The Wheel of Mortality closed minutes ago, but the scar it left behind lingers. The sky is too quiet. Not peaceful—just hollow.
Where divine energy once stirred, nothing moves. The heavens hold their breath.
Zhao Yan is gone.
The gods do not speak. No farewell. No rites. Just the absence that spreads like a slow crack through crystal.
Xuanyan steps forward. His robes sweep the air as he raises a hand to dismiss the remaining formation. Golden fragments drift into the wind and vanish. His expression does not change.
Dijun stands in the same place. He hasn't moved since he let her go. Mingxie rests at his side, silent. Her blade, once sharp with spirit, now lies dormant. She accepts no hand but Zhao Yan's. Yet she does not resist his.
No one dares to break the silence. But it is filled with the weight of a name no one says aloud.
The sky feels smaller.
And colder.
The Heavenly Realms are not what they once were.
They do not speak of timelines. No one dares to ask. Restoration will take centuries, if it comes at all. The balance that once held the skies steady now hangs loose, barely held together.
The Court of War stands hollow.
Without Zhao Yan, command fractures. Her officers try to hold the lines, but her presence was more than authority—it was certainty. Soldiers scatter across the realms to protect the borders she once guarded alone. They do their duty, but not with the same force.
Dijun acts. He appoints a trusted general to keep the Court of War intact. It is not a permanent choice. He leaves the throne vacant, waiting for her return. He does not say this out loud. But no one misses the message.
Celestial scribes work day and night. Scrolls pile up with the names of every soldier who stood during the rebellion. Some names are honored. Some are grieved. Some will never be spoken again.
In the hallways and outer skies, the gods whisper. Her name drifts like smoke. So does his.
Zhao Yan.
Ling Huai.
Not as titles. Just names. Just memories.
The kind that linger even when you're not allowed to mourn.
Meihua returns alone.
The Loom sits in the center of the sky, untouched since the weaving. The air around it is still. Quiet. Heavy.
She steps closer. Her fingers hover above the threads, careful not to disturb them. The red string glows faintly, pulsing against the dim backdrop of the stars.
It hasn't broken.
It winds across the clouds, pulled taut through the veil of realms. It dips beyond sight, reaching down into the Mortal Realm. It wraps around something small—fragile—but alive.
A sliver of soul.
She sees it. Ling Huai, buried deep within the world below.
Meihua does not cry. There is nothing left in her to shed.
She lowers herself before the loom and sits in silence. She doesn't weave. Doesn't move. She just watches. And waits.
Her voice is soft. Barely more than breath.
"She will find him."
Xuanyan stands alone at the edge of the Southern Sky, where the rebellion once cracked the heavens open. The scars haven't faded. The energy here is raw, unstable, still trembling with the weight of what had been lost.
He doesn't pause.
With a flick of his sleeve, he summons a floating diagram—an intricate construct of glowing lines and celestial script. It hovers before him, shifting as new symbols appear. Every line drawn is a decision. Every symbol, a risk.
His hands move steadily, guiding the formation with a calm that doesn't reach his eyes. His robes ripple in the quiet wind, yet he feels no cold, no warmth. Only purpose.
Behind him, young immortals arrive one by one, waiting for his word. But Xuanyan doesn't speak.
He simply continues.
As long as the sky stands broken, he will not stop.
Dijun walks through the empty halls of the Celestial Palace. Each step echoes too loudly. The banners hang still. The gold along the pillars has lost its luster. There is no one left to impress. No court to preside over. No audience to tease.
Behind him, Mingxie follows. Her shaft gleams faintly, but the storm she once carried is gone. The spear that once roared through battle is silent.
He enters the Hall of Sealed Oaths.
At its center stands the pedestal meant for divine weapons—those retired, sealed, or lost. He lifts his hand to place her there.
But Mingxie does not settle.
She hovers, unwilling. As if waiting.
Dijun lowers his hand, watches her for a moment.
"…Stubborn," he mutters, almost fondly. "Just like her."
He exhales. Not tired, but... pulled thin.
"She always said you had a will of your own," he continues, voice low, more to Mingxie than himself. "I didn't believe her then. I thought she was being dramatic."
He pauses.
"She was always dramatic, wasn't she?" His lips twitch, but the smile never comes. "But she was right about you."
Mingxie stays afloat, unmoving, unwavering.
"She entrusted you to me," he says, more serious now. "And I don't take that lightly."
He turns away from the pedestal.
"Stay with me then."
He walks forward again. This time, slower.
Mingxie follows behind him, a quiet shadow in the shape of memory.
"She'll come back," Dijun says softly. "And when she does… we give her scolding for doing it alone."
The palace does not answer. But Mingxie glows faintly, just enough to respond.
He doesn't smile.
But the silence feels less hollow.
Far below, the Mortal Realm turns quietly. Cities rise. Rivers flow. The world carries on, unaware of the storm that passed above.
Time moves forward. Seasons change. Mortals live their small lives, untouched by the grief of the gods.
But higher still, where the sky meets the stars, a single red thread glows faint against the dark.
It stretches downward, steady and thin, anchored to a soul not yet whole.
And in that quiet light, the cycle begins again.