The skies above the Heavenly Court churn with stormlight. Gold-threaded clouds twist into chaotic spirals, tainted by the dark aura spreading from the heart of the battle. Celestial halls crumble one by one, each thunderous collapse echoing like the tolling of a funeral bell. Where divine order once stood, only divine ruin remains.
Amidst the shattered marble and drifting banners, Dijun stands tall. Unarmored, hands bare, face streaked with soot and blood. His golden eyes narrow, glowing faintly with suppressed divinity. Every step he takes sends ripples through the very air, the pressure of his power bending light around him.
Across from him, Xuanlie—or what remains of him—raises his blade. The man who was once the Celestial General, Heaven's beloved warhound, now bears a soul steeped in abyss. The body is still noble, posture straight, but the energy leaking from him reeks of another realm.
The Demon King is no longer hiding.
"No armor? No blade?" the voice that comes from Xuanlie's mouth is deeper, older. It doesn't belong in this realm. It crawls under the skin, seeps into bone. "Brave, or foolish? I can't decide."
Dijun tilts his head slightly, eyes calm. "I don't need steel to end you."
The demon inside Xuanlie laughs. It's rich, amused, echoing with too many voices at once. "Still so smug. But I suppose it fits you. You always did think yourself above the battlefield, didn't you? The mighty Dijun, too divine to stain his hands."
Power gathers in Dijun's palms, white-gold light swirling and compressing. "You're not Xuanlie."
The Demon King stops pacing. His smile widens. "It took you this long to realize?"
Dijun studies him in silence. Then he speaks, voice like a judgment rendered: "I suspected. I denied it. But now, fighting you like this… I see it clearly. The one before me is not a twisted version of Xuanlie. You are someone else."
The Demon King raises his hand, letting fire pool along his fingers. The flame is black, hungry, alive. "Ah, there it is. The sharp mind beneath the arrogance."
Dijun's eyes narrow. "You're not just anyone. You're the one we buried centuries ago beneath the Starfall Abyss. The one who ruled the Third Circle of the Lower Realms."
The Demon King bows mockingly. "Finally. I was beginning to feel insulted."
Dijun's voice is cold now. "You were sealed for a reason."
"And yet here I stand. In your prized general's body. That must sting."
Dijun clenches his fist. "What did you do to Xuanlie?"
"Do? I consumed him. Slowly. Carefully. Over centuries. He fought, of course. They always do. But in the end, he begged for the silence. He couldn't bear the truth I showed him."
The words hit like a blade. Dijun doesn't flinch—but something changes in the air around him. It turns colder. Sharper.
The Demon King continues, almost gently, as if delivering poetry. "He dreamed of glory. You trained him like a weapon, threw him at your enemies. He died long before I took control. I merely gave his corpse new purpose."
Golden light bursts from Dijun's form. The wind itself recoils.
"I will erase you."
And then he moves.
No chant. No signal. Just raw, divine force released in an instant.
The ground beneath them shatters as Dijun launches forward, fist glowing with the weight of heaven. The Demon King blocks with his blade, but the impact sends cracks crawling across the marble platform. Lightning arcs around them as spiritual pressure crashes like waves.
They exchange blows—Dijun, fluid and deadly, his style like falling stars; the Demon King, efficient, every motion tainted by infernal elegance. Their power clashes midair, causing shockwaves that split nearby peaks.
"You're slower than I remember," the Demon King sneers, ducking beneath a swipe and kicking Dijun backward.
Dijun skids to a halt. "You've made the mistake of thinking this form makes you a god. It doesn't."
The Demon King's expression darkens. "I am beyond godhood. I have tasted every realm. Worn the skin of kings and legends. I am chaos given shape."
He raises his sword and sends a cascade of black fire spiraling forward. Dijun responds with a radiant wall of light, the two forces colliding midair. A blinding explosion throws both of them back, smoke billowing, sky cracking.
