Southern Ward, Edge of the Heavenly Realm.
Zhao Yan stepped deeper into the courtyard, boots crunching over gravel and bone. The smell of smoke and blood had settled into the stone like rot. Nothing moved. Even the wind held its breath.
She looked down. The symbol of the ward had been seared into the ground with divine fire, but not their own. The seal was twisted—its outer lines inverted, the central mark corrupted. It pulsed faintly, as if mocking her.
Xuanyan knelt by one of the bodies. His fingers brushed the armor's edges.
"No defensive stance," he muttered. "They didn't even draw their weapons."
Zhao Yan clenched her jaw. "So they trusted the ones who killed them."
He didn't answer. He stood, eyes on the broken gate that led to the command hall.
War bells rang in the distance. First one. Then another. Then another.
Zhao Yan turned slowly toward the sound. They were not stopping.
Xuanyan's gaze shifted west. "That's the Central Guard tower. It's under siege."
A second pause. Then a third bell struck, heavier this time.
Zhao Yan didn't speak. Her spear was already in her hand.
A scream echoed from the direction of the lower pass, faint and short-lived.
The wind changed. It carried fire.
Xuanyan's voice was clipped. "We need to split. I'll reinforce the Eastern Gate."
She nodded once. "I'll head towards the Tiangong Palace. Meihua should already be alarmed. Send a message to her and tell her to go west. I'll head towards Tiangong Palace."
He hesitated. "Zhao Yan—"
"I know."
The fourth bell rang as she mounted. Her eyes never left the blackened fortress behind her.
The Southern Ward was gone. Not captured. Not overwhelmed. Erased.
She didn't need proof. She already knew who had betrayed them.
She turned to the way headed to Tiangong Palace.
Behind her, the sky had begun to darken—not with night, but with smoke.
And the bells kept ringing.
Zhao Yan didn't pause to rest. Not even to think.
She surged forward, her spear soaked to the hilt with demon blood. Spiritual beasts snarled through the skies above—dragons and corrupted qilins. The once-glorious banners of the Heavenly Realm were tattered and burning in the wind.
This wasn't a battlefront.
This was the breaking of Heaven.
She deflected a glaive aimed for her throat, ducked beneath a screeching demon that dove from above, then plunged her blade clean through its gut. The body fell behind her, twitching.
Two divine guards were struggling near a crumbling pavilion. Zhao Yan crossed the distance in three strides, slashing through the demon pinning one of them down. The guard blinked at her, blood trickling from his temple.
"Go," she barked. "Fall back to the Western Gate. Hold it."
He nodded, barely upright, and dragged his comrade to safety.
She kept moving.
Every direction she looked, Heaven was under siege. The outer gates burned. Entire streets—once paved with cloudlight and blessed stone—were crumbling beneath the weight of shadow beasts.
They had already taken the Ninth Pillar Tower.
She could see it from where she stood now: half-collapsed, its celestial light extinguished.
And still, the bells rang.
They hadn't stopped since the Southern Ward fell.
Zhao Yan leapt to higher ground—a shattered bridge where the wind cut through the smoke just enough to show the scale of it.
Fires in the east. Screams from the north. The Divine Army scattered across too many fronts. The demons weren't pushing toward one gate.
They were pushing everywhere.
Her grip on her spear tightened.
This wasn't a siege.
It was a trap.
Divide the pillars. Distract the commanders. Pull them away from the heart of the realm.
And then take it.
Zhao Yan's pulse pounded in her ears. She launched forward again, through flame and falling stone. Each time she struck, she struck clean. No hesitation. No flourish. Just precision. Just speed.
Somewhere ahead, Tiangong still stood.
But for how long?
She didn't stop to wonder.
She just kept moving.
Just outside Tiangong Palace.
The golden bridge stretched across the high sky, wide enough for ten legions to march side by side. For centuries, it had stood untouched, unmarred—connecting the central gate of Tiangong Palace to the rest of the Heavenly Realm.
