In the shadow of the great capital of Ju Luo, on the last day of the Lunar New Year Festival.

The village streets were still adorned — crowded, vibrant, and joyful.

Yet through those colorful streets staggered a shadow, one that bled into the festive light, indistinguishable from the capital itself.

The black aura.

A boy, his eyes as dark as the abyss.

He carried the weight of his dirt-stained body, his face marked by bruises.

The once-cheerful street turned into a battlefield, filled with whispers and insults — and he, the child, was the one losing the war against the vast army.

Each word, like an arrow, pierced him with a pain deeper than divine punishment.

And among all of them, one word echoed again and again, like a blade tearing into his skin:

Die.

Die.

Die.

The stones thrown at him did not wound as deeply as the words that pierced his soul.

Die!

His mind screamed. His once-black eyes now glimmered with a darker light — a light that devoured.

Darkness consumed his sight, spreading through every corner like a disease, swallowing both his pain and the people who once sang and danced.

The demons, thirsty for blood, continued hurling curses. Their scarlet eyes gleamed with the hunger for more.

Monster.

Curse.

Monster!

As if from a distant bell, his mind snapped from its trance.

Then — a voice.

Familiar. Monstrous. A voice he knew better than the blasphemies sown like seeds around him.

“A monster?”

A sarcastic smile curved on his lips — dark, distant, concealed.

“Try to bring me down, humans. I will devour every piece of your soul.”

That sinister thought enveloped his body for a moment...

And everything stopped.

The stones, the curses, the insults — all of it.

A chill ran down their spines, freezing them where they stood.

The child who had once lost the war now triumphed — like a phoenix, reborn from chaos, fear, and power.

With his head lifted and a smirk painted upon his face, he showed them:

For the first time in years, since the day he had first learned to walk —

Yes. He was the one who ruled this world.

Like an emperor of darkness, he did not bow his head — and never would again.

The same gaze that once trembled with fear was now the reason the village itself quaked.

The sweet scent of fear, once emanating from his body, now filled his lungs like a fine meal.

His smile deepened.

One step, then another.

The crowd that once mocked him parted, opening a path. Like a phoenix, he moved — graceful, powerful, sovereign. Upon his back lay the weight of a reign strong enough to shake a hundred kingdoms, defeating enemies with a single motion.

The uneven grace of his steps came to a halt. His eyes fixed upon the only residence not adorned with decorations — the one radiating wealth and superiority.

The Yu Residence.

With a long sigh, he pushed the doors open. The cold wind brushed his face, making him shiver. But as he stepped inside, his aura of superiority crumbled to dust.

“Xiu Zhao.”

A woman’s voice — soft, sweet, wrapped in silk — made his spine tremble.

His body turned, even against his will.

And there she was — his mother.

A woman who, even in middle age, looked pure as porcelain. Yet behind those blue eyes, bright as a sunlit sky, hid a coldness veiled beneath a serene mask.

“Xiu Zhao.”

It was not a name — it was a command.

“Yes, Lady Yi?”

His voice came out small — like that of a frightened cub.

“How many times have I told you not to leave the house before finishing your tasks?”

Her gentle tone carried a sharp chill.

“I have finished my tasks.”

A faint whisper — confident, detached — enough to threaten her authority.

Her gaze flickered for just a moment, but the next instant her expression was calm once more.

“Go bathe.”

...

Steam rose like mist, embracing Xiu Zhao’s wounded body. Each droplet that touched his skin burned like acid — yet he remained silent, still as the midnight river.

Immersed in the water, he finally allowed his turbulent soul to rest.

...

At the dinner table, seated obediently like a porcelain doll, Xiu Zhao waited for the meal.

The silence of the night filled the room — suffocating, heavy. Soon, the aroma of countless dishes drifted through the air.

The table was set with care; servants stood motionless in the corner, shadows in the monotony of his life. Across from him sat Lady Yi — elegant, imperial, tasting each dish with delicate disdain.

The young master, appetite gone, stared into his bowl. His reflection in the lotus soup — blurred and lifeless — made him almost laugh.

What a joke.

He thought bitterly.

With a final sip, he finished the now-cold soup, rose, and without looking at his mother, walked away — vanishing into the corridors like a ghost.

Behind the closed door of his room, a quiet sigh escaped his lips.