They land, and within seconds, they're charging again.
Fists. Flames. Light. Thunder. Heaven burns.
"Where is your patience, Dijun?" the Demon King mocks. "Did I rattle you? Did I make it too personal?"
Dijun appears behind him in a blink. A golden sigil explodes beneath the Demon King's feet. "You desecrated one of my own. That is personal."
The Demon King snarls, forced to leap back as divine chains lash from the ground.
He laughs again as he lands on a broken column. "I wonder, when I take your body next, will it be as obedient as his was?"
Dijun doesn't answer. He extends a hand to the sky.
And Heaven itself responds.
A beam of light—pure, unrelenting—crashes down on the battlefield, swallowing the Demon King's laugh in roaring light. The entire court shakes. Debris rains. The world holds its breath.
Then a cough. A laugh.
Xuanlie steps out from the smoke, half his robe torn, his arm seared. But still standing.
"You'll have to try harder than that."
And he rushes forward again, blade raised.
They clash one more time. Each strike a promise. Each step closer to collapse.
Heaven is breaking.
The Demon King roared, pushing back. The chains held—briefly—before shattering in a burst of violet fire. Shadowy tendrils lashed out, stabbing toward Dijun's chest, but he twisted, catching one midair. Divine light surged from his grip, burning the tendril into ash.
"I see it now," Dijun murmured, eyes narrowing.
"Oh?" The Demon King raised a brow.
"You're not just a thief," Dijun said. "You're desperate."
The Demon King's smile cracked.
"You spent centuries wearing his face," Dijun continued, circling, voice like slow thunder. "Hoping some shred of his reputation would rub off. But you still don't move like him. Don't speak like him. And you can't stop me like he could."
The Demon King hurled a blast of corrupted chi, black and jagged like a scream. Dijun sliced through it with raw force, the explosion lighting up the sky.
"You're not him," Dijun finished.
The Demon King bared his teeth. "And thank the heavens for that," he snapped. "He died a loyal fool. I? I will reshape the heavens in my image."
Dijun gave a dry laugh. "You're not reshaping anything. You're just trying to crawl your way out of his shadow."
The Demon King shot forward, a blur of clawed hands and blade-like spiritual force. Dijun met him head-on. No weapons. No armor. Only burning light, burning fury. Their collision cracked the air like thunderclaps. Each strike rippled through the ruins. Lightning sparked beneath their feet, debris swirling around them in a cyclone of destruction.
For every strike the Demon King landed, Dijun gave three in return. He didn't fight for show. He didn't fight for glory. He fought like someone who'd buried too many, who'd seen too much, and who refused to let this twisted monster wear a friend's face any longer.
The ground quaked beneath them. A palace tower split clean down the middle.
High above the chaos, clouds churned, bruised and heavy.
This was no longer battle.
It was judgment.
A rift split the skies above the battlefield.
No lightning. No thunder. Just an unnatural stillness. The kind that silences wind, chokes sound, stills time.
And then—light.
Not radiant. Not holy. But sharp. Focused. Like a blade poised before it strikes.
Out of that rift, Ling Huai descended.
Silver robes untouched by ash. Hair bound high, a few loose strands floating in the surge of spiritual pressure gathering around him. His hand gripped a long, narrow sword, forged in silence and tempered in restraint. Cold light danced along the steel. The clouds moved aside, unsure whether to bow or scatter.
The Demon King faltered. Not from fear, but recognition. The name carried weight, and now the body stood beneath it.
Dijun stared, breath catching in his throat.
"Ling Huai," he said. "You ended your seclusion?"
Ling Huai touched the ground. His boots landed on air, as if the heavens themselves held him upright. His eyes—calm, unreadable—fixed on the Demon King. Not with hatred. Not even challenge. But calculation.
"You were losing," he said, as if commenting on the weather.
Dijun stepped forward, furious now. "You're not ready. Your core hasn't fully stabilized. You could—" his voice broke, "—you could burn out."
