The first crack of thunder did not sound like thunder.
It sounded like something breaking.
The sky did not flash—it split.
Two blinding streaks of lightning tore through the red-veined heavens, carving jagged lines across the crimson expanse as though some unseen blade had tested its edge against the firmament. The sound that followed was not merely loud—it was colossal. It rolled outward in violent waves, shaking the earth beneath the oak tree, rattling its ancient trunk, sending shock through soil and bone alike.
The lightning did not vanish.
It hung there—two immense fissures of white-gold brilliance—stretching downward like open wounds, wide enough to swallow mountains, wide enough to devour cities.
And beneath that impossible sky, under the oak tree that had appeared from nowhere, lay two sleeping figures.
Jiang Yunxian.
Xing Yue.
The ground trembled.
Both of them jerked awake at the same time.
There was no gradual return to awareness—no slow blinking confusion. Their eyes snapped open, bodies already tense, instincts screaming before their minds could catch up.
Something was wrong.
No.
Something had always been wrong.
The thunder roared again, and this time the wind answered.
It came not as a breeze, not even as a gale—but as a violent, spiraling force that descended from the split sky like a predator unleashed. It howled through the branches of the oak, ripping leaves free, tearing grass from its roots, bending the very air into a vortex.
Jiang Yunxian barely had time to curse.
Xing Yue reached instinctively toward him—
Too late.
The two lightning fissures pulsed, and from each erupted a vacuuming force, invisible yet irresistible. The wind twisted around their bodies like chains of air. Jiang Yunxian was dragged toward the right fissure. Xing Yue toward the left.
For the briefest second, their eyes met.
Then they were torn apart.
The sky swallowed them whole.
And just as suddenly—
It closed.
The red veins faded. The lightning scars sealed as though they had never existed. The heavens returned to an ordinary night sky, quiet and deceptively calm. No thunder. No wind. No sign that anything unnatural had occurred.
Only the oak tree remained.
Still.
Silent.
Witnessing.
—
Darkness.
Not the darkness of night. Not the kind softened by stars or moonlight.
This was absolute.
A void without edges. Without sound.
Without scent.
Except—
A single beam of light descended from nowhere, pale and narrow, illuminating one spot in the emptiness.
Jiang Yunxian.
He sat upright abruptly, breath steady, eyes adjusting to the focused glow. His surroundings were impossible to comprehend. There was no floor, yet he was seated. No walls, yet the light confined him.
And what was his first reaction?
Not fear.
Not anger at being abducted.
Not even concern for Xing Yue.
He scowled.
"I was sleeping," he muttered.
Of all the injustices the universe could commit, this one offended him the most. He had been exhausted—physically, spiritually, existentially exhausted. And that sleep had been good. Deep. The kind that sank into the bones and stitched the mind back together.
And it had been interrupted.
Somewhere in the darkness, a shrill voice echoed.
It pierced the void like metal scraping stone—sharp, high, layered with something ancient and inhuman. It spoke words that should have carried weight. Should have demanded attention. Should have inspired dread.
Jiang Yunxian ignored it.
He looked around once, squinting at the endless black beyond the light.
"Mm," he grunted.
The voice continued, rising in pitch, perhaps expecting shock or defiance.
He lay back down.
Right there. In the beam of divine interrogation light.
He folded his hands beneath his head, shifted slightly to find a comfortable position, and closed his eyes.
"If you dragged me here for a lecture," he muttered lazily, "schedule it after breakfast."
The shrill voice faltered.
And then—
He actually fell asleep.
His breathing evened out. Shoulders relaxed. Expression softened into genuine rest.
If there had been an observer watching from the edges of that void, they would not have been confused.
They would have been deeply concerned.
Because only two types of beings could behave this way in the face of the unknown:
Those who were unimaginably foolish.
Or those who had long since stopped fearing the consequences of gods.
And Jiang Yunxian—
Was neither foolish.
Which made it far more unsettling.
___
Things were no better in Xing Yue's case.
If Jiang Yunxian's world was devoured by silence, hers was swallowed by something far more deliberate.
The moment the sky sealed shut after tearing them apart, Xing Yue did not scream. She did not stumble. She did not waste breath on fear.
She landed on her feet.
The ground beneath her was not ground at all—but a smooth, obsidian-like surface that reflected nothing. Not even her shadow. Above her stretched a dome of endless darkness, thick and suffocating, like ink poured into the veins of the heavens. There were no stars. No moon. No horizon.
Only absence.
