A millennium had passed since the last war, and the lineage of King Tiān still ruled the great kingdom of Huǒyuán. The current monarch, King Tiān Lóngxuān, and his graceful queen, Yù Yuè, were blessed with a son, Tiān Jùn.

From the moment he could walk, Tiān Jùn was haunted.

Night after night, dreams burned through his sleep, smoke swirling, wings slicing the air, voices whispering things he couldn't name.

Tiān Jùn woke screaming.

Incense smoke choked the air above him, thick and endless. His breath tore from his lungs as he jerked upright.

"Mother!" Silk sheets clung damply to his sweaty skin. His hands shook as cold seeped into his bones.

Queen Yù Yuè sat up, drawing him against her chest.

"I'm here." Fear tugged her breaking voice.

He gasped, clutching her sleeve, as though she might vanish if he let go. His heart hammered wildly beneath her palm. "I saw it again," he whispered. She brushed his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead.

"Tell me," she murmured, as her thought filled her mind. He shook his head as tears spilled down his cheeks. The words would not come.

Some part of him feared that speaking them aloud would make the dream real.

"Don't be afraid," her worried eyes shut, pressing a kiss to his brow.

"Nothing will happen to you. I promise." The lie tasted bitter even as she spoke it.

Queen Yù Yuè's heart shattered with every sob, and in desperation, she opened her eyes, believing his dreams would stop. His small, shaking frame shook in her arms.

The morning sun fell on Sì Tiān Temple, the quarter of spiritual force. The inscription on the wall read in foreign writing.

The monarch family appeared in the temple; the hall loomed vast and ancient, its stone pillars drenched in incense. Candlelight flickered across relics older than the kingdom itself.

At the center of the chamber, the High Priest sat cross-legged. Tiān Jùn slept fitfully in his mother's arms while the hours stretched on. The priest did not move, his eyes closed, posture fixed.

Incense filled the air, as incantation pressed heavily against the air, as if he were speaking to something no one else could hear.

At last, his eyes flew open.

The hall's stillness broke.

"Let him dream," the priest took a deep breath.

Queen Yù Yuè stiffened.

"When the time is right," the priest continued softly, "the flame will return to the fire."

The queen sat stiffly as blood drained from her face. Beside her, King Tiān Lóngxuān did not move. His posture remained rigid, his expression composed—but fear flickered beneath it, swift and unmistakable. The priest closed his eyes again, retreating into silence as the matter hadn't already been decided.



That night, the dreams returned with greater intensity.

Tiān Jùn woke up coughing thick blood, pain tearing through his chest as air rushed back into his lungs. His fingers trembled, numb with cold. He sat up, removing his blanket, turning his mother's arms, convulsing.

Tears slipped from her eyes; she had sat all night in meditation, watching her trembling son.

“Mama, mama.” He coughed out, collapsing into her arm.

"It was here," He gasped for breath as his lashes fluttered slowly.

Queen Yù Yuè held him tighter, as if her arms alone could shield him.

“You are a royal,” she reassured, wiping his teary eyes.

He slept off, holding her sleeves.

Thoughts flooded her mind. She gently patted his hair.



By morning, she stood before the King's chamber, demanding an audience. The royal guards refused her. They were following the king's orders.

She did not move.

When the sun climbed high, the doors finally creaked open. King Tiān Lóngxuān dismissed all attendants.

The chamber felt suddenly too small, heavy with unspoken truths.

"My lord…" she raised her lowered in pain.

In the prince's chambers, young Tiān Jùn woke up alone.

Mama?

"Mother?" he spun, scratching his eyes. No answer.

He sat up, turning around.

A maid bowed respectfully and whispered, "Her Majesty is with the King." Uneasy, Tiān Jùn walked down his corridor. The guards stood stiffly, saying nothing.

"Is my mother inside?" he asked.

A maid nodded softly. The corridor was too quiet. Too still. His childish heart beating hard, the boy stepped close to the chamber doors — and heard voices.

Mama?

He peered through a narrow crack. Queen Yù Yuè stood facing her husband, her eyes full of sorrow.

"My king... I don't want our son to die," she pleaded, with her eyes filled with unshed tears. "These dreams — they're not ordinary anymore."

"These dreams are getting worse," her voice broke, remembering the blood on his blanket. "Your Highness…"The king turned away, his shoulders rigid.

"I know," he said at last.

"They will only grow worse. That is why… it may be time to find him a companion."

She stared at him in disbelief. Yù Yuè fell to her knees.

"He is still a child," she cried. "He knows nothing of cultivation, nothing of power—he is our son!" "His magic is still controllable…" Silence stretched between them, brittle as glass.