Ling Huai glanced at him, voice still even. "I know."
That was all.
No warning. No drawn-out entrance.
His sword moved.
The ground exploded beneath the Demon King as a wave of pressure slammed toward him. He raised his arm, catching the blow with a barrier of cursed flame—but it cracked instantly. Ling Huai didn't pause. The second strike came even faster, slicing a clean arc through the sky, forcing the Demon King to retreat midair.
And Dijun—caught between frustration and awe—sighed, low and sharp. "Fine. But we do this my way."
"I'll follow your lead," Ling Huai said.
They moved in tandem. No signal. No plan. Just instinct carved from centuries.
Dijun surged left, a wall of golden energy smashing through corrupted flame. Ling Huai moved right, sword slicing precise lines through dark mist. The Demon King tried to pivot, to separate them—but they adapted. Dijun's raw force bent the battlefield. Ling Huai's control turned it into a weapon.
A palm strike from Dijun sent the Demon King backward. Ling Huai was already there. His sword thrust forward, aimed not at the body, but at the flow of demonic energy beneath. The blade pierced through shadow and struck true—forcing the Demon King to vanish into smoke before reappearing a dozen feet away.
He growled, voice cracking. "Two against one? Pathetic."
Dijun laughed once. "We'd offer a fair fight, but you're not worth the effort."
Ling Huai didn't respond. He was already stepping forward, sword raised.
The Demon King unleashed a storm of corrupted chi, wide and wild. It surged toward them like a wave meant to crush mountains.
Dijun raised a barrier of golden light.
Ling Huai's sword cut through it instead.
The storm split down the center. Not dispersed. Not blocked. Severed.
Behind the barrier, Dijun glanced at his brother.
"You've improved."
Ling Huai's reply was quiet.
"You haven't."
For a moment, the Demon King stood across from them, breathing heavily, hands cracked with demonic flame.
And before him stood two brothers: one burning like the sun, the other still as the moon. One fought with fury. The other with precision. But both—undeniably—divine.
The tide had shifted.
And the heavens were watching.
The air twisted with the remnants of the Demon King's shattered spell. The scorched sky crackled as divine and demonic energy collided midair, thunderless and deafening.
Xuanlie pulled back, lips curled, arms heavy with shadow. His body—still wearing the face of the fallen Celestial General—twitched beneath the weight of Ling Huai's blade and Dijun's raw pressure.
But he was not fleeing.
Not yet.
He grinned, mockery in his voice. "Oh, so this is the famed unity of Heaven. A wayward god and a half-healed prodigy. Tell me—how long before your core cracks open like a brittle shell, Ling Huai?"
Ling Huai advanced, eyes locked on him. No hesitation. No reply.
Xuanlie stepped back. The air around him shimmered as he drew demonic sigils with his fingers—runes older than time, meant to tear through celestial defenses.
Dijun saw it. His jaw tensed.
"Don't give him space," he snapped.
Ling Huai vanished from sight.
Xuanlie's head snapped sideways—too late.
A flash of silver, a blink of wind, and Ling Huai was there, sword already mid-swing. Xuanlie barely raised a clawed hand in time, steel slamming against bone with a thunderclap. He staggered—
—and Dijun struck.
No weapon. No chant.
Just force.
His palm slammed into Xuanlie's exposed flank with a crash that cracked the clouds above. The demon king flew backwards, caught between twin forces: one of perfect precision, the other, unrelenting might.
He righted himself mid-air, coughing dark blood that sizzled against his stolen skin. He growled. "You think cornering me will end this? You think this is the worst I can become?"
Ling Huai appeared behind him.
His sword drew a line in the air—a single, clean arc.
Xuanlie spun, blocking just in time, but the impact shattered his defense. His barrier failed. His footing slipped. And as he reeled—
Dijun was already diving down from above, golden light burning in his eyes.
"You always talk too much," he said.
He struck again.
