"The world knelt before his kindness, but the one he raised would one day burn it all."
The sky above Mount Qixue was painted in winter smoke—soft gray clouds drifting like the sleeves of mourning robes. The pines below whispered in solemn tones, bowed under the weight of fallen snow, and at the highest peak, where no bird dared to nest, a single figure stood with hair like ink and robes like starlight brushing the cold stone.
Yuè Yuán had not descended the mountain in seven years.
But when he did, the world remembered how to kneel.
He wore no crown, no jade pin, no emblem of sect or empire—only silence, grace, and the soft shine of spirit energy that lingered around him like the scent of plum blossoms. His beauty had long since become myth. Some said he was a divine beast in human form; others whispered he had never once spoken in anger. And still, there were those who said he could not be killed—not by blade, poison, or time.
None of them were entirely wrong.
That day, as snow flurried gently through the courtyards of the Zhou Imperial Palace, his arrival passed through every hall like wind under locked doors. Ministers straightened their robes. Eunuchs whispered in corners. Even Emperor Zhaowei, who had not left his study in weeks, stepped out beneath the hanging lanterns.
And at the end of the corridor, beneath a scarlet tapestry embroidered with dragons, stood a lone figure.
Sixteen years old.
Dressed in austere black.
Eyes sharp enough to skin a man without touching him.
That was Prince Jie-Zhou, son of Lady Lian and the Emperor's seventh-born. They did not call him the Seventh Prince anymore. Only the unwanted one.
He did not bow.
He only stared at the approaching figure, the light of the snow-laced torches dancing in his gaze like a dare.
Yuè Yuán stopped a few paces away, snow melting on his shoulder.
"You are young," he said gently, "but your eyes are far too old."
Jie-Zhou's lips curled—more mockery than smile.
"And yours are too kind. That's dangerous in a palace where everyone lives to watch you bleed."
Yuè Yuán's expression did not change.
"Then let us both be unfit for this place."
The boy tilted his head.
"Why are you here?"
"I was asked to guide you."
Jie-Zhou scoffed, quiet but brutal. "By a man who can't protect his own throne? Or by a dead woman who loved me just enough to ruin me?"
"No," Yuè Yuán said after a pause. "By someone who saw that you still breathe—and thought that was reason enough."
Jie-Zhou took a step closer. There was no softness in him. Not in the cold geometry of his face. Not in the way his voice struck like the edge of a blade dulled by use, not time.
"Don't mistake breath for life, Immortal. I am not alive. I am... waiting."
Yuè Yuán crouched to meet his eyes. He looked at him not as a prince, not as a threat, but simply as a soul that had forgotten how to rest.
"And what are you waiting for, Jie-Zhou?"
The boy's gaze flickered—just once.
"For the world to owe me something I can take back."
That night, in the quiet sanctum of Moon Hall, Yuè Yuán sat beneath a lone lantern, reading over the scrolls of court history and sealed letters from Lady Lian—the late Lady of Falling Orchid Pavilion. The woman who bore Jie-Zhou and died poisoned under suspicious silence.
A young official named Huì Fēn, barely twenty-two, brought him tea with trembling hands. His robes were modest. His energy was low. A scholar by training, not a fighter.
"Teacher Yuè," he said softly. ""They say the prince is cursed. That he doesn't cry, or sleep, or bleed like normal children.And when his mother died, he didn't even ask to see the body."
Yuè Yuán turned a page calmly.
"They say a great deal when they fear a boy who says nothing."
Huì Fēn hesitated. "You... aren't afraid?"
Yuè Yuán looked out into the frost-laced garden. "We should all be afraid of a boy who has no one left to disappoint."
Elsewhere in the palace, Empress Ren Xiuying—the most feared woman in the Zhou Dynasty—threw a cup of jade-scented tea against her mirror.
"The Immortal Yuè dares to descend the mountain for that one?" she spat. "Does he think this is his court to rule with pity and plum wine?"
Her personal aide, Xián Quán, stood quietly nearby, arms folded behind his back. His tone was dry, amused even.
"Pity has power, Your Majesty. Especially when offered by the beautiful."
She turned toward him slowly, venom dripping from every syllable. "I've burned prettier things than him."
Xián Quán only bowed. "And yet, Teacher Yuè still stands."
Meanwhile, in a forgotten wing of the palace, beneath a moonless window, Prince Jie-Zhou sat cross-legged on a woven mat.
He was holding a dagger.
Not ceremonial. Not ornamental.
It was old. Bloodstained.
Carved with the character for quiet vengeance.
He scraped the edge gently across his thumb. Blood welled up, dark and thick.
Not even a flinch.
"Immortal," he whispered to the night. "Let's see how long you can pretend to love what you don't understand."
And for the first time since he was born, a white candle in the corner guttered and went dark — untouched.