Then the king's restraint shattered.

"What would you have me do?" he roared. "Yù Yuè! What should I do? We can't have another child. I'm cursed!"

Outside the chamber doors, unseen and unheard, Tiān Jùn lost his balance and collapsed to his knees.



Far to the south, fate took another shape. Lord Chen was a wealthy trader of the Southern Province, respected by villagers and merchants alike. His estate stood as a symbol of fortune, its halls filled with laughter—until the night of his wedding, when a voice echoed through the darkness of his dream.

"My soul will walk your halls." He jolted awake, heart pounding.

Months later, his wife conceived.

On the night her labor began, Chen kowtowed in prayer at the temple; he almost dozed off. The voice from his dream returned."Am I welcome in your family?"

"If you are my wife's child," Chen whispered, widening his eyes, "then you are welcome."

The voice thundered in reply.

"Hurry. She will leave soon." He staggered to his feet, calling for his assistant.

They rushed back home through the streets. As he reached the threshold, he heard the cry of a newborn... and the cheers of his household.

He burst into the chamber.

There she was — his child. His daughter lay wrapped in cloth, tiny and perfect. Relief surged through him. His wife lay beside her, still breathing. Hope flared in his chest.

"I'm a father..." he whispered, overwhelmed. But then—His wife drew one sharp breath.

And gave up her ghost.

The night celebration became mournful. By morning, visitors filled the yard. Lord Chen's Estate was filled with people of different classes, people he didn't expect. His wife had been an imperial dancer, admired by nobles across the province.



Now, visitors entered only to find Chen sitting alone in his chamber, staring at nothing. Even his business rivals came to pay respects. Chen received them without expression, speaking politely, as if grief had hollowed him out. Lord Chen remained with his In-law; grief was his daily companion. He almost forgot he had a child. What stirred him from his pain was a letter from his business partner. He was about to return to his town when he received a message about his younger sister. He watched his sleeping baby, lost in thought. He buried his wife, but his grief remained. He named his daughter Mò Lián. The girl grew beneath the stern gaze of her mother's family—rigid, spiritual, unyielding in their rules.



Lord Chen remained distant, consumed by business in his hometown, the Southern Province. He rarely visits.Mò Lián grew up calling her grandparents "Mama, Papa."

She watched other young parents braid their children's hair, but her parents were always taking her to the temple. She became accustomed to chanting, the endless burning of incense, and meditation.

Mò Lián loved playing with her fellow children, but their parents' gaze was too strong for her to uphold. She was an outdoor person. She played only when her aunt visited. Lord Chen lost his business contract as rumors spread. "His family has misfortune. Why then did he marry from the temple?"

"Hahaha. He was seeking more favour, but his misfortune has just expanded."

"I know he is famous and rich. Who knows what he does to get all those? Hmph."



As years passed, Mò Lián became accustomed to seeing her father annually. He visited only during festivals, a fleeting shadow of a father. She met Yù Xuān, a kind soul older than her, from the sacred inner temple island. The two had grown together. Mò Lián lived cloistered within the monk quarters, while Yù Xuān belonged near the temple island, where only royal priests were allowed to serve. Their stations were divided, their worlds never meant to touch—yet friendship found them, binding them in ways that defied rank.

Whenever Mò Lián felt caged or restless, she would sneak away to see her. But these visits always came with consequences. Her grandparents never wanted what happened to their daughter to repeat. They chose to raise Mò Lián away from the normal world. Their daughter did, and she became famous; she even married a wealthy man, but what came after was terrible. But Mò Lián always found ways to escape.

Eighteen years passed, and the kingdom of Huǒyuán beamed above the neighbouring kingdoms. The border stood strong; the crown prince had just returned from his cultivation and martial training.

Crown Prince Tiān Jùn stands before Sì Tiān Temple.

He just completed the monarchy rite with the queen present.

He felt exhausted and left with his general.

 Whenever he came to the temple, his steps drifted inevitably toward the water’s edge.

Prince Tiān Jùn's chariot rolled to a gentle halt along the winding coastal road. He stood beside it, his eyes drawn to the horizon, and then to the figure that broke it.

A lone figure sat at the water’s edge.

She was small against the vastness of the sea, seated where the tide crept close enough to wet her toes. She did not flinch when the water reached her, nor did she retreat when it withdrew.

Tiān Jùn squinted, curiosity stirring in his chest.

“Who is she?” he asked quietly.

His general leaned in and whispered, “Your Highness, that’s Mò Lián. Lord Chen’s only child. Locals say she was born under ill fortune—her mother died bringing her into the world. Her father trades in the southern provinces. She lives with her grandparents now. Should I do more research?”