This time, Xuanlie crashed. His body slammed into the floating tiles of the eastern courtyard, breaking through marble and divine stone like they were sand. The entire battlefield shook.
From the edge of the destruction, Ling Huai dropped down, sword still ready, expression unreadable.
Xuanlie rose, blood dripping from his mouth. His smirk had cracked. His composure was fraying.
Dijun landed beside his brother, his breath calm, his gaze never leaving their enemy.
"Still feel like mocking us?" Dijun said, voice low.
Xuanlie snarled. "I feel like gutting you both."
Ling Huai took a single step forward. "Then try."
They moved together.
A flurry of gold and silver. Fists and blade. One overwhelming. The other surgical. Every move pushed Xuanlie back. Every strike denied him space. They didn't let him breathe.
Not this time.
Xuanlie's claws lashed out, aiming for Ling Huai's throat. The sword turned, deflected. Dijun answered with a fist to the ribs, sending him skidding backward across the shattered stone.
He tried to launch a wave of corrupted chi in desperation, but Ling Huai's blade flashed through it before it could take form.
Dijun closed the distance, grabbed him by the collar, and punched.
Xuanlie flew into a broken pillar.
And this time, he didn't rise immediately.
Smoke billowed from the crater. The Demon King let out a rough breath, staggering, one hand pressed against his cracked ribs, the other clawing at the broken earth.
Ling Huai pointed his blade at him.
"Yield."
Xuanlie laughed through blood.
"I'd rather burn."
Dijun's glow flared.
"Then we'll help."
Xuanlie staggered forward, dragging one arm behind him. His breath rasped out like gravel grinding on bone. Blood ran in lines from the side of his mouth. His stolen body was starting to break apart. Celestial light flickered across his limbs, clashing with the darker currents twisting under his skin.
Still, he smiled.
The Demon King's eyes gleamed. Not with fear. Not with defeat.
With anticipation.
"You think this is over?" His voice cracked, deeper now. Less Xuanlie. More of what truly possessed him. "You think if you hit hard enough, if you glow bright enough, you'll win?"
Dijun didn't answer. He stepped forward, ready to finish it.
But Ling Huai's eyes narrowed.
He saw it first.
A low, pulsing hum grew from Xuanlie's chest. Not from his hand. Not from his aura.
From inside.
The skin over his sternum began to glow with a sickly red light. A circle burned through, layer after layer of cursed script spiraling outward like veins made of ink and fire. Runes locked into place one by one, ancient characters that predated even the Heavenly Court.
Dijun's head turned sharply. His body tensed.
"No," he said. "That's—"
Xuanlie raised his chin, mouth bloody and smiling.
"You should have killed me faster."
The formation locked.
There was a sound like splitting air and screaming metal.
And then it fired.
The beam wasn't light. It was pure destruction. It didn't cut. It didn't burn. It erased. A direct assault on the divine soul, designed to unmake gods at the core. The ancient soul-erasure array. Forbidden. Long buried. Lost to time—until now.
It hurt to look at.
Dijun raised his hand too late.
He knew it.
"Don't—!"
But someone moved.
A flicker of silver crossed his vision.
The curse struck.
The sound was like a glass bell cracking from within. No scream. Just the brutal sound of something divine breaking.
Ling Huai's body took the full force of the array. Sigils burned through him, searing across his chest, wrists, spine. His knees bent under the pressure, but he didn't fall. His sword dropped with a clang behind him. His breath caught—shallow, strained—but he stood.
Dijun shouted his name, voice tearing across the battlefield.
But he didn't stop moving.
In the instant Ling Huai took the blow, Dijun's fury snapped into motion. His aura surged, raw and wild. He threw his arm forward—not a strike. Not a spell.
An execution.
Golden energy burst from his palm like a divine storm, condensing into a jagged spear of force. It shot forward, howling with the wrath of gods, a beam of righteous fury meant to pierce mountains, sky, and soul.
