The halls of Yu Huang Palace had grown still. All the high gods were present, and each of them wore the same heavy expression. The air was taut with unease.
At the grand table where the Heavenly War Council convened, voices rose and fell, their discussions sharp, measured, tense.
Some factions believed immediate retaliation was necessary, pushing for a swift assault before the demons could strengthen their position. Others urged caution, wary of rushing into a conflict with no clear advantage.
Even among the gods, there was dissent—whispers of hidden alliances, unspoken grudges, and disagreements that teetered dangerously close to fracturing celestial unity.
Then Tianwu—the God of War—rose, his voice breaking through the swell of debate.
"Your Majesty, grant me the honor of leading the vanguard against the Demon Realm."
A murmur stirred the gathered deities. At the far end of the table, Xingyao and Mo Chen sat silent, their expressions unreadable. But beneath the surface, unease pulsed like a storm beneath calm seas.
This time, the demons were not merely gathering forces—they were preparing something different, something more sinister than before.
Rumors spoke of sealed forbidden arts, of powers that had not surfaced since the First Divine War—unholy magic capable of corrupting immortal energy itself.
There were whispers of a new commander among the demons—a figure unseen, unknown, moving in the shadows.
Mo Chen had been tasked with leading the strike force—an ambush meant to draw the enemy's attention, allowing Tianwu's army to confront the demon front directly. Xingyao would provide support, commanding reinforcements and safeguarding the flanks.
Thus, the discussion stretched long into the night. Strategies were drawn, alliances solidified, and dates etched into divine stone. War was no longer a whisper—it was a certainty.
Leaving Yu Huang Palace, Mo Chen walked alone.
His steps were steady, but his mind remained locked in the war council's echo. The cold light of the stars overhead did little to quiet the tension in his chest.
He had lived through this once.
The First Divine War had scorched the skies, blackened rivers, and shattered sanctums. Immortals and demons alike had fallen, their bodies lost to ash and memory. Among them—his master.
A millennium had passed, but Mo Chen had never spoken of that loss. Not once.
The memory remained sealed within him, buried beneath discipline, silence, and time.
But now, the past stirred again.
And in the cold of that remembrance, a light rose—soft, quiet, persistent.
Xiao Zhu.
His steps slowed, thoughts pulling away from tactics and bloodshed, drawn instead to her. A girl so gentle, so bright, and yet so quietly strong.
His chest tightened.
This time, he could not fail.
Within Ling Yuan Palace, days passed like ripples on a still lake. Xiao Zhu's life flowed gently—cultivation in the mornings, divine arts in the afternoons, endless calligraphy and meditation in between.
But since the celestial banquet, something had changed.
A quiet yearning had taken root in her heart—a desire to explore, to see the skies beyond her courtyard walls. She pestered Yanxia often, eager for tales of the heavenly realm.
And Yanxia, as ever, was more than willing to oblige. Her stories were colorful, dramatic, and riddled with exaggerated flair. Their voices filled Qinghui Courtyard with laughter and wonder, the kind of joy that bloomed like spring after frost.
None of them knew how close war was creeping.
Wenlan arrived not long after, her presence calm, her words firm.
"Enough distractions," she said, glancing at Yanxia with amused reprimand. "Let the girl focus."
Xiao Zhu pouted, her gaze lifting toward Wenlan with wide, innocent eyes. She clung to her sleeve like a spoiled kitten and murmured sweetly, "Wenlan… can we do something else today?"
Before Wenlan could answer, Xiao Zhu took a playful step back and lifted her arms.
She began to dance.
At first, it was mimicry—a memory of celestial dancers swaying beneath lantern light.
But as she moved, something inside her bloomed.
The steps came not from practice but instinct. The rhythm of the divine pulsed through her blood, carrying her into motion. Each turn was graceful, precise.
Yanxia froze, mesmerized.
Wenlan said nothing. Her smile was quiet, almost indulgent. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a zither into her lap, fingers finding the strings as naturally as breath.
A melody rose—soft, crystalline, weaving into the crisp air like a dream.
Xiao Zhu turned toward the center of the courtyard, where snow fell in a silent cascade. Her sleeves trailed like mist caught in sunlight.
Yanxia lifted her fingers and summoned small orbs of light, drifting above the snow like scattered stars. They glowed faintly—silver and pale gold—never quite fading, their glow swaying gently with each breeze.
Xiao Zhu twirled beneath them, the soft luminescence catching in her sleeves, threading through the flowing silk like woven constellations.
The snow, the lights, the melody drifting from Wenlan's zither—they all folded into one seamless rhythm, turning the courtyard into a dreamscape untouched by time.
Unseen by all, Mo Chen had been approaching from a nearby corridor. He stood behind one of the carved stone pillars, half-shadowed beneath the overhang, cloaked in silence. He had meant only to check on her progress—but the moment he caught sight of her, he stopped.
From a distance, she almost blended into the snow, but somehow—she stood apart from it. She was the only thing in motion, and yet the whole world seemed to dance with her.
Barefoot on frost-laced stone, her steps were feather-light, as if she feared disturbing the hush of twilight.
Her white robe fluttered like moonlit silk, and her sleeves trailed behind her like the tails of comets. Around her, snowflakes drifted, catching in her hair and lashes, clinging like tiny stars before spinning free with each elegant turn.
The only sounds were the zither's melody, the soft sigh of the wind, and the silent rhythm of her breath.
She moved like a poem come to life—arms flowing like water, each gesture deliberate and delicate, as though painting invisible calligraphy into the air.
One hand reached toward the heavens, the other traced a line across her waist—her fingers curved like flower petals, trembling with restraint.
She leaned, turned, dipped—her body folding into the breeze, answering it with breath and movement.
Nearby, Yuebao sat watchful and still, golden eyes fixed upon her.
The moon fox, wise and ever-attuned, sent a silent message to Xingyao—a shared vision formed not of words, but sensation.
___
Far away, within a chamber lit by glowing talismans and star maps, Xingyao paused mid-step. His fingers hovered above a scroll, stilled by something unseen. The image bloomed in his mind's eye—soft snowfall, shimmering lights, and at the center of it all… her.
Xiao Zhu, dancing in the snow.
A slow smile tugged at his lips, quiet and wistful. His pale eyes shimmered with the reflection of distant stars, a soft glow rising in their depths as he gazed toward the direction of Ling Yuan Palace.
She's grown, he thought. So much more than she realizes.
___
In Qinghui Courtyard, Xiao Zhu danced on.
She had transformed—elegant, distant, like an immortal from forgotten scrolls. Her eyes were soft, half-lidded, her smile faint and untouchable.
Xiao Zhu moved as though she carried something untouchable, an elegance beyond her years.
She should not have shone so brightly in the snow, and yet, in this moment, she outshone everything.
Mo Chen continued to observe her in silence.
Once again, a quiet feeling—unfamiliar, unspoken—coiled within him.
For a millennium, he had lived without attachment, without indulgence. Even before his master fell, he had been raised to know duty above all else.
Yet now, something told him—if war came, if darkness threatened once more, he would not hesitate.
Even if the world collapsed, even if all else fell into ruin, he would shield her still.
No matter what it costs.
And in the hush of falling snow, the heavens held their breath—for beauty, once glimpsed, can change the course of fate.