Rain fell like crimson silk over the black stone streets of Yan Capital, drumming against crimson lanterns that swayed in the mist. The air smelled of wet earth and drifting petals, each blossom falling like a memory that refused to die.
Li Yucheng, the young prince of the Mortal Floor, walked alone. His black-and-red robes clung to him, drenched, yet his expression remained calm and unreadable, as if the world could not disturb him. Years of palace intrigue had tempered him, and tonight, the chill in the air was nothing compared to the weight he carried within.
Ahead, the Pavilion of Broken Arrows loomed like a sentinel of forgotten promises. Black stone walls slick with rain, eaves dripping and glimmering in the crimson lantern light. Here, years ago, he had been struck down—an assassination that shook the kingdom. Some whispered it was staged. Some feared the ghost stories that followed. And yet, he had returned. Alive. Watching. Waiting.
Above, on a shadowed rooftop, Chen Xinyue crouched silently. Her pale blue-and-white robes merged with the mist, her dark hair plastered to her face. She had come to sketch the Pavilion for the archives of the Jade Cloud Sect, yet her gaze kept drifting to the swirling clouds above, silver threads twisting across the sky.
Her heart trembled for a reason she could not name. Something impossible tugged at her soul.
A glance at her wrist made her catch her breath. A faint red glimmer pulsed there, soft but insistent, like the heartbeat of a distant star. She had heard the legends—whispers of a Red Thread that bound fated hearts across realms—but she had never believed them.
Yet tonight, she felt it.
From the shadows below, Li Yucheng appeared, his robes soaked yet impeccable, his eyes dark as storm clouds yet sharp as blades. The world shrank to the space between them.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly, voice low and calm, yet weighted with authority.
"I could say the same," Xinyue replied, sharper than she intended. This is private property.
"Everything in this city is public when it concerns fate," he said, lips curling faintly, amused but restrained.
The mist thickened, curling like ghostly fingers around the Pavilion. Somewhere hidden, Zhao Lianhua's laugh echoed—light, musical, impossibly cold.
A gust of wind swept through the Pavilion, scattering wet petals into a swirling storm of pink and white. Lanterns swayed violently, casting jagged shadows across slick stone. Li Yucheng extended a hand—not a threat, not a truce, but almost instinctively, as if anchoring himself in her world.
The red thread between them tugged tighter, faint but undeniable.
"You… you are the one the legends spoke of," he murmured, almost to himself. "The fated heart… tethered across worlds."
Xinyue's chest tightened. She wanted to step back. She could not. The thread insisted.
Somewhere beyond the mist, the city whispered: this meeting was only the beginning.
And tonight, as lightning briefly illuminated the Pavilion of Broken Arrows, both felt the cold weight of destiny settling across their shoulders, heavy yet inevitable. The first pulse of the Red Thread promised a story that would unfold across realms, clouds, and fate itself.