The golden veil of the wheat field parted gently as Chen Zhao stepped through, each stalk whispering like anxious courtiers as he passed. The world beyond opened to a canvas of dusk: a wide river gliding with the grace of a celestial serpent, its waters catching the dying light like polished jade, gleaming gold at the edges where the heavens leaned close. It moved slowly, knowingly, a river that had seen too many stories pass its banks—some whispered in songs, others forgotten in silence.
His steps slowed at the riverbank. The ache in his body was distant now, dulled by the heavier weight pressing on his spirit. He had no direction now—only the ghost of a place, a forgotten shrine tucked into the cliffs beyond the forest, long abandoned after the last great sect war. Once a retreat for wandering sages, now nothing more than cracked stone and wind-worn prayers.
He would rest there. Just for tonight. Just long enough to breathe. But then—his breath caught. His feet stopped without command. A figure stood at the edge of the river.
They were robed in layered hues of twilight and moonlight—indigo melting into pale blue, fabric that flowed as if it had been spun from water itself. Their long hair, black with streaks of silver, was tied high, crowned with a simple ornament of polished bone and jade. They bore no weapon, yet their presence alone pressed into the world like the flat of a blade against skin—calm, coiled power waiting in stillness. And ancient. Not in age, but in essence.
Before Chen Zhao could even reach for his sword, he heard it—soft, unhurried, and entirely expected.
"Careful, Zhao-xiong. That one doesn't feel like someone you want to fight."
The voice slipped in like a silk thread through worn fabric, teasing, low, too familiar. He turned sharply. Of course. Yun Ling. The fox-eyed thorn in his side stood only a few paces behind, robes unwrinkled, hair undisturbed, as if the chaos of the day had merely been a passing breeze to him. His expression was unreadable, calm—infuriatingly composed.
"I told you to leave," Chen Zhao muttered, his voice taut with exhaustion.
"You did," Yun Ling replied with the grace of a man who had never obeyed anything in his life. "I ignored you."
Before Chen Zhao could offer a retort, the figure at the river turned toward them.
"You are Chen Ziyin," the voice was soft and distant, like wind over empty halls, "now also known by the name Gui Shuang. Am I correct?"
Chen Zhao didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"I was sent by the Brightjade Peak," the man continued. "To seek the one bearing the Mark of the Cursed Seal."
Yun Ling's fingers brushed his sleeve—a silent warning.
"So," Chen Zhao said quietly, "it's already begun."
The man stepped forward, his movements more like drifting than walking. "The seal fractured days ago. But those attuned to the harmony of the Five Elements felt it ripple. Something shifted. The balance is fraying."
Chen Zhao's jaw tightened. "Then you know what it means to approach me."
"I do," the man said with no hesitation. "And I know you are not what the world believes you to be."
Their eyes met—clear, sea-coloured eyes with depths that spoke of sorrow more than judgment.
"But the world," he added, "cares not for truth. Only for danger. And you, Chen-gongzi… are now believed to be its highest form." The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed from.
"What is your purpose?" Yun Ling asked quietly, the mirth gone from his tone.
The man inclined his head. "I came bearing a message. One left by your Shizun before he vanished."
Chen Zhao felt the world tilt. His breath faltered.
"My Shizun…" he whispered. "He—he left something?"
"No one has seen him," the man replied. "But he left a scroll, sealed by hand and soul imprint, hidden in the chamber beneath the Whispering Magnolia Temple. It bears your name, and yours alone. None but you can open it."
That name—Whispering Magnolia. A place from childhood, from gentle spring breezes and sword forms beneath blooming petals. A place long buried.
"Why me?" Chen Zhao asked, his voice raw. "Why not deliver it to the Emperor? Or the Grand Council?"
The stranger smiled faintly. "Because I read the stars, and I listen to the forgotten winds. The threads of fate name you both storm and salvation. And I would rather stand beside the eye of the storm… than be crushed beneath it." And then he was gone. Not a sound. Not a shift in the wind. The river rippled once, and then all was still.
Chen Zhao stood there, staring at the place the man had been, breath shallow and mind a storm of ghosts. Yun Ling said nothing. For now, his silence was not infuriating. It was anchoring. Chen Zhao closed his eyes. A message. A forgotten temple. A name only he could unlock.
"I will find it," he murmured, a vow, a prayer, a curse. "Even if I must tear through the gates of heaven."
Beside him, Yun Ling's voice was like a low echo through a long corridor. "Then I suppose I'll be walking with you."
Chen Zhao turned, expression sharp as drawn steel. "You never asked."
Yun Ling smiled, serene and maddening. "And you never said no."
Chen Zhao exhaled, shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world had pressed against his spine. The wind stirred the hem of his cloak and the ends of Yun Ling's robe.
The river whispered behind them. And high above, twilight surrendered to stars. There were still too many unanswered questions. Too many wounds unhealed, too many shadows he had not yet dared to look into.
Chen Zhao clenched his jaw. All sects would no doubt become more vigilant than ever before. They had been from the moment he descended the sacred mountain, the moment he passed through the boundary that once sealed him. He hadn't spared it a second thought. Perhaps for his own sanity. He had forgotten just how brutal this empire could be—how merciless its judgments.
But at least now—he had something to follow.
*
And all of it… had occurred before the Great Calamity. Before the Crimson War.
A war that sundered the empire like a jade mirror shattered under divine wrath. A war that turned brother against brother, scattered once-noble sects like autumn leaves in a storm, and left rivers thick with blood, their crimson tide reaching even the high mountain shrines. Smoke replaced clouds. The mountains fell silent beneath ash, and the sky forgot how to mourn.
And the beginning? It began with a single hand. One person. A cursed one.
In those days, Chen Zhao had only just turned fifteen.