Xuanlie's face twisted.
He turned to move.
Too slow.
The divine strike slammed into his side. His body arched violently, ribs cracking beneath the blast. The remnants of the curse array shattered mid-air as he screamed, thrown back across the sky like a ragdoll caught in a hurricane.
He crashed through a marble pillar. Through another. Then a crater opened in the courtyard stone.
He didn't rise.
For a moment, everything stilled.
Dijun stood beside Ling Huai, chest heaving, energy still crackling around his form. His brother swayed beside him, barely holding himself upright, skin pale, lips bloodied, eyes dulled but focused.
"You…" Dijun growled low, eyes locked on the crater. "You aimed for me."
Xuanlie groaned from within the rubble. Blood pooled beneath him. His limbs twitched as he tried to rise.
And still—he laughed.
"Shattered bones. Cracked soul. Still not dead," he rasped. "That's the difference between you and me. You bleed for each other. I… cut where it counts."
He tried to summon energy. It sparked, flickered, faltered.
Ling Huai raised his head. His voice was hoarse.
"Next time, I won't shield it."
Xuanlie spat blood. "There won't be a next time."
A rip in space opened behind him—dark, jagged, unstable. A demonic portal.
He didn't wait.
He dragged himself into it, crawling through on broken hands and torn knees, held together by rage and desperation.
Then—gone.
Silence dropped like a shroud.
The younger god staggered. His sword clattered to the stone floor behind him. His hand pressed against his chest, breath faltering.
The sigils of the curse curled around his body, trying to consume, to unravel.
Ling Huai gritted his teeth. His knees buckled. He turned his head toward Dijun.
"I made a choice," he said, voice strained. "You would have died. Heaven… would have lost you."
His eyes dimmed, not from weakness, but from the overwhelming force trying to tear him apart inside.
"You ended your seclusion too early," Dijun whispered, moving toward him. "You weren't ready for this."
"I know," Ling Huai answered, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "But someone had to move."
Dijun caught him before he could fall.
The younger god collapsed against his brother's chest. His body was trembling, not from pain, but from the struggle to hold his soul together.
"You fool," Dijun said, voice barely audible. "You absolute fool."
Ling Huai didn't answer. He barely even breathed.
Then it started.
Cracks split across his chest, glowing with a steady, unnatural light. They crawled outward like fractures on porcelain, webbing across his skin and into the air. It wasn't blood that spilled—it was his soul. Light escaped in thin, silent threads.
Dijun stared, stunned, until the reality crashed into him like a tide.
"No. No, no, no. Huai." His voice broke on the last syllable. "Stay with me."
Ling Huai's eyelids fluttered. His voice was faint, barely above a whisper.
"I calculated the odds."
Dijun gripped him tighter. "You idiot."
Ling Huai coughed. The light pouring from his chest flickered, stuttering like a dying flame. "You live. That's enough."
"No," Dijun said. His voice dropped low, tense and shaking. "That is not enough. You don't get to decide that for me."
Ling Huai didn't answer. His breath caught. His light dimmed.
Then it stopped.
Stillness settled. His form slackened. His soul, cracked and breaking apart, began to pull away from the body like smoke from dying embers.
Dijun moved fast. He pressed his hand against Ling Huai's chest and forced his spiritual essence in. It wasn't the right method. It wasn't clean. He didn't chant, didn't call on Heaven's authority. He didn't ask permission.
He didn't have time.
He reached inside the fractures and poured power into the gaps. He focused on what was left of Ling Huai's soul. Just enough. Not to restore. Not to revive. But to hold.
The air around them buzzed, reacting to the violation. The heavens trembled, sensing a divine act pushed too far. But Dijun didn't stop.
He found the pieces that hadn't crumbled yet. Pressed them together. Sealed them, one by one, even as more cracks formed. His spiritual energy wove through the damage, a patchwork of raw, desperate force.
The shattering stopped.