Yet she sat.
Her robes settled around her like pale mist against the void. Her night blue hair spilled over her shoulders, catching what little ambient glow existed in that unnatural space. She folded her hands over her lap and closed her eyes—not in surrender, but in calculation.
There was laughter in the distance.
It did not echo. It did not ripple.
It simply existed.
"As expected of the Goddess," the voice crooned from somewhere and nowhere at once. "You fear nothing. You are always prepared to face whatever comes your way."
Xing Yue did not answer.
She did not even tilt her head.
Outwardly, she seemed as still as a statue carved from moonstone. But inwardly—vast currents were moving.
Her divine consciousness expanded like a silent tide, slipping through layers of fabricated space, searching for a familiar presence. Jiang Yunxian's aura was distinct—like a flame that refused to flicker. Heavy. Steady. Irritatingly stubborn.
Not that she worried.
She trusted him.
Even in death.
Especially in death.
But she needed to know which one of them would break the balance first.
If he died before her… the heavens would tremble.
If she died before him… the stars would collapse.
Either way, chaos would bloom.
"Don't bother searching for your friend," the voice chimed, sharper now, as though mildly offended by her quiet dismissal. "I believe your friend isn't having it well either."
Still, she did not move.
Only after several breaths did she release a faint sigh, as though mildly inconvenienced.
"Let me guess," she said at last, her tone smooth as still water. "You're the Future Spirit. The one who reveals all that lies ahead."
There was a pause.
Then delighted laughter.
"You are correct. I am the Future Spirit." The voice swelled with pride. "And I believe my brother—Past—has already taken hold of your companion."
At that, Xing Yue laughed.
It was soft.
It was brief.
But it carried something dangerous within it.
"No," she murmured, rising to her feet at last. "That isn't it."
She began walking forward.
There was nothing in front of her.
Yet she walked as though stepping across marble floors in a familiar palace.
"You are in a green robe," she continued lightly. "Standing on top of a stool to appear taller than you are."
The darkness trembled.
"I suppose your height is… not very impressive."
The voice shrieked.
It cracked like thin glass under pressure.
"How—how did you know?!"
Xing Yue stopped.
Her eyes opened.
In the pitch-black void, her pupils shimmered faintly—like twin fragments of a broken constellation.
"What am I?" she asked softly.
The air grew heavy.
"I am the Star Goddess."
And as she spoke those words, faint threads of starlight began weaving themselves into existence around her fingers.
"Night has always been mine. I have commanded the constellations. I have watched centuries pass while mortals slept." Her gaze sharpened. "You think darkness could frighten me?"
Her voice dropped—cold as the vacuum between galaxies.
"How dare you?"
With a single flick of her wrist—
The darkness shattered.
It did not fade.
It did not dissolve.
It shattered.
Like glass struck by an unseen hammer.
Cracks of pale silver light spread outward from her position, spider-webbing across the void. The artificial night collapsed into fragments, revealing the hidden architecture beneath.
And there he was.
Just as she had said.
A thin, narrow-faced man in flowing green robes stood precariously on a wooden stool, which wobbled under his shifting weight. His eyes were wide, his lips trembling, and his attempt at an imposing aura evaporated the moment the illusion fell.
"You—" he stammered.
"I also wager," Xing Yue continued calmly, stepping closer, "that you three were not the ones who created that red sky."
His expression twitched.
"You three brothers—Past, Present, and Future—can tamper with threads of fate. You can twist outcomes. Rewrite minor events." Her gaze sharpened like a blade. "But altering the sky? Changing nature itself?"
She shook her head faintly.
"That is beyond you."
The green-robed spirit stared at her as if seeing her for the first time.
"If you knew…" he swallowed. "If you guessed everything… why pretend?"
She tilted her head slightly.
"I never pretended," she said mildly. "I merely allowed you to perform your little act. It would have been rude to interrupt."
For a moment, silence stretched between them.
Then he laughed again—but this time, the laughter lacked confidence. It was strained. Sharp at the edges.
"I'm not sure your friend is in a very good state right now," he said, watching her carefully.
That made her pause.
Not visibly.
But the faint shimmer around her eyes dimmed just slightly.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
The spirit's lips curved upward.
"You are familiar with the Sovereignty of the Ten Arc, aren't you?"
And for the first time—
Xing Yue stiffened.
It was subtle.
So subtle that no mortal would have noticed.
But the air around her grew colder.
Of course she knew.
How could she not?