He was the jewel of the cultivation world—bright, brilliant, and impossibly young. And yet, on the night of his celebration, when lanterns floated like stars across the courtyard and celestial melodies echoed across Imperial City of Grace, he sat alone. Curled in the farthest corner of his newly appointed room, shrouded in shadows, untouched by celebration.
The silks gifted by noble sects were still folded on lacquered trays. The ceremonial sword bestowed by his Shizun had been placed with reverent care beside the incense altar. And in his hand, resting against his thigh, was a seal he had received that morning—a seal shaped like a ring of red fire. It pulsed faintly on his finger, quiet as a breath. The spirit had chosen him. The most ancient of spirits. A dragon.
But the weight of the world pressed onto his small frame like the heavens themselves had knelt upon him.
Even with the rites of purity performed in the Emperor's presence—even with Ye Lian, the revered Sage of Qing Ye Pavilion, standing in solemn approval—even as the empire bowed in admiration—Chen Zhao felt only coldness in his chest. Like a blade had been sheathed within his ribcage.
Admiration, respect, reverence… these gifts felt like blades wrapped in silk. Kindness with a dagger beneath the smile. He should have felt joy. Should have wept in gratitude. But something in him recoiled.
Chen Zhao had never doubted the Emperor, nor his Shizun. They were the only pillars left in his young life, and he revered them with all the fervour of a disciple's heart.
But something felt… wrong. He had no words for it then, only the ache in his chest and a question blooming in silence.
Even now, surrounded by incense and divine banners, all he could hear was a whisper inside him: 'Why me?'
The dragon spirit was no ordinary creature. It was said to be the last of its kind, a remnant of the Founding Immortal's era. Once worshipped as sacred, dragon spirits had since become synonymous with calamity—unruly, uncontrollable, and feared for their power to devour the soul of even the most disciplined cultivator.
Why would such a thing choose him?
The seal—a red ring burned into his skin—whispered hunger beneath its silence. Was this truly Heaven's will? Or a curse dressed as divine favour?
He had scoured the scroll halls, studied every known record. Rites. Forbidden pacts. The scrolls of the old dynasties. Not once had he found mention of a dragon spirit that had lived past its wielder. They were all sealed. Or destroyed.
And yet, Yan Rui—the Heavenly Emperor himself—had smiled as though this were destiny fulfilled. Had declared him pure. A child of fate.
Why?
Restless, Zhao rose from his mat. He wrapped himself in his night robes and moved silently through the glowing corridors of the palace, his bare feet whispering against polished stone. Candles flickered in ornate sconces, casting dancing shadows across carvings of heavenly beasts.
He walked without thought, until he reached the jade-inlaid door marked with a single talisman: Jing Lianqing.
His Shizun.
Inside, voices. Soft, at first. Then sharpened by pain. He froze.
"…Yan Rui, what do you think you're doing?" That voice—his Shizun's—usually calm as spring rain, now trembled with fury. "To gift him that spirit—do you truly believe this is right? To mark a boy with a curse, and call it a blessing?"
Silence.
Then, the Emperor's voice, calm as moonlight, but colder. "You raised him, Lianqing. You trained him. You know how strong he is. He will endure." A heavy silence, followed by the sharp crack of palm against wood.
"You speak of endurance as though it were a virtue," Shizun hissed. "But even jade shatters beneath enough pressure. That thing… that dragon... it is not the same spirit the Founder bore. Its qi reeks of blood. Of torment. You know this."
Another silence.
Then Yan Rui's voice again, quieter, more final. "Rest, Lianqing. Help him master it. The spirit is his now."
A shadow passed behind the paper wall. Chen Zhao ducked away just in time, heart hammering, as the Emperor emerged and disappeared down the corridor without so much as a glance. Only once silence returned did he move. He raised his hand. Knocked.
"…Shizun?" A pause.
Then, "Ziyin. Come in."
Inside, the Master Jing sat by the low tea table, lit by a single lantern. His moon-white robes hung loose over one shoulder, his long hair flowing like ink over silk. In his hands, he held a porcelain teacup, the steam curling between them like a bridge between silence and trust. Chen Zhao stepped inside, unsure of what to say.
"Can't sleep?" his Shizun asked softly, voice returned to its usual calm.
Zhao sank down beside him, knees drawn in. He looked smaller than he had during the ceremony. The glow of the altar fire reflected in his eyes, but it did not warm them.
"Shizun," he asked, voice shaking, "do you truly believe I was… meant to bear this spirit?"
Yao Zhenxian looked at him. Truly looked. Not with reverence. Not with fear. But with something that hurt more—gentleness.
"My dear Ziyin," he whispered, brushing back a strand of Zhao's hair, "Heaven's will… is never without reason. Ye Lian's rites found no flaw. If Heaven has chosen you, then it is our duty to protect what is precious." He reached forward and placed his hand over Zhao's, firm but trembling.
"I will remain by your side. Always."
And that night, Chen Zhao fell asleep on the floor beside his Master's sleeve, the scent of lotus tea and cold medicine wrapped around him like a cradle.
He had never called him father. But he had wanted to.
Because even then, even before the calamity, before betrayal, before war—
Because time… was too cruel.
---
35. Whispering Magnolia Temple – Temple of Jing Yao Sect, sacred place holding the knowledge and spells of the sect.
36. Crimson War – War occurring every hundred years between sects and divine, but cursed beasts.
37. Imperial City of Grace - Yu Ze Cheng - (御泽城) – a residence of Emperor and his palace. Capital of nation.
38. Jing Lianqing (静廉青) - 'Still and Honest in Azure Grace'; leader of Jing Yao Sect. Chen Zhao's and Yun Ling's Master.
39. Yao Zhenxian (曜真仙) - 'Radiant True Immortal'; Jing Lianqing's title (he was, in fact, not immortal)