He went to his small study table and sat upon a silk cushion.

A book with a rich, pale cover lay before him — its title written in blood-red ink:

“The Fall of the Three Kingdoms.”

Xiu Zhao turned the pages until he reached the new chapter:

“The Great Calamity.”

...

Humans, ghosts — even celestial beings felt the tremor of the three kingdoms.

None knew why, until...

From the blood-red sky, from the distant mountains, it emerged — The Great Calamity.

Not a war, not a rebellion, but something born of fear itself.

Wherever it passed, the air reeked of terror and blood.

It came in a single day — and since then, the heavens and earth trembled beneath its feet.

Even the celestial deities, worshipped by men, bowed before The Great Calamity.

Its name spread through the wind, and with it came horror — Yu Sheng, the blood-thirsty demon, The Calamity of Guang Chi, death incarnate.

He slaughtered all within the Guang Chi Sect — the children, the animals, the pregnant women, the elderly, even the widows. None were spared by the Calamity.

Each step he took made the King of the Underworld tremble; with every breath, more sects fell; with every heartbeat, the world wept tears of blood.

But nothing lasts forever.

A savior arose — the great cultivator, honored that day as the Hero of Guang Chi—

Furious, the boy slammed the book shut.

“Lies! Father would never be defeated!”

“He never lost.”

His chest swelled with pride.

He knew well that Yu Sheng — his father — could never lose to the so-called hero of Guang Chi. He was proud of his father’s power, even knowing his past. After all, it was not every day that a man could make the three kingdoms tremble.

The scent of tea and sweets perfumed the air in the pavilion.

Xiu Zhao and Lady Yi enjoyed their afternoon tea.

“Madame Yi.”

A servant spoke, bowing.

“What is it, Dai Zhi?”

With grace, Lady Yi set her teacup down, lifting her chin as she looked upon the servant.

“The garments you ordered are ready.”

The madame nodded slightly and rose, adjusting her winter cloak.

“Let us go.”

Her voice — cold, commanding — made Xiu Zhao flinch.

...

The sound of the bustling street, the laughter of children — all vanished the moment he set foot on the market road.

No one dared to look at him.

Yet like a plague, the air filled with murmurs, insults — some even dared to call the phoenix who fought alone an aberration.

Xiu Zhao’s eyes trembled for a moment, and the corner of his lips shone faintly, like a star. But realizing his weakness, he blinked away the tear that threatened to fall.

His pain deepened when his mother — the one who should have loved him above all, the one meant to protect him — remained silent, watching her son’s humiliation.

The whispers grew into a roar.

Xiu Zhao, long used to their venom, who once refused to be shaken by their cruelty —

died.

His only living light, his final hope that flickered faintly within the dark —

was devoured by his own shadows.

The noise of the marketplace faded into a dull hum, as though the very world had turned against him.

The insults, the laughter — all dissolved into the void of his darkness.

Lifting his gaze, Xiu Zhao felt as if the street itself had forgotten he existed.

The people, weary and indifferent, returned to their tasks, their colors, their joy.

Only he remained — a ghost, wandering through the ruins of their happiness.

His feet dragged him forward, forcing him to follow his mother — the same woman who saw everything, yet closed her eyes to the humiliation her son endured.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if the world had erred in allowing him to live.

Then came the chime of a bell — soft, delicate — from a passing carriage, its sound a gentle discord against the market’s chaos.

He lifted his head.

Drawn by the sight of noble white horses pulling the carriage, he knew immediately that something so ethereal could not possibly belong to their small, forgotten town.

The crowd gathered around, whispers rising like wind through reeds — this time not because of him.

The carriage stopped. From within emerged a boy clad in pale blue silk.

His presence — pure, kind, almost unearthly — stirred the silent walls inside Xiu Zhao. Golden hair caught the dim afternoon light, gleaming like a promise.

Xiu Zhao’s heart faltered, his eyes lingering longer than they should upon the unfamiliar figure.

“What are you doing here? Go back to where you came from!”

The cold, sharp voice startled him. His mother — a woman of marble and silence — now spoke with a tone laced with disgust and anger.

“I cannot” replied the boy.

Lady Yi’s gaze locked onto his — eyes as blue as her own. Her heart skipped as she recognized in them the same emptiness she had always seen in her son’s.