Now it would carry the enemy straight to the throne.
Xuanlie walked at the front of the invading force. His armor was intact, polished, still bearing the seal of a general of Heaven. He didn't hide his face. His steps were steady. Measured. As if he was returning home.
The demon horde followed behind him, silent at first. Not a roar. Not a snarl. Just the sound of boots and claws and bone scraping against sacred stone.
Divine soldiers stationed at the Golden Bridge lowered their weapons slowly, confused.
"General Xuanlie?"
He said nothing.
A young guard stepped forward. "Sir, we thought you—"
The boy didn't finish.
Xuanlie's blade carved through his neck in one motion. The body hit the ground before the others understood what had happened.
The hesitation only lasted seconds.
It was enough.
The demons surged forward. Blackened wings, barbed tails, molten fangs. The Divine Army tried to form ranks, but their formation broke the moment fear cracked the line.
The first hour turned the golden bridge into a field of corpses.
Divine soldiers screamed, torn apart by claw and fire. Holy banners were shredded and trampled. Xuanlie moved through the chaos without pause, his sword finding every gap in armor, every weakness left exposed.
He did not fight like a man possessed. He fought with clarity. With purpose.
He was not frenzied.
He was focused.
He moved like someone who had rehearsed this war in his mind a thousand times.
When the first wave fell, more came to meet him. Commanders, old comrades, men and women who had once served beside him.
None were spared.
Some begged him to stop. Others tried to reason. It didn't matter. Xuanlie cut them all down. His sword rang out with every strike, until the sound was drowned by screams and crumbling stone.
At the halfway point of the bridge, he lifted his hand.
A second wave of demons emerged from the clouds below—monsters that had not seen the sun for centuries, sealed away in the far realms of shadow.
Now unbound.
They poured onto the battlefield, dragging corrupted weapons and strange beasts behind them. The Divine Army splintered.
A third of their forces fell before the hour was done.
Some tried to flee. Others stood their ground and died for it. The ones who hesitated—those who looked at Xuanlie and still saw the man he used to be—were the first to fall.
And then he raised a new banner.
Black, ancient, marked with a sigil the skies had not seen since the first war of gods and demons.
It unfurled above the bridge like a wound in the air.
The sky started to change.
Cloudlight dimmed. The sun bent strangely, as if recoiling. The winds shifted. Even the celestial beasts watching from the palace towers gave low, uncertain cries.
Behind the gates of Tiangong Palace, the Divine Guard locked down every corridor.
But it was already too late.
The enemy was at their doorstep.
And then—
A tremor split the sky.
Light erupted from the throne hall, bright enough to force even the demons to pause. The walls of Tiangong Palace pulsed with divine energy. The very ground beneath their feet stopped shaking, held firm by a power older than stars.
A figure stepped into the light.
Lingxu Dijun.
No crown. No ceremonial armor. Only flowing robes, untouched by ash or blood, as if the chaos had no permission to touch him. His gaze swept across the ruined courtyard, the crushed bodies, the banner of betrayal hanging in the smoke.
His expression did not change.
He raised one hand. Slowly.
A barrier rippled out from the palace—an invisible wall that shattered every dark spell crossing it. The demons nearest it reeled back, screaming as their weapons turned to dust in their hands.
The rest hesitated.
For the first time since the battle began… they hesitated.
From the top of the steps, Dijun spoke.
Not loud. Not angry. Just... certain.
"Those who follow shadows will vanish with them."
The light pulsed once.
And a dozen demons vanished—disintegrated where they stood, their forms broken down into nothing but dust and quiet.
Dijun moved forward from the steps from the throne, eyes fixed on the traitor across the bridge. His voice was calm when it came.
"This is not your throne to take."
Across the Heavenly Realm, the skies were no longer blue.
Smoke choked the clouds. Light flickered behind walls of fire. The air was thick with ash and the stink of burning immortal flesh.
The Heavenly Realm was bleeding from every direction. And its strongest defenders were no longer standing together.
