The Heavens did not understand the quiet, devastating, world-altering power of a small hand holding onto a finger.
As Jiu Zui stood with his silver sword raised, shielding his feral, weeping, beautiful disciple, his mind did not process the threat of the Star-Seers.
His mind drifted back, falling through the brutal, jagged corridors of time, returning to a night shrouded in secrecy, rain, and absolute desperation.
It was raining in the capital.
Not a gentle, cleansing shower, but a heavy deluge that turned the cobblestone streets into rivers of mud and sorrow.
Jiu Zui had not been a drunkard then. He had been the ethereal, respected Sovereign of the Drunken Peak, a man whose beauty rivaled the moon and whose sword arts were whispered about in terrified reverence.
He had been sitting in his private pavilion, meditating upon the stillness of the Dao, when the wards of his mountain shattered.
He had drawn his sword, expecting an assassination attempt by the Demonic Palaces.