“Xiu Zhao, take him home” she commanded, leaving no space for refusal. Then she turned away, swallowed by the market’s crowd.

The blond boy stepped closer, a bright smile blooming across his face.

“Hi, Xiu Zhao.”

His voice was soft, delicate — and it made Xiu Zhao tremble.

“H-hi.”

“You’re adorable.”

A faint blush rose to Xiu Zhao’s cheeks. The boy intertwined his arm with his.

“Shall we go?” Xiu Zhao nodded slightly.

“Your eyes are beautiful.”

Xiu Zhao froze. His eyes — the reason for their mockery, the reason his mother turned away, the reason he had tried again and again to end his life — beautiful? What a cruel joke.

“You don’t need to be polite” he muttered, pulling his arm away.

“I’m not,” the boy said, smiling softly. “And I don’t lie when I see something beautiful.”

Xiu Zhao searched his gaze, desperate to find something — disgust, pity, deception — anything to push him away.

But there was nothing. Only clear, tranquil eyes that reflected a gentleness even Xiu Zhao himself did not know he possessed.

He turned and began walking toward home. Behind him, the strange boy — still nameless — followed, lighthearted and cheerful.

“What a strange boy” Xiu Zhao whispered.

---

Xiu Zhao never imagined that just two weeks with that boy, Yi Chen Li, would stir such a storm within him.

Chen Yi was everything he believed himself not to be. Yet the boy’s actions defied every assumption.

In those short weeks, even without truly knowing Xiu Zhao, Chen spoke freely — about his life, his family, the loneliness that lingered in his every word.

Xiu Zhao pretended indifference, but each night as Chen spoke, something inside him burned.

Every tale of neglect, every wound disguised as a smile awakened his own buried fury — his thirst for blood, long hidden, began to rise again.

Chen came from a noble family, much like his own, yet he never knew love — not truly.

His mother had abandoned him to the servants’ care; she hadn’t visited him once since his birth. She adored the elder brother, and let the younger rot beneath scorn — beaten by cousins, belittled by father and brother alike.

Even within a vast household, Chen was invisible. Uncles, aunts, even the lowest servants mocked him, calling him weak.

Since childhood, he had been forced to cultivate, to excel — and when he failed, their laughter followed him.

“You’ll never be better than your brother” they said, their voices like knives.

Every stumble brought a new name: coward, fool, bastard — though he was none of those things.

And yet, when he spoke, he smiled. Always smiled.

That was what haunted Xiu Zhao the most — that radiant smile wrapped around a loneliness he knew too well.

He would never say it aloud, but in some quiet place within him, Chen had already taken root — even deeper than his father’s shadow.

…

Beneath the cherry tree, Xiu Zhao turned the pages of his book, lost in its depths.

He didn’t notice the boy who had been watching him for some time.

“The Heavenly Realm” Chen said, intrigued.

Used to these interruptions, Xiu Zhao didn’t even flinch.

“Do you like it?”

“Not really. But the stories are interesting.”

The walls around Xiu Zhao crumbled a little more each day. The small sun before him — smiling, radiant — broke through them effortlessly.

“Xiu Zhao” Chen murmured softly.

Seeing the serious expression on his face, Xiu Zhao set his book aside.

“Don’t worry” he said.

They didn’t need words. His eyes spoke what his lips could not.

Xiu Zhao reached out, brushed his hand along Chen’s face, and whispered:

“I’m here.”

He drew him close, wrapping him in a firm embrace, his hand gentle against the boy’s trembling back.

“Please… don’t leave me” came the muffled plea.

“I’ll never leave you.”

Just a single sentence — and Chen broke, tears spilling freely.

Above them, the heavens wept, sealing their fragile promise beneath the rain.

Two broken hearts, trampled and scarred, bound together by words heavier than all their pain.

“My light.”

Two words that roared louder than thunder.

“Young master, please come inside!” a servant called.

Even drenched beneath the tree, the boys held each other tightly, savoring every heartbeat as though the world might end tomorrow.

Lightning tore the sky apart.

“We should go in” Xiu Zhao whispered.

They rose. Rain ran down his face as he brushed the golden strands from Chen’s eyes.

Side by side, hand in hand, they walked through the storm with smiles on their faces.