The Sovereignty of the Ten Arc was not merely a technique. It was not merely a weapon. It was a doctrine. A dominion.
It was the ancient authority that allowed its wielder to sever the ten fundamental arcs of existence—Time. Space. Spirit. Flesh. Memory. Cause. Effect. Fate. Soul. and Will.
A power forbidden even among gods. That only one amongst them could become the Sovereignty of Ten Arc.
A power that did not kill.
It erased.
Those struck by it were not slain.
They were removed from the continuity of existence itself.
And the Past Spirit—
Past ruled memory.
Past ruled origin.
Past ruled the foundation of what was.
If Jiang Yunxian had been dragged into that domain…
Xing Yue's fingers curled faintly at her sides.
Not in fear.
In anger.
The green-robed spirit noticed.
A smile spread slowly across his face.
"You understand now," he said softly. "Your friend may remember who he truly is by the time this ends."
The air shifted.
The faint starlight around Xing Yue dimmed.
Not because she was weakening.
But because something deeper had begun to awaken.
"You overestimate yourselves," she said quietly.
Her voice was no longer conversational.
It was vast.
Like the murmur of galaxies burning quietly.
Xing Yue looked up at him fully now.
Her eyes were no longer silver.
They were deep, endless blue—swirling with distant constellations.
And it had all of things it would like to say to all.
Especially the Sovereignty of Ten Arc. Who was her friend.
___
"Get to the point," she snarled lowly.
The words did not echo, yet they seemed to bruise the air.
The Future Spirit straightened atop his stool, though the stool itself had begun to tremble under the pressure of her unveiled presence. Around them, the false night he had constructed was gone. In its place stretched an endless vault of living stars—each one humming faintly, each one watching.
He swallowed.
"I am the Future," he said, forcing dignity back into his tone. "Before I decide what happens next, both Past and Present pass through me. Every thread. Every outcome. Every possibility."
His narrow fingers twitched, and thin silver strands flickered into existence between them—lines of fate, vibrating softly like harp strings caught in a wind no one else could feel.
"And guess what," he added, a strange excitement creeping into his voice, "I found something about him."
The mention of him did not visibly affect her.
But the nearest constellation dimmed for the briefest second.
Xing Yue's patience thinned like frost under dawn.
"Speak clearly so I can understand," she said.
Her tone was level, but the stars behind her shifted ever so slightly—an omen of a brewing storm.
The Future Spirit inhaled, as though savoring the weight of what he was about to reveal.
"Back then," he began slowly, "you were only a thousand-year-old star. Still growing. Still blooming. You had not yet taken full dominion over the firmament."
The scene around them changed.
Not by her will.
But by his.
The stars dimmed, and a memory unfolded in the void.
A young Xing Yue—radiant yet unfinished—hovered within a vast chamber carved from crystallized starlight. Constellations spiraled around her like protective serpents. At the entrance stood a tall, robed figure: An Xie.
Her master.
Ancient.
Unfathomable.
His voice echoed like wind across distant galaxies.
"You must bloom fully before you inherit the mantle," the illusion of An Xie said. "The heavens cannot afford an incomplete Goddess."
The chamber sealed.
The "Locked Room of Stars."
A prison disguised as protection.
"You were sent into isolation," the Future Spirit continued. "To ripen. To transcend. To become the Star Goddess."
He sighed, shaking his head as though disappointed.
"And in doing so… you missed a great many things."
The memory shattered.
The stars returned.
Silence thickened.
Xing Yue did not react immediately.
Instead, she thought.
She had thought about that era countless times.
A hundred thousand years ago.
A period historians marked as tranquil. A time of transition. A seamless ascension.
Too seamless.
Her brows furrowed faintly.
What exactly happened?
When she was sealed within that chamber, cultivating, refining, shedding her mortal remnants—
What moved outside?
What shifted?
What burned?
She had sensed discrepancies before.
Subtle fractures in recorded history. Events that felt… rearranged.
That was why she had allowed the impostor to take her place for a time.
Why she had let certain divine conflicts slide without intervention.
Why she had not mended fractures she knew she could mend.
Because she was searching.
Waiting.
Trying to understand what she was missing.
"You mean…?" she began.
But he cut her off.
"I did not mean," he said lightly, stepping down from his stool now that the illusion of height no longer mattered. "I merely observe. I am Future. I deal in what will be, not in explanations of what was."
His smile turned thin.
"I have many destinies to adjust. Many catastrophes to prune. I will return—if you prove worth my time."