Meihua moved fast.
The Loom Hall was supposed to be untouchable—sacred, protected by timeworn glyphs and threads of fate themselves. But even this place shook with distant thunder. Dust drifted from the ceiling. One of the inner pillars cracked from the foundation up.
She didn't have time to mourn it. She had her orders.
Divine wards lit beneath her feet as she activated the seal, carving it with her own blood. The loom shuddered behind her, its threads tangled and dark. One final push and the hall locked shut with a low hum, protected from intrusion—at least for now.
Her breath hitched as Xuanyan's voice cut through the command seal. Gritty and strained.
"Holding the East. Barely. Get to the Western Gate. Zhao Yan's orders."
Meihua didn't answer. She didn't need to. She was already moving.
She sprinted from the Loom Hall, sliding under falling beams, dodging the broken remnants of statue-guardians now turned to rubble. She passed two divine servants, their robes shredded and arms torn. She did not stop.
Xuanyan stood where the sky had cracked open.
The Eastern Gate had once been lined with white jade steps and gold inlays. Now it was soaked in black blood. The walls trembled from impact after impact.
Demons swarmed in waves. Some were beasts, twisted and gnarled. Others wore broken armor looted from fallen immortals. They hissed and climbed, tearing past broken shields.
Xuanyan's blade split through the neck of one before he turned to shout.
"Hold the left line! Don't let them break the formation!"
His voice was nearly gone. He had shouted himself raw hours ago.
Behind him, fewer than fifty divine soldiers remained. More would come, but not now. Not fast enough.
Lightning cracked over the barrier. A second wave pushed in. Xuanyan raised his sword again, parried a horned demon's blade, and shoved his foot into its chest, breaking the ribcage. Its body flew back into two more.
Blood sprayed across the walls. It wasn't enough.
"Where are the reinforcements?" he muttered, spitting on the ground.
Still, he held the line. He had to.
Zhao Yan had pushed past three places of fallen strongholds. Her armor was streaked with blood—most of it not hers. Her left shoulder burned where a jagged blade had caught her, but she didn't stop.
Tiangong Palace was still ahead. She could see its silhouette now, the sacred peaks in the distance, the golden bridge like a thread in the sky. But the road there was a warpath.
Her spear snapped through another demon's chest, twisted once, and yanked free. She stepped over its body before it hit the ground.
All around her, divine soldiers fell in groups. Some screamed. Some didn't even have time to make a sound.
"Form up!" Zhao Yan barked, voice cutting through the chaos.
Two captains limped to her side, bloodied and coughing smoke. They didn't ask questions. They knew who she was.
"Push west. Carve a path. Don't wait for stragglers."
She didn't wait for confirmation. She moved forward, ducked under a blade, drove her spear into a beast's eye, and kicked it off the edge of the platform.
Another one leapt from the left. She spun and caught it with the haft of her weapon, knocking it aside. Its claws scraped across her ribs. She didn't flinch.
She had no time to bleed.
The golden sky overhead had begun to dim, stained with smoke and a sickly shade of red. The sound of war drums beat like a second heartbeat, distant but constant.
Every step forward was another piece of her burned away.
But she had to keep moving.
She had to reach the Palace.
They did not look back.
Meihua did not pause when the Loom Hall collapsed behind her.
Xuanyan did not glance at the bodies falling beside him.
Zhao Yan did not turn when another battalion screamed behind her and vanished under shadow.
There was no time to mourn. No time to break. No time to pray.
The throne hall burned.
Smoke thickened with every breath. The walls groaned as the weight of the palace faltered. The great murals depicting the creation of the realms were defaced, charred. A once-sacred place reduced to battlefield wreckage.
More demons flooded in, driven by bloodlust and orders that came from his own former general.
Dijun remained in place.
His palm burned with residual light. The bodies at the foot of the dais were fresh. Heat still curled from their blackened armor.
He clenched his jaw.