And even the fiercest tempest felt like a sunlit day.

…

In the bath, their chilled bodies eased as the warm water touched their skin.

“Can’t you stay a little longer? Just a few days?”

Though he tried to hide it, his voice trembled with desperation.

“I can’t.”

Chen drew closer, wrapping his arms around him. Xiu Zhao leaned into the warmth of his touch.

“I didn’t want to leave you,” Chen murmured. “You’re my first friend.”

“You’re mine too,” Xiu Zhao whispered back.

“Then let’s make the most of our last day together.”

…

The dinners they shared erased every memory of loneliness.

Chen prepared Xiu Zhao’s favorite dishes — all vegetarian, no meat.

Even the servants treated the meal with care, unwilling to repeat the mistakes of years past.

The dinner passed quickly — too quickly.

Xiu Zhao wanted time itself to slow, just so he could hold onto those moments a little longer.

As always, Chen followed him to his room afterward.

They sat side by side on the bed, Xiu Zhao’s small hand gripping Chen’s tightly, reluctant to let go.

“Xiu.”

“Mm?”

“Why don’t you eat meat?”

The question that had lingered finally slipped from his lips like a whisper.

“I stopped because it started making me sick. The smell alone makes me want to vomit.”

“But don’t worry, I don’t—”

Before he could finish, Chen pulled him into a fierce embrace — so tight that Xiu Zhao, even accustomed to his warmth, was left breathless.

He patted Chen’s back lightly, gasping between words.

“Sometimes I think you’re trying to kill me.”

“Sorry”

Xiu Zhao laughed — truly laughed — until he fell back on the bed, breathless.

Chen didn’t understand what amused him so much, but the sound filled him with warmth.

“Stay like this, little light” Chen whispered, brushing a hand through his hair.

To his surprise, Xiu Zhao was already asleep.

Smiling, Chen pulled the blanket over him and pressed a tender kiss to his forehead.

“Good night, Xiu Zhao.”

It was a new day.

The sky was dark, as if it knew what was happening.

The gray of the clouds reflected the sorrow—they held back the tears that refused to fall.

Sitting in the gazebo, Xiu Zhao and Chen stared at their reflections in the once-warm tea.

The fragrance, once filled with a soft note of joy, had long vanished with the cold wind.

The silence that inhabited the gazebo drowned the air in the lonely waters of the Dead Sea.

“Xiu Zhao” Chen called softly, stopping his idle play with the sweets.

Xiu Zhao, his head bowed over the teacup, looked up. Even though he didn’t want to, he looked—and there it was…

That light which, even on the cloudiest days, shone as if there were no tomorrow.

Xiu Zhao looked into eyes that spoke more than words ever could.

He looked again at his reflection in the cold tea, sinking into thought.

Then he raised his head, a small smile forming on his lips.

“Let’s go.”

Chen’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

He stood and took the hand Xiu Zhao offered.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his voice bright with curiosity.

“To a special place.”

Xiu Zhao intertwined his arm with Chen’s, holding his hand firmly.

…

The world around them was filled with abandoned houses—some half-collapsed, some already gone, others reduced to mere patches of land.

Chen looked around the empty street, colorless and lifeless, his face filled with confusion.

“What are we doing here?”

Instead of answering, Xiu Zhao pulled Chen toward a field at the end of the street.

He opened the gate, which fell apart in the process.

Chen’s eyes widened in awe.

The garden was alive with color—roses of every hue, tulips, little dandelions, black dahlias, and wildflowers of every kind.

The mixture of blooms gave the place a passionate air that left Chen speechless.

While he was lost in admiration, he didn’t notice the warmth that had disappeared from his arm.

Xiu Zhao was near the roses, picking one of each color. He carefully removed the thorns and gathered them into a crown.

Satisfied with his work, he ran toward Chen, smiling.

Chen startled slightly at his sudden rush, but smiled as he saw the crown in Xiu Zhao’s hands.

The wind played with his hair, and petals swirled around them, as if celebrating that small, shining moment.

“It’s for you” said Xiu Zhao, breathless, holding out the crown.

His eyes, cold as winter, carried a rare light—one that seemed to burn only for Chen.

Chen stayed silent for a moment.

His heart beat quickly; he couldn’t tell if it was because of the gesture or the gaze that pierced him like light entering a dark room.