The arrogance in his tone was deliberate.
Provocation.
But before she could respond—
He vanished.
Not with smoke.
Not with light.
He simply ceased to occupy that space.
The threads of fate dissolved.
The stars dimmed.
And the vast celestial dome trembled.
For a heartbeat—
Xing Yue stood alone in the cosmos she had summoned.
Then the ground beneath her feet softened.
Not physically.
Existentially.
The stars began sinking.
Not falling—but dissolving upward, like ink being drawn back into an unseen brush.
Her body felt heavier.
Gravity reasserted itself.
The sensation was disorienting—not because she feared it, but because it was abrupt.
The void swallowed her ankles.
Then her knees.
Then her waist.
The cosmos folded inward like closing petals.
And she was falling.
There was no wind.
No rush.
Only a quiet descent through layers of reality peeling back.
Fragments of light brushed against her skin—echoes of timelines, possibilities she had not chosen.
She glimpsed flashes—
A battlefield scorched in violet flame.
Jiang Yunxian standing amid ruins, blood on his knuckles, smiling faintly.
An ancient throne shattered.
Her own reflection wearing a crown she did not recognize.
Then darkness swallowed everything.
And suddenly—
She felt earth beneath her palms.
Cold.
Solid.
Real.
The scent of soil and oak filled her senses.
The red sky was gone.
Replaced by an ordinary blue, streaked with drifting clouds as though nothing had happened.
Birdsong echoed faintly in the distance.
The oak tree still stood.
Ancient. Unmoving. Indifferent.
Xing Yue lay on the grass where she had been before the sky tore open.
For a moment, she did not move.
The breeze lifted a strand of her night blue hair across her cheek.
She sat up slowly.
The world was calm.
Too calm.
The kind of calm that follows a storm no one else remembers.
Her gaze immediately swept the clearing.
Left.
Right.
Behind the oak.
Across the rolling meadow.
Nothing.
No trace of distorted space.
No lingering scent of divine manipulation.
No rift.
No Jiang Yunxian.
Just her.
And the vastness of an untouched afternoon.
The sunlight warmed her skin, yet a chill lingered in her bones.
She stood.
Her robes brushed against the grass with a whisper.
She extended her consciousness outward once more.
Not aggressively.
Not forcefully.
Carefully.
She searched for his presence.
That stubborn, immovable will.
That irritatingly steady pulse.
Nothing.
Not severed.
Not extinguished.
Just… absent.
Her jaw tightened slightly.
The Future Spirit's words replayed in her mind.
You missed a lot of things. Important ones.
What happened a hundred thousand years ago?
Why did her master truly seal her away?
What was altered while she bloomed in isolation?
And why was Jiang Yunxian entangled in that forgotten thread?
The breeze shifted.
Leaves rustled.
For a fleeting moment, she sensed something—not in the air, but in memory.
A faint, ancient resonance.
As though a door she had once closed was now pressing against its hinges from the other side.
She clenched her fist.
Not in panic.
In resolve.
If the Past held him—
Then she would unearth the Past.
If history had been rewritten—
Then she would tear through every false chronicle.
Her gaze lifted to the sky.
It looked harmless.
Innocent.
Blue.
But she knew better now.
The red sky earlier had not been the brothers' doing.
Someone else had intervened.
Someone powerful enough to disturb nature itself.
And if that force had ties to the era she had been sealed away—
Then the Sovereignty of the Ten Arc was only the beginning.
She exhaled slowly.
The grass bent around her as a faint pressure radiated outward.
The earth responded instinctively to divine will.
"You enjoy playing riddles," she murmured softly to the empty air.
Her voice was calm again.
Controlled.
"But I do not chase shadows."
Her eyes shimmered faintly.
"If he remembers....what happens?"
A pause.
"And if he does not…"
The wind died.
For a fraction of a second, the entire meadow seemed to hold its breath.
The sunlight brightened again as though nothing had occurred.
Birds resumed their song.
The oak tree stood tall, ancient and silent.
And beneath it—
The Star Goddess stood alone.
But not abandoned.
Not defeated.
Only awakened to the unsettling truth that the greatest battle before her was not against Future.
Not against Past.
But against the forgotten gap in her own history.
And somewhere, in a domain ruled by memory and erasure—
Jiang Yunxian faced a silence that even she could not yet see.
The calm earth beneath her feet felt fragile now.
Like a thin page in a book whose earlier chapters had been torn out.
And Xing Yue knew—
She would have to read what was missing.