The soul didn't disappear.
But it didn't fully return, either.
Ling Huai's body pulsed once, faintly. The glow under his skin still leaked, but the worst of it had slowed. The edges of his soul—what remained—flickered like a candle with no wick.
The divine body had started to fade. Slowly, the shimmer of it was thinning, unraveling thread by thread.
But the soul will stay. Barely.
Dijun didn't move. He sat there with Ling Huai's body in his arms, his hand still pressed to the cracked chest. His own breath came shallow. The weight of what he just did was already bearing down on him.
He had gone against Heaven.
He had preserved a soul that was meant to pass.
He had kept his brother from death.
But he hadn't saved him.
Not really.
Ling Huai's body continued to fade in his arms. But the soul, though dimmed and fractured, stayed tethered.
Broken. But not lost.
Dijun bowed his head. The fight was over.
And the cost had been paid.
A crash cuts through the silence.
The wind shifts, heavy with smoke and divine energy that still clings to the bones of the palace. The once-pristine steps of Tiangong are cracked. Columns shattered. The scent of battle lingers in the air—blood, fire, ozone. But the war here has ended.
Zhao Yan steps through the ruined gates.
Her spear drips dark blood that is not her own. Her armor is burned through at the shoulder, the plating along her ribs dented from a direct blow. The red sash at her waist is torn, trailing behind her in strips. Her breathing is uneven. Each step echoes through the quiet.
And then she sees them.
Two figures on the ground. One kneeling. One fading.
Dijun holds Ling Huai in his arms, one hand pressed gently to his brother's chest. His brows are furrowed, lips tight in concentration. There is no healing left to give. Only preservation. A faint light glows between his fingers, holding together what little can still be saved.
Ling Huai's body is no longer solid. His skin flickers in and out of existence. Pieces of him have begun to dissolve, starting from the edges. Like smoke carried by the wind. His breathing is shallow. Unsteady.
Zhao Yan stops walking. Her legs move before thought can catch up. She runs across the broken ground, drops to her knees beside them.
Her hand lifts instinctively, fingers trembling.
But she doesn't touch him.
She stops an inch from his shoulder. Her hand hovers there, frozen.
"…You," she whispers. Her voice barely carries.
Dijun glances at her. His gaze is tired. Eyes dimmer than they've ever been. His shoulders are tense, one hand still glowing against Ling Huai's chest, as if he can will the cracks in the soul to vanish.
He doesn't speak. Not at first.
Zhao Yan lowers her hand.
"I was at the front," she says. "The demons sent a third wave. I couldn't break through until the tide turned."
Her voice is flat. Not defensive. Just fact.
Dijun still says nothing. But his eyes linger on her face. Longer than necessary.
She swallows and looks down. Her eyes settle on Ling Huai's face.
There's peace there. A strange kind. But it's the kind that comes after too much has been given.
"I saw him once," she says quietly, "a thousand years ago. At the edge of the Plum Pavilion."
Dijun's brow twitches.
"He was standing near the koi pond," she continues. "I was there to deliver a scroll. I wasn't supposed to speak to him."
"And?" Dijun asks.
"I didn't," she says. Her lips press into a thin line. "I left before he noticed."
He studies her. The meaning behind her words starts to settle into place, but he doesn't name it.
"You could have," he says.
"I could have," she agrees.
The quiet between them stretches again. The wind picks up. Part of Ling Huai's sleeve unravels into particles of light. The outer shell of his divine body continues to fade, slowly, steadily.
"I always thought," Zhao Yan says, voice low, "that being unnoticed made it easier. That if I stayed where I was—silent, useful—then I wouldn't have to want anything."
Her hands tighten into fists against her thighs. Gauntlets creak.
"But I did want something," she says. "And I waited too long to admit it. Even to myself."
Dijun shifts slightly, careful not to disturb Ling Huai's form. His eyes stay fixed on Zhao Yan now, not with judgment, but with something unreadable. Calculating. Familiar.
