walls of the cottage, the fog thickened. And somewhere within it—
A faint bell began to chime.
__
The girl looked at Xing Yue for a long moment.
Her eyes carried hesitation, the kind that belonged to someone who had spent too much time deciding which words were safe and which were dangerous. For a brief second, it seemed as though she might speak freely.
But then the moment passed. She sighed.
"They are the Weeping Ballad."
The name hung strangely in the air. Xing Yue blinked. "Eh? The what?" she began instinctively. But halfway through the sentence she stopped herself.
Her lips pressed together as she realized she had almost sounded foolish. A Star Goddess who had seen the rise and fall of dynasties should not sound confused by the name of some wandering cult.
She adjusted her posture slightly, smoothing her robe. "What do they do?" she finally asked.
The girl shrugged faintly. "Nothing specifically," she said, her voice flat. "They wander from village to village singing songs for the dead. Crying… mourning… wailing like they're honoring lost souls." She paused before adding bitterly, "Or at least that's what they claim."
Claiming to mourn the dead…
The phrasing caught Xing Yue's attention immediately. Her eyes narrowed just a fraction.
The air inside the cottage felt heavier now. Outside, the fog pressed closer against the windows like pale hands trying to find their way in.
For a moment no one spoke.
Then, unexpectedly, Hong Tian Luo finally opened his mouth. It was the first time he had spoken since they entered the cottage.
"They are the orange-clothed people parading through the town?" he asked.
His voice was deep and steady, calm in the way of someone who rarely wasted words.
The girl nodded. "Yes." Her expression hardened slightly. "But behind all that crying and chanting… they're hypocrites."
"Hm."
Xing Yue leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping thoughtfully against the wooden table.
"Hypocrites… why?" she asked slowly.
"If they truly are what they claim—the Weeping Ballad…" Her eyes flickered with sudden understanding. "They must be hiding something."
Hong Tian Luo turned his gaze toward her.
He didn't interrupt.
But the look in his eyes clearly said: Go on.
Xing Yue rested her chin lightly on the back of her hand. "Mr. Hong," she said casually, "if someone is not truly weeping… then what might they actually be doing?"
Hong Tian Luo considered the question for a moment. Outside, the faint echo of distant bells drifted through the fog.
His answer came calmly. "Celebrating," he said. "Or indulging in merriment."
Xing Yue nodded slightly. "That's correct, Mr Hong. That would make sense."
But the girl shook her head immediately.
"No," she said firmly. "That's not what they're doing."
The cottage grew quiet again. Her voice dropped slightly. "They offer human sacrifices." The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. "To the temple uphill," she continued, pointing vaguely toward the distant mountain beyond the village.
"That temple used to belong to the villagers. Everyone worshipped there during festivals. Harvest prayers… ancestor offerings…"
Her fingers tightened against her sleeves.
"But after those people arrived…"
Her eyes darkened.
"…no one is allowed to enter anymore."
Xing Yue's gaze sharpened. "So the villagers pray somewhere else now?" The girl nodded. "Yes. Everyone keeps small idols at home instead." She turned and pointed toward a wooden shelf in the corner of the room. "Like that one."
Both Xing Yue and Hong Tian Luo turned to look.
There, resting awkwardly on the shelf beside a small oil lamp, sat a statue. For a moment neither of them reacted. Then Xing Yue slowly stood. She walked closer.
And stared. The statue was… horrifying.
The figure carved into the crude wood looked like a strange caricature of a man.
His limbs were long and thin—almost unnaturally so. His arms dangled like brittle sticks. His legs were equally narrow.
But his stomach—His stomach was enormous. Round and bloated like an overfilled sack of grain. It was so large that it looked absurd compared to the rest of his body. In fact, it was larger than his head.
The statue's face was even worse. A wide, unnatural grin stretched across the thin wooden features. The eyes were narrow slits carved crookedly into the wood.
The entire expression looked disturbingly cheerful.
Too cheerful. The kind of smile that made one uneasy rather than comforted. Xing Yue stared at it. Her expression slowly twisted into something indescribable. Her brows twitched. One corner of her mouth lifted while the other dipped downward.
If anyone had seen her face at that moment, they might have thought she had suffered a spiritual deviation.
"This…?" she finally said. Her voice was strained. "This is their idol?"
The girl nodded seriously. "Yes."
Xing Yue rubbed her temple slowly. If she had been turned into a statue that looked like this… She would personally descend from heaven. Kick the statue over.
Turn it around. And carve onto its back:
I DO NOT LOOK LIKE THIS. For the entire world to see. Because the person represented here—The person this ridiculous statue was supposed to depict—
Was someone she knew very well. Her eyes narrowed slowly.
"This…" she muttered. Again as if not knowing what she could say anymore. "This is supposed to be him?"
Hong Tian Luo raised an eyebrow slightly.
"You recognize it?" Xing Yue let out a long breath. Recognize it? How could she not?
This grotesque wooden abomination was meant to represent none other than—
The quiet prince. The most elegant man in the Heavenly Cloud Woven. A man whose beauty had once caused entire celestial courts to fall silent when he walked through them.
The Third Prince of Heaven.
The Fourth High Prince of the Celestial Court. Prince Yun Shaochen of the Radiant Veil.
A man known for his flawless appearance, his serene demeanor, and a grace so refined that even ancient immortals respected him.
And yet—Here he was.
Reduced to a wooden statue with a swollen belly and a smile that looked like a drunken merchant.
Xing Yue slowly covered her face with one hand. "…unbelievable." Of all the things she expected to encounter in the Yanli Continent—
This had not been one of them.