This wasn't just a rebellion. It was a clean, coordinated gutting of Heaven. Sectors were falling too fast. Too cleanly. Pillars scattered. Inner courts compromised.
They had planned this for years.
His fingers tightened until the veins in his hand showed. His eyes moved past the swarm of enemies to the open gates—looking beyond, toward the distant horizon, where the mortal realm still lived, unaware.
If they lost Tiangong, they wouldn't just lose Heaven.
The mortal realm would collapse under the fallout. The veil between realms would tear, and war would bleed through the seams.
Children. Farmers. Kings. Whole generations that never prayed would burn from a war they couldn't see coming.
And it would be his failure.
He was Dijun, keeper of the three realms, judge of souls, protector of the Skyward Order.
And now the heavens themselves cracked around him.
Another strike came. A dagger thrown by one of the traitors. It sliced past his ward and nicked his arm. Shallow, but it stung more than it should have.
His body ached.
He hadn't left the inner sanctum. Ling Huai was still in seclusion when the barriers fell. Zhao Yan had taken command in his silence. Meihua and Xuanyan were now on opposite gates, holding what they could.
He should have seen this coming.
A mistake.
No more.
Dijun lifted both hands. Symbols seared into the air before him, ancient and golden.
The next wave of enemies disintegrated before they even reached the steps.
Flames rolled down the aisle. Screams followed. But his expression didn't change.
He would defend the last inch of this hall with everything he had left.
Even if he fell, Heaven would not.
Not yet.
The bells did not stop.
Even from the heart of the mountain, they pulsed through the stone like a heartbeat out of rhythm. Each toll dragged across his spine like a blade.
Ling Huai's eyes opened.
His breath caught. Then curled out in a slow exhale, white against the cold air.
He had not moved in days.. Maybe weeks.. centuries? Time blurred in this place. The celestial array carved into the cave walls pulsed with low light, dimmer than before. The wards had begun to strain. Cracks splintered across the inner barrier.
He pressed a hand to the ground to steady himself.
The tremor in his fingers betrayed him.
His soul had not yet healed. Fragments drifted inside him like glass in water. Every breath required control. Every step threatened collapse.
But the bells continued.
Something was wrong. Something massive.
He stood.
His knees buckled, caught, held. The robes he wore were soaked in cold sweat. His vision blurred once, then cleared.
He forced himself forward, moving past the outer sigils, across the runes meant to contain him. The mountain resisted. Wind screamed through the wards.
But the world beyond called louder.
He stopped once—long enough to touch the edge of the final seal.
The choice hung in the silence.
Then he pushed through.
His body vanished into stormlight, swallowed by wind and sky.
The seals shattered behind him.
Near Tiangong Palace.
Her armor was cracked. The left side dented inward from a hammer strike. Blood soaked through the plates where the edge had found flesh. It stung, but she didn't feel it anymore.
A blade came for her. She turned her body, caught it with her spear shaft, and shoved it off with a grunt. The next one came faster—she ducked low, rolled through the mud, came up and drove Mingxie straight through its chest.
She pulled it free without pause. Another enemy fell behind her. Then another.
Around her, the sound of battle drowned everything. Screams. Steel. The sickening crunch of bodies thrown against stone.
Her voice had gone hoarse from shouting. Her throat was raw, lips cracked from shouting orders no one could hear anymore.
Still, she didn't fall back.
Divine soldiers formed thin lines behind her, barely holding. They fought with everything they had. But for every wave they cut down, two more followed.
The sky above was no longer blue. Smoke and magic had stained it a sickly gray.
Her footing slipped. Someone pulled her up. She didn't see who. Didn't thank them. Just nodded once and charged forward again.
They were close to the palace now.
She could see the spires in the distance, lit with fire. Could feel the ancient pulse of celestial power shaking through the ground.
Tiangong had not fallen.
Not yet.
Zhao Yan adjusted her grip on Mingxie. She exhaled once, slow. Then pushed forward.
One strike. One breath. One more step.
She did not fall.