Some songs are learned by ear.
Others are etched into bone—
and never forget how to sing.
In the opulent chambers of Yìng Lóu Wàng, a different storm was brewing.
The father, Dàozǔ Yìng, massaged his temple, his patience worn to a thread. Before him, his son Huá Xuán stood like a statue of rebellion, draped in a wedding robe he despised.
"It's heavy. It's stiff. It feels like a shroud, not a celebration," Xuán bit out, his voice a low ember of fury. He clawed at the high collar of the black-and-gold robe before shrugging it off entirely, letting it pool on the floor like a slain beast.
A lick of flame escaped his fingertips—the unwanted, emotional curse that lived under his skin. It danced along his knuckles, a visual echo of his temper.
"I am not getting married looking like a gilded funeral urn," he declared, crossing his arms. The fire around his hands flared. "Is this your final attempt to control me? Even on my wedding day?"
"Enough of your theatrics, Xuán!" his father barked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I will bring you a hundred robes if I must. But this marriage is not a negotiation. It is a covenant. One you will honor."
His father clapped twice. Servants streamed in, a river of silk and embroidery. Xuán's burning gaze swept over them—and halted.
There.
A robe of deep, oceanic red, embroidered with silver tides that seemed to move. Black obsidian stones glittered like captured night, and silver thread traced patterns like breaking waves. It was wild. It was untamable. It was him.
His father saw the shift, the slight parting of his son's lips. He stepped closer, placing a hand on Xuán's shoulder. "This one," he said, voice uncharacteristically soft. "It suits the fire in you."
Xuán reached out, his fingers barely brushing the silver embroidery. A warm, gentle flame—not a destructive burst—curled around his fingertips, caressing the fabric. The curse, for once, felt like a part of him, not a prisoner.
"…Yes," Xuán murmured, the fight draining out of him. "This one."
"Good. Now, wear the black-and-crimson set for the prayers at Lìluò Jiāng today. Do not embarrass us."
To Xuán's surprise, the chosen robe was elegant, sharp-edged. He nodded, taking it without complaint.
*
Later, as they approached the River Where Tears Fall, the world felt unnervingly perfect. The wind carried the scent of blooming lotuses and distant rain. Birdsong wove through the air, sweet and deliberate.
And then—a melody.
A man's voice, clear and hauntingly beautiful, floated from the Matchmaker Temple grounds. It was a love song, old and tender, each note seeming to hang in the air like a promise.
"The Heavens became mine and yours…
Just as breath belongs to life…"
Xuán's steps faltered. His chest clenched, a sudden, unfamiliar tightness. What is this?
Beneath his boot, the stone path bloomed. A rose, sculpted not from petals, but from swirling, molten fire. He crushed it instantly, heat flashing up his ankle, a blush of embarrassment staining his cheeks.
They climbed the temple stairs, the voice growing clearer, winding around his heart like a vine.
And then he saw the source.
A young man in simple, frost-white robes stood before the altar. Long, chocolate-brown hair flowed down his back like a waterfall. A simple bamboo hat rested against his neck. On his shoulder perched a tiny, preening bird the color of a summer sky.
He was a painting of serene beauty. A bird-seller, yes, but one who seemed carved from moonlight and mist.
The man turned. Slowly. As if not to disturb the air.
Royal-blue eyes met Xuán's—deep, luminous, and flecked with star-like light. On his forehead rested a pale, moonstone gem that seemed to glow with its own inner life.
Breathtaking. In a way that stole the air from Xuán's lungs.
"Pardon me, Huá Xuán Kùmsūn," the man said, bowing with effortless grace. The little blue bird on his shoulder dipped its head in mimicry, a gesture so charming Xuán felt his stern expression crack.
But his amusement died as recognition jolted through him.
That voice. It's him.
No track of reason.
But his heart hammered against his ribs. Another fire-rose tried to blossom at his feet; he ground it to ash with his heel.
"Xuán. Focus," his father hissed, eyeing him with suspicion.
Xuán knelt beside the man for prayer, facing the statue of the Love God—a benevolent figure of red clay, holding stone roses. But his focus was shattered.
His eyes traced the line of the stranger's jaw, the soft movement of his lips as he whispered his prayer to the god.
"Shàngshén… please bless my elder sister's marriage," the young man whispered, his voice a private, heartfelt melody. "Grant her a long life, filled with joy… Let her happiness outlast even my own. I, Yǐng Lìng, ask for nothing more."
He bowed twice, his forehead touching the cool stone floor with profound sincerity.
Mesmerized, moved by the raw devotion, Xuán's body moved on its own. He completed his two bows… and began a third.
His father's hand shot out, vise-like, gripping his arm. "Xuán! Two bows! What in the heavens are you doing?!" he snarled, low and furious.
Xuán jolted back to reality. The custom was clear: Two bows for your own marriage. Three bows, performed together… was a marital ritual.
He had nearly just married a stranger.
"I was—distracted by my own thoughts!" Xuán stammered, heat flooding his face.
"You were about to pledge yourself to a common bird-peddler!" his father spat, the derision cutting through the temple's peace. "Have you no shame?!"