Intrigue flickered in Tiān Jùn's sharp gaze.

"I'll be back," he said.

Before he could object, the prince dismounted, already moving, his steps light as he descended toward the shore.

“There’s a royal visitor,” she added. “If they find you again, the punishment will be worse.”

The words struck deeper than any blow; she remembered Yù Xuān's words.

Yù Xuān had been scolding her, and it was too much for her to accept.

She sat.

Knees drawn to her chest, she stared at the endless water; the wind tugging at her hair.

“Father,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

The waves answered only with indifference.

Mò Lián didn't move. She remained seated; her gaze locked on the shimmering sea. She noticed the silent approach.

Footsteps approached — measured, unhurried. Not the shuffle of villagers.

“I knew you’d find me here,” she mumbled, not turning. “One day.”

She thought it was her father.

After all, the annual festival is just a few months away, she thought.

Her hope rose unbidden.

“I’ll come back later,” she added, her voice quieter.

The footsteps did not stop.

She let out a sigh, defeated.

Brushing damp sand from her hanfu as she straightened.

She turned.

“All right, Fa—”

Their gaze met.

She blinked in disbelief.

“This is not my father.” She blinked, scanning the figure from head to toe.

He looked unreal. And that's how the rumor said the royal looks.

Unearthly beautiful.

“Are you… royal?” She murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Dizziness swept over her, sudden and disorienting.

She wobbled.

 Her knees buckled.

Tiān Jùn appeared next to her. He caught her steady in his arms before she fell.

“Young lass,” he said, his voice calm, grounding.

Her breath skipped.

Who are you?

She pulled back at once, flustered, bowing hastily.

She’s bold. He smirked.

“Lián,” he called.

She froze.

“You know my name?” She asked, pointing faintly at herself.

“Hard not to,” he replied lightly. “Aren’t you famous around here?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Did someone send you?”

Grandma, please don’t say you sent this person to get me home; I don’t want to go home yet. Her instinct screamed.

“My name is Tiān Jùn,” he said, reading her thought. “And no. No one sent me.”

She studied him for a long moment. Suspicion flickered across her face, then softened.

“…Good,” she muttered. “Then you’re not here to watch me.”

He laughed softly. “Are you afraid?”

She surprised herself by smiling back. She folded her arms, looking at him.

"I know everyone on this island. Who are you?" She pouted her lip.

"I'm from the capital," he said with a teasing smirk. "Why were you sitting out here alone?"

She sighed. "That's none of your business. I'll do my research."

The water crept forward.

He sat, taking a deep breath.

“Join me,” he said, looking up at her.

They sat together; their conversation was random talk.

He never mentioned who he was.

When the sun dipped low, staining the sea with gold, he walked her home.

The seaside was both their favourite place; they always coincidentally met, and their friendship became stronger.

The monarch's rite week was to an end; the royal family’s departure was here.

At the throne room…

The evening breeze swayed as royal soldiers marched past the palace.

Queen Yù Yuè smiled, releasing her power slightly.

"Thank you, Your Holiness," she said. "I'll do my best to convince His Highness."

The high priest spoke calmly before dissolving in the air. "Don't forget — the spell scroll is the only way."

Queen Yù Yuè sat on her throne with her son at her right and the military general at her left.

“How was your meeting with the island chief?" She rose from her seat.

Her majestic royal robe swept the marbled floor.

 “It went well, Your Highness.”

He had been waiting for the priest to leave.

“ I have something to attend to before we leave." Without waiting, he disappeared.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Yán Lǐng!"

The general stood up, bowing. "Your Highness."

"My son has changed. Why?"

Her son never liked attending functions, so how does he have something to attend?

She turned to him, her gaze filled with nothing but questions.

He hesitated. "His Majesty... noticed a young maid."

The Queen's voice was icy. "Do I need to remind you of your task?"

He swallowed hard and led her to the shoreline.

They appeared at the great sea. Queen Yù Yuè grew tired of waiting for her son; she disappeared, hissing.

The shore stretched far west; its soil was covered with footprints of different sizes.

It was late evening; children and parents returned home. It was dead slight.

Mò Lián sat in silence; the sea waves lapped softly before her.

It’s been two weeks already, and she hasn’t heard from Yù Xuān.

She sighed, looking at the water.

“It’s boring out here,” she mumbled, standing up.

“Pray, pray, pray. Every day incense.” She dusted her palm, turning to leave.

A figure was standing there. She strained her gaze, but the figure approached.

“Old woman, you must be blind now.” The person approached, raising sand from the ground.

She adjusted.

“Jùn?” She knew that height.