"You mourn him deeply," he says, not as a question.
Zhao Yan doesn't answer.
Her gaze remains on the brother in his arms. On the hair that still glows faintly with divine light. On the mouth that no longer speaks, the eyes that no longer open.
Zhao Yan's expression doesn't change. But her silence says enough.
Dijun looks back down at his brother.
"I couldn't let him go," he says, his voice dry, strained. "He gave up everything to save me. I did what I could to keep what was left. Mending it… was all I had left."
Zhao Yan nods. Slowly. Her eyes sting.
"He wasn't supposed to be here," Dijun murmurs. "He wasn't supposed to be the one who paid for this."
Her eyes shift toward him. "He chose to."
"I know."
They fall silent again.
Zhao Yan leans forward. Carefully. Still not touching. Just watching. Her chest tightens with every flicker of light that slips from Ling Huai's form. Every second feels like a piece of time being carved away.
She closes her eyes.
"I don't want him to become someone I remember only in silence," she says.
Dijun exhales through his nose.
He finally looks at her—really looks at her. And in that moment, something clicks. He doesn't speak it aloud. He doesn't ask again.
He just watches her.
And finally, he says, "Then don't."
Zhao Yan says nothing.
The light from Ling Huai's body begins to slow its flickering. Stabilizing. Not fully—but for now, he remains.
Held together by defiance. By grief. And by love that was never spoken.
The air was still thick with the aftermath of divine war. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals from shattered pillars. The once-sacred marble floor of Tiangong Palace was splintered, scorched. Silence ruled now—broken only by the faint, steady hum of spiritual force trying desperately to hold something together.
Two figures entered through the broken gates.
Xuanyan limped forward first, dragging one leg behind him, robes torn and stained with blood. His left arm hung uselessly at his side, scorched black at the sleeve. Behind him, Meihua followed—her blade lowered, the tip scraping against the stone. A thin trail of blood ran down from her temple, mixing with soot on her cheek. Both of them were breathing hard, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.
Then they saw them.
At the center of the ruined hall, Dijun knelt beside his brother. One hand pressed firmly over Ling Huai's chest, a dim light pulsing weakly from his palm. Beside him, Zhao Yan sat still, pouring her own spiritual energy into Ling Huai's fading body. Her armor was scorched, her hair tangled with blood and dust, but her eyes didn't waver. Her hand hovered inches from Ling Huai's shoulder, trembling from the force she held back.
Ling Huai's form was barely intact. Pieces of his body flickered, wavering between solid and light. It was like watching a candle guttering before the flame gave out.
Xuanyan's steps faltered.
"…Don't tell me…" His voice cracked. His eyes searched the scene for something—anything—that contradicted what he already knew.
Meihua didn't answer.
She stepped forward, slowly, as if every motion needed to be earned. Her fingers loosened from her weapon. The blade clattered gently against the stone. Then, without a word, she sank to her knees and bowed her head toward Ling Huai.
The silence grew heavier.
Zhao Yan didn't look back. Dijun didn't speak.
The effort of holding what remained was taking its toll. Sweat lined Dijun's brow. His jaw clenched tight. Zhao Yan's hands were shaking now, her lips pressed into a firm line.
"We're too late," Meihua whispered.
Her voice wasn't bitter. It wasn't angry.
It was hollow.
The light around Ling Huai flickered one final time. His hand, barely resting against Dijun's robes, lost form. His chest stopped moving. The faint outline of his body shimmered for a heartbeat longer—then collapsed in on itself like mist burned away by morning light.
What remained was a cracked soul. Dim. Fragile. Floating where his chest had been.
Zhao Yan lowered her hand at last. Slowly. Her eyes never left the fracture.
Dijun's head bowed, both hands falling to his lap.
Xuanyan took one shaky step forward and stopped again. His shoulders dropped.
No one moved.
Nothing more could be done.