With trembling hands, he placed the crown on his head.

“Now it’s perfect” murmured Xiu Zhao, looking away.

“Why?” asked Chen, smiling faintly.

“Because even among flowers, you’re still the one who shines the most.”

The silence returned, but now it was gentle—a comfortable quiet, as if words had finally found rest.

Xiu Zhao sat down on the grass, watching the petals dance away.

Chen sat beside him, leaning his shoulder against his.

“Xiu Zhao…” he whispered.

“Hm?”

“Thank you for showing me something beautiful… when the world feels so ugly.”

Xiu Zhao was quiet for a long time before replying softly.

“The world isn’t ugly, Chen. It’s people who are.

But sometimes, one person is enough to change the way we see it.”

Chen turned to look at him, and for a moment, time stopped—the gray sky, the flowers, the cold wind, everything fell silent.

There was only them—two boys trying to find warmth in a world that had forgotten them.

…

The wind grew stronger, carrying the petals away.

Their peaceful silence was broken by a faint, familiar chime—one that made Xiu Zhao’s heart freeze.

He looked at his light, the one smiling back at him.

“Chen,” he called, voice trembling slightly.

“My father once told me that the heart must be guarded, protected…

But I… I don’t know how to do that.”

He extended his hand, and a small fragment of light—warm, alive—appeared in his palm.

“Take care of it.”

He held out a silver necklace, adorned with small red stones and a scarlet gem at its center.

“This is…” Chen’s voice trembled as he took the necklace, feeling its inexplicable warmth.

“It is.”

“Why are you giving this to me?”

“I don’t want you to forget me, just as I don’t want to forget you.

It might sound foolish, but you’re someone special to me—and this is just a small piece of what we are.”

The love in Xiu Zhao’s voice made Chen’s heart pound.

He stepped closer and embraced him tightly.

“I promise to take good care of it.

And when we meet again, we’ll be together forever.”

Xiu Zhao returned the embrace with equal fervor.

They held each other for a long time until an exasperated cough interrupted them.

He didn’t care about the intrusion.

He took Chen’s hand—the same one holding his heart—gently but firmly.

“Let me help you.”

He picked up the necklace and fastened it around Chen’s neck.

Then he stood and offered his hand.

“Let’s go.”

Hand in hand, they left the little paradise, followed by the servant who watched them with contempt.

The sight of the elegant carriage made Xiu Zhao tighten his grip on Chen’s hand.

He helped Chen climb aboard.

Chen looked back at him one last time, a radiant smile lighting his face.

The carriage began to move before he was ready to leave.

“See you soon, Xiu Zhao!” he called out the window, waving cheerfully.

“See you soon,” Xiu Zhao whispered, his words fading with the wind.

He stood there, watching the carriage disappear like dust.

Yet his smile never faded.

Joyful, he returned to the garden, gathering a few tulips and a wilted sunflower.

He went back to the corner of the roses, plucking the same colors he had used for Chen’s crown—blue, white, yellow, and red.

Colors that represented the boy with hair like gold.

“It was worth using my mana to make these roses” he whispered, caressing the blue and yellow petals.

The wind rose again, making the petals dance around him.

Xiu Zhao watched them move, as if within them he could see Chen’s smile.

The world felt too silent now.

Without Chen’s laughter, even the colors seemed to fade.

He stroked the petals in his hand.

“How long…” he murmured, looking up at the gray sky.

“How long until I can see you again?”

The words were carried away by the wind.

He looked toward the empty space where Chen had stood minutes before and felt his heart beating in echo—not within his chest, but far away, with Chen.

An invisible bond, fragile, yet real.

He touched the place where his heart had once been, smiling softly, knowing it was safe now.

…

Cherry blossom leaves floated clumsily through the air, something Xiu Zhao tried not to notice.

The walk back home was silent—something rare for him.

The cold breeze brushed against his face, carrying a scent he knew too well.

He stopped, breathing deeply, trying to place it.

Each breath made it stronger, more real.

His pace quickened.

With every step, the scent grew heavier, more suffocating.

When he reached the Yu residence, he already knew.

That smell—the one he could never forget, no matter how hard he tried.

He opened the door.

And then—

his body froze.

His eyes widened.

A chill crawled up his spine.