He threw the sand at her, laughing.

“Old woman!” he laughed out, scooping the sand again.

“You… Stop… Jùn!” she ran.

He chased after her, throwing sand on her.

“Aren’t you smart?” He kept throwing sand at her.

“I was only pitying your expensive dress.” She spun, beaming at her evil thought, and they collided.

She lost balance; he caught her in his arms, not at her waist, but under her thighs, and lifting her gently, his hand cradled the curve of her ass with unconscious boldness.

She pulled out, but her mind was still on ruining his attire.

“How about this?” She quickly scooped a huge amount of moist soil and plastered it on his face.

She burst into laughter, running to the sea.

“Run as you can.” He scooped the wet soil and chased after her.

They played like children.

“You started it!” She splashed water on him.

“You are more dangerous than I expected.” He laughed, dodging the splash.

“That’s why I’m popular.” She laughed, using her two palms to splash the water.

When the sun kissed the sea, they sat beside each other, drenched in water. She rested her head on his broad shoulder.

"You're not telling me something, Jùn," she said with a pout.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he whispered.

She pulled away. Looking at him.

"I'm returning to the capital."

Her silence said everything.

"Will you miss me?" he teased. "Hmm? Why does your face look like that now?"

She stood to leave, but he caught her wrist, pulling her from moving.

"So I'll be lonely again..." she murmured, her voice breaking.

"You are not," he whispered, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

High above the shore, invisible. Queen Yù Yuè froze. Her heart beat wildly in her chest.

“Then don’t forget me,” she whispered. “We are friends.”

He closed his eyes, the weight of the moment settling deep in his chest. “I won’t.”

He felt tears on his neck, and he patted her hair.

He felt her aching heart. It was the first time he did, and he wondered how lonely she must have been.

She didn’t release from his embrace.

At dawn, the royal procession began.

Tiān Jùn did not look back.

He dissolved in the air as his masked face warned out.

He said nothing about his encounter, but Mò Lián's absence felt heavier than his sword.

The warmth of the sea was gone, replaced by monarch authority and power.

He appeared at the king's hall as the summons awaited.

 King Tiān Lóngxuān stood alone before the throne, golden light flickering at his feet.

The air was filled with toxic smoke, and the candlelight flickered until it went out.

As Prince Tiān Jùn approached, the heavy door creaked open on its own, obedient to the will of blood.

King Tiān Lóngxuān stood near the center, his face carved in authority, unreadable yet commanding.

"Welcome, son..." he said, voice firm, yet low.

Prince Tiān Jùn slowed his steps.

Tiān Jùn dropped to his knees at once, bowing deeply until his forehead touched the floor. His breath remained steady; his posture reverent.

“Thank you, Your Highness, for this honor,” he said. “I bring greetings from the western government of Huǒyuán—”

“That is not why I summoned you,” the King interrupted.

“Stand up.”

Tiān Jùn rose without hesitation. His brow furrowed slightly. “Father?”

King Tiān Lóngxuān turned away.

No explanation followed. No reassurance. He walked toward the far wall, his footsteps echoing. “Follow me.”

A section of the wall shifted soundlessly at the King’s touch, revealing a narrow passage concealed behind a sliding panel—one Tiān Jùn had never seen, despite a lifetime within these halls.

They stepped through.

“This is our ancestral library, our forefathers left a spell scroll.” The king's voice filled the air.

The air changed at once.

Each step took them deeper beneath the palace, farther from natural light, farther from the world. The warmth of the upper halls faded, replaced by a cold that seeped into bone and breath alike.

The silence here was heavier—ancient, oppressive, laden with something unseen.

At last, they stopped.

Before them stood a round carved stone, its surface engraved with symbols of a foreign language that shimmered faintly in the darkness. The symbols pulsed like slow heartbeats, responding to their presence.

Tiān Jùn felt it —a subtle pressure in his chest, as though something within him stirred in recognition.

His gaze widened.

King Tiān Lóngxuān did not hesitate.

A blade appeared in his palm. Speaking chants, he pierces his palm.

Blood welled, dark and vivid, spilling onto the floor. As it touched the runes, they flared to life, glowing brighter, humming with power. The door groaned, ancient mechanisms awakening, and slowly parted.

It rolled away.

Darkness yawned wide—then, one by one, torches ignited in midair, bursting into flame without touch or spark. Their light revealed a chamber vast enough to swallow sound itself.

An underground library.

Spellscrolls hung mid-air, glittering softly with sealed magic. Wooden cases protected relics that pulsed with dormant power, each artifact steeped in sacrifice and oaths.

The air thrummed.