The insult hung in the air, cruel and unnecessary. Xuán saw the young man—Yǐng Lìng—flinch as if struck. His shoulders curled inward, his beautiful face clouded with shame.
"My most humble apologies, Kùmsūn, Dàozǔ," Lìng murmured, his voice barely a breath. He gathered his bird cages, ready to vanish. "I did not mean to cause offense. I will leave."
"Wait."
The word left Xuán's lips before thought could intervene.His father stared, dumbfounded.
Xuán stood, stepping toward Lìng, ignoring the scorching glare at his back. "You do not have my permission to leave." He softened his tone, a stark contrast to his father's venom. "Your name is Yǐng Lìng?"
Lìng paused, nodding slowly. "Yes, Kùmsūn."
Xuán took another step closer. An inexplicable, magnetic pull drew him in. The air between them felt charged, thick with unsaid things. "Have we… met before?"
Lìng blinked, confusion in his starry blue eyes. "You are the Young Dàozǔ of Yìng Lóu Wàng. All know of you."
"No," Xuán insisted, a flicker of frustration—and something else, something desperate—rising in his chest. "I mean… know. Personally."
The silence stretched. Lìng searched his face, finding no answer. The moment grew too heavy, too fraught. Xuán felt the familiar heat of his curse stirring, a dangerous warmth in his palms.
He shifted gears, gesturing to the blue bird now hiding in Lìng's hair. "How much for the bird on your shoulder?"
His father made a sound of utter exasperation behind him.
A faint, surprised smile touched Lìng's lips. "Ah… this one is not for sale. I raised him. He is my friend. Forgive me."
Xuán nodded, the rejection not offending him, but deepening his intrigue. "Then bring me your best. Tomorrow."
Lìng's eyes lit up—a sunrise contained in a glance. "I have a violet song bird… of rare beauty. I can bring it to your estate at dawn."
"Dawn," Xuán echoed, the word feeling like a promise. "I will expect you."
Lìng bowed once more. "May your path ahead glow with fortune," he said, his voice like a gentle spell, "…like untouched snow under the first light of sun."
The words melted something cold and hard inside Xuán's chest. He watched, motionless, as Lìng descended the temple steps, his form graceful, the blue bird taking flight around him like a joyful spirit.
In Xuán's cupped palm, unseen by his fuming father, a perfect, glowing rose of molten fire bloomed to life. This time, he did not crush it. He simply closed his fingers around its warmth, a secret smile touching his lips.
The heat in his chest didn't feel like a curse anymore.
It felt like kindling.
***
Night fell like a silk shroud, draping the lotus pond and the swan-nest houses in a quiet so deep it felt sacred. Only one voice refused the peace.
"A-yōng! Where is my violet bird?!"
Yǐng Lìng's call sliced through the hallway, a note of frantic energy. His brown hair streamed behind him as he moved, a wild bird in flight. "A-yōng! I'm calling you!"
From behind a closed door, a muffled, sleep-thick voice barked back, "Dūdò is with Jiějie! Stop screeching and let the world sleep!"
Lìng halted, breath catching. Dūdò. The name alone calmed him. The small violet songbird wasn't just a pet; it was family, a tiny, beating heart he'd raised from a fledgling.
The door to the adjacent room slid open. His older sister, Yàn Yùi, stepped through, a soft smile on her lips. On her arm, perched with regal poise, was the plump, amethyst-feathered Dūdò. "Your Jiějie will miss this little cloud of song, too," she murmured, stroking the bird's head with a gentle finger. "Indulge me. Let me borrow his company for one more night."
The bird chirped, a bright, eager sound, and fluttered to Lìng's shoulder in a blur of violet. Lìng's entire body softened. He lifted a finger, and Dūdò nuzzled against it, its feathers impossibly silken.
"Keep him as long as you wish," Lìng whispered, his voice tender. "Take your time. It's his last night with you, after all." He gave a playful toss of his hand, sending the bird into a short, fluttering arc back to his sister—a game they all knew.
Yàn Yùi caught the bird effortlessly, but her smile faltered. "…Last night?"
Lìng explained. The temple. The haunting voice. The powerful, fire-touched young master. The near-ritual of the three bows. The sting of the public insult, and then—the unexpected request. "He asked for my best bird. For tomorrow."
His sister listened, her gaze sharp and assessing. Then, a knowing smirk touched her lips. "So… you've snared the attention of a Young Dàozǔ with nothing but your 'ice-flier' eyes and a song, hm?"
"Jiějie!" Heat flooded Lìng's ears, a vivid, embarrassing red. "It's not like that! He appreciates beauty—that's all! I've raised exquisite birds. It's a craftsman's recognition!" He drew himself up, a flicker of genuine pride cutting through his fluster. His birds were his masterpiece.
Yàn Yùi laughed, a soft, melodic sound, and reached to pat his burning cheek. "Of course, of course. My little brother, the master aviarist." Her tone turned warm, teasing. "Now, go to sleep. If you keep fretting, you'll have shadows under those pretty eyes by dawn. What will your esteemed customer think?"
