Before her memory failed her again, Ling Yue still remembered enough to feel curious instead of afraid.
The Immortal Realm had learned to fall silent when Ye appeared.
It was not an order.
It was instinct.
Immortals lowered their voices. Conversations thinned. Even light seemed to hesitate around him, as though unsure whether it would be allowed to remain.
Ye stood in the Hall of Adjudication, dark robes unmoving, hands relaxed at his sides. He looked bored — which frightened them more than anger ever could.
Ling Yue stood among the lesser fairies assigned to observe.
She was not supposed to notice him.
She did anyway.
Not because he was terrifying — everyone was terrifying in this place, in one way or another — but because he was alone.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him with open curiosity.
"That's odd," she murmured to herself.
The fairy beside her stiffened. "What is?"
"That demon king," Ling Yue whispered. "Why does he look like he's listening to something no one else can hear?"
The fairy nearly fainted. "Don't look at him!"
Too late.
Ye's gaze lifted.
Their eyes met.
The world did not end.
Ling Yue blinked.
Then she smiled — small, reflexive, polite.
Ye did not react.
But something in his chest shifted.
---
Later, when the hall emptied and tension finally dispersed, Ling Yue lingered near the outer steps, humming softly as she adjusted the ribbon on her sleeve. She told herself she was waiting for her companions.
She was not.
"You shouldn't stay here."
The voice behind her was calm, low — dangerous not because it threatened, but because it didn't need to.
Ling Yue turned.
Up close, Ye was overwhelming.
Not loud.
Not cruel.
Just heavy — like standing too close to something ancient that had survived too much.
"Oh," she said, brightening. "You can talk."
Ye frowned. "…Yes."
"That's good," she said cheerfully. "Some immortals just stare. It's unsettling."
He stared at her now.
"You're not afraid," he said.
She considered it seriously. "I think I should be. But I'm mostly curious."
That was the wrong answer.
And the only honest one.
"We've met before," she added suddenly, brows knitting together. "Haven't we?"
Ye's fingers curled slightly.
"Yes," he said.
Her face lit up with relief. "I knew it! I kept thinking I was being rude by not remembering, but—"
She stopped.
Her smile faltered.
"I… can't remember where," she admitted, embarrassed. "That happens sometimes."
"I know," Ye said quietly.
She looked up at him again. "You do?"
He nodded once.
The way he said it — without judgment — made her chest warm.
---
They began to cross paths after that.
Never planned.
Never acknowledged.
Ling Yue appeared where Ye least expected her: fractured realms, damaged fate nodes, places where Heaven had already passed judgment and moved on.
She talked.
A lot.
"You're always standing where things are broken," she said once, peering at a collapsed sky seam. "Is that your job?"
"No."
"Oh. Then do you just like messes?"
Ye exhaled slowly. "They follow me."
She smiled at that, as if it were a joke.
Others feared him.
Ling Yue watched him.
She saw the way his power moved — precise, merciless. She saw him erase a traitor without hesitation, shadow swallowing light so completely that even the heavens recoiled.
She should have been afraid.
Instead, later, she asked softly, "Did it hurt?"
Ye paused. "For him? No."
"For you," she clarified.
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
"…Yes," he said.
She nodded, satisfied. "That makes sense."
---
The first time she asked his name, it was because she tripped.
She caught herself just in time, laughing awkwardly. "I should really watch where I walk. It's embarrassing to fall in front of strangers."
Ye steadied her without touching her.
"You're not a stranger," he said.
She blinked. "Then what should I call you?"
The air stilled.
Names carried memory.
Memory carried consequence.
And Ling Yue's was already slipping through her fingers.
"…Ye," he said after a moment.
She repeated it softly, tasting the sound. "Ye."
Something sharp flickered in her eyes.
Understanding.
Then it vanished.
Her expression shifted to confusion.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I don't know why I asked that."
Ye said nothing.
He had learned not to show pain.
---
The Heaven officials noticed her condition long before they named it a problem.
"She forgets," they murmured.
"And yet she interferes."
Ling Yue worked too close to fate. She felt threads tremble and reached out instinctively, kindness overriding caution.
When Ye's fate darkened — when exile became possibility instead of threat — she acted.
Just once.
She touched the Fate Mirror.
Not to change the thread.
Only to slow its fall.
The mirror shattered.
Heaven remembered.
---
When Ye chose exile soon after, they called it rebellion.
Ling Yue stood in the Hall, heart aching inexplicably, staring at a space she felt she should understand — but didn't.
Ye watched from afar.
He knew then what Heaven had decided.
She would forget him again.
And again.
And again.
So he would remember.
Enough for both of them.