Tiān Jùn’s breath caught in his throat. He felt his joint snapping, he was drawn from himself, fierce heat surged through his veins.

Light shimmered beneath his skin, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. Pain and emerging power intertwined, searing and awakening. His vision blurred, then sharpened—his reflection caught in the glass of a nearby case showed eyes no longer his own, glowing crimson with ancient fire.

The air bent.

Something awakened.

King Tiān Lóngxuān perceived a higher power; he spun in terror.

His gaze fell on a creature he had dreamt of from a young age.

He couldn’t make an eye match with him.

King Tiān Lóngxuān fell to his knees, kowtowing.

“Forgive me, Your Holiness,” Lóngxuān breathed, maintaining a steady voice.

The words reverberated.

The torches flickered.

“Lóngxuān… you did well.”

When the voice came, it did not emerge from one place—it resonated in the library at once, layered with authority that pressed against stone.

The King trembled.

A glowing hand lifted within the air, not fully formed, yet unmistakably real. From nothingness, a leather-bound scroll materialized, hovering before them. Sacred symbols writhed across its surface, alive like living fire.

“Guard my vessel,” the voice commanded. “Read this without cease.”

The light faltered.

The voice faded.

The pressure vanished.

Tiān Jùn collapsed.

King Tiān Lóngxuān rose slowly, his movements stiff, his breath uneven.

He staggered backward.

He stared—not at the scroll, but at his son lying unconscious at his feet.

“Son…” he whispered, voice hollow.

The words struck like thunder. His thought went wild.

Your holiness, forgive my weak power.

He kowtowed. He remained on the floor until his breath returned to normal.

He straightened up, taking a deep breath.

Power left his grip the more he waited.

He bowed, dissolving in the air, teleporting Tiān Jùn to his chamber, summoning the royal physicians.

The ancient library returned to silence.

The message reached Queen Yù Yuè at dawn— urgent, and terrifyingly vague. Queen Yù Yuè appeared in her son’s chamber.

She did not announce herself. She did not wait for attendants. The room was scanty of human step, heavy with incense — she stood, breathless, her silk robes tugged to her grip.

Tiān Jùn lay motionless on his bed.

His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, breath present but fragile. His skin glowed, yet his body gave no response to the spells woven around him.

For one terrible heartbeat, Queen Yù Yuè could not move.

The power surging in the chamber was poisonous.

“What has happened now?” she whispered.

Physicians spoke quietly behind her. Incantations murmured through the air.

She heard none of it.

He vibrated slightly. The imbalance in the air increased.

“Jùn?”

Her hope flared. She slumped clustering her chest.

The marbled floor was blazing, and heat emerged; her skin seared.

She crept out, releasing her power.

The chamber door fell open, and she crawled out, gasping for air.

The air was shut by an unseen hand.

She sat with the physicians, watching them till nightfall.

“Your highness, you will fall sick.”

The priest straightend bowing to her.

“My queen, the crown prince situation is dangerous.”

She turns, her gaze piercing.

He darted his gaze swiftly. “Your majesty is emitting unusual energy; it can weaken your cultivation.”

“Leave!” Her voice thundered.

The priest dissolved into the thin air.

She tried using her power to balance the venomous air.

Hours passed unnoticed. Candles burned low and were replaced. The sky beyond the windows darkened; Exhaustion crept into her bones, until at last her body betrayed her.

Her head came to rest against the edge of the door, fingers still entwined.

The air became fully lit.

The air electrified, and Tiān Jùn stirred.

Lightning flashed in the room, and his eyes fluttered slightly open.

Where am I?

He tried moving, but his limbs felt heavy, as though they no longer fully belonged to him.

“Why does my head hurt…?” he murmured.

The sound of his own voice startled him.

He sat up slowly, confusion clouding his senses. The room swam into focus—rows of incense burners, bowls etched with protective sigils, and charms tied with crimson, hovering magic. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting pale bands across the floor.

“Mum…?”

His third eye opened.

He saw her then.

Queen Yù Yuè slept beside the door, her posture unguarded, her face streaked with dried tears.

Something tightened painfully in his chest.

He gasped, breath catching as weakness surged through him, forcing him still. Something was controlling him.

Something inside him burned—vast and ancient, stirring his childhood dreams like a memory.

He tried remembering how he got here, but all he remembered was Lián.

He lifted his hands, watching as faint warmth gathered beneath his skin. The sensation was unbearable and exhilarating all at once.

He sighed, tapping his forehead.

He sat in meditation till dawn. Tiān Jùn disappeared.

A wild wind blew, and Queen Yù Yuè's eyes flared open.

Her heart skipped violently, eyes darting to the marbled floor.

“Jùn?”