Lìng pouted, the expression transforming his gentle face into something boyishly charming. "You should heed your own advice. How will you face your own fiancé in a few days if you don't rest?"
She chuckled, leaning in to press a light, affectionate kiss to his forehead. "Cheeky little bird." With that, she slipped from the room, the door closing with a quiet click.
Silence descended, deeper than before.
Lìng sank onto the edge of his narrow bed. Dūdò fluttered down to his chest, tucking itself into the folds of his robe as if making a final nest there. Lìng's smile returned, soft and sorrowful. His blue bird, Xīdo, hopped over, meticulously preening Lìng's sleeve with tender care.
"Ah, Xīdo… my most faithful friend," Lìng mumbled, his eyelids growing heavy. He looked toward the window where moonlight poured in like liquid silver, painting his sharp cheekbones and the bow of his lips in a ethereal glow.
The question returned, unbidden, a ghost in the quiet.
"Do we… know each other?"
He breathed the words into the stillness, tasting their strange weight. Why did they cling? Why did they feel like an echo in a hollow space he hadn't known was there?
Sleep pulled him under gently. His breathing evened out, his features relaxing into an innocence that daylight often masked. The pale moonstone gem on his forehead glimmered faintly, drinking in the moonlight—a silent, watchful sentinel.
*
An hour drifted by.
And then—
A presence coalesced in the room.
Not from the door. Not from the window. It was simply there, as if the shadows in the corner had drawn breath and form.
Deep, forest-green robes, embroidered with gold thread that traced the pattern of ancient, falling leaves. Hair the rich, dark brown of fertile earth. His face was obscured by a thin veil of emerald silk, revealing only a glimpse of a stern jaw and lips that held neither smile nor frown.
The air grew cold. The curtains by the window stirred, not from any outside breeze, but in a slow, inward sigh.
Lìng slept on, unaware that a gaze was tracing the lines of his sleeping form with an intensity that was neither human nor benign. Yet, his eyes moved rapidly beneath their lids—a sleeper sensing a storm on the edge of a dream.
The veiled man stood perfectly still.
Unnaturally cold.
A faint twitch touched his lips—not quite rage, not quite longing. Something far older. One thing was certain: he was more than a man.
"This time," the figure spoke, his voice a low, emotionless chill that did not disturb the physical air, "you will return. Whether you wish to or not."
His blank, veiled stare remained on Lìng for a long moment before he moved. He sat on the very edge of the bed, the motion so careful it seemed he feared the furniture itself might cry out.
The two birds, nestled against Lìng, roused. They puffed their feathers against the sudden cold, their bright eyes opening. They saw the intruder—and did not cry out. Instead, as one, they dipped their tiny heads in a gesture of profound, instinctual reverence.
The mysterious man gave a single, slow nod of acknowledgment.
A long, elegant finger emerged from his sleeve. He stroked Xīdo's head, then Dūdò's back, his touch feather-light. Then, that same finger lifted, hovering for a heartbeat before tracing the air just above the moonstone gem between Lìng's temple. A gesture of terrifying intimacy.
"All mortal eyes look to the sky," he murmured, the words half whisper, half a truth spoken to the night itself. "They forget the earth that holds them. But soon… they will remember."
He stood, fluid and silent. He retreated backward, not turning, his form beginning to blur at the edges as if dissolving into the darkness from which he came.
One step.
Two steps.
The faint, impossible echo of boots on the wooden floor. And then—nothing. The room was empty, the cold lingering like a forgotten memory.
The birds chirped, a soft, sleepy question, and tucked their heads back under their wings.
Crash.
Lìng's eyes flew open. A gust of wind—real, this time—had toppled a clay pot from the small table beside his bed. It lay in six perfect, jagged pieces on the floor. Not a fall from a low table. A shattering.
He sat up, heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against his ribs. His royal-blue eyes were clouded with sleep, his hair all tangled cascade over his shoulders. "What…?"
He scanned the room, seeing nothing but moonlight and shadow. Yet his skin prickled. The silence felt watched.
"Was someone here?" he asked aloud, his gaze falling to his birds as if they could answer.
His intuition screamed yes.
His rational mind whispered no.
Xīdo chirped and hopped onto his head, beginning to preen his disordered hair with gentle tugs. The familiar, affectionate gesture was an anchor. The tension seeped from Lìng's shoulders, replaced by a drowsy warmth.
A soft, melancholic smile touched his lips as he lay back down, his birds settling around him like living blankets.
"Who will ever care to robe this broken Lìng," he murmured to the darkness, his voice a thread of sound, "who has nothing left but a fragile heart… and a normal body?"
The birds nestled closer. Their silent companionship was answer enough. Sleep reclaimed him easily, his expression smoothing into one of gentle peace.
But the peace might be an illusion.
Tomorrow was a turning.
yet conducted under the penetrating gaze of a Dàozǔ whose very presence was a simmering flame.
And somewhere in the depths of the unseen world, a veiled figure had just issued a decree.
Just leaving an unnoticed mark of the cruelty with have returned again .
***