《How to Lose a God in 10 Days》


 001 - The Great Noodle Heist

    The Noodles of Eternity shimmered in their jade pot, their golden strands swirling like captured sunlight. A sacred dish, reserved for the Celestial Emperor¡¯s private banquets, and tonight, the target of two gods who should have known better.


    Zhen Wei perched on the edge of a floating scripture shelf, his war-god physique draped in shadow-dark silk. His fingers hovered over the steam, testing its divine heat. Across from him, Li¨¢n, younger by a century and just as striking, leaned against the kitchen¡¯s moonbeam-lit pillar, arms crossed. His beauty was the kind that inspired ballads, though he¡¯d sooner cut a poet¡¯s tongue out than endure one.


    "You realize this is treason," Li¨¢n said, voice low.


    Zhen Wei smirked. "Only if we¡¯re caught."


    Li¨¢n exhaled, but his eyes gleamed. He moved with the liquid grace of a duelist, plucking a single noodle from the pot. It glowed between his fingers, casting light over his sharp features.


    The Noodle God, a stern immortal with ink-black hair knotted high and robes embroidered with twisting flourishes of wheat and steam, stirred at his desk. His brush paused mid-character.


    Li¨¢n froze.


    Zhen Wei didn¡¯t.


    With a flick of his wrist, Zhen Wei sent a peach pit skittering across the floor. The Noodle God turned just as Li¨¢n vanished, his form dissolving into the shadows between lanterns.


    "Distraction?" Li¨¢n¡¯s voice whispered from nowhere.


    "Always," Zhen Wei murmured back.


    They moved in tandem. Zhen Wei palmed a handful of noodles, their light dying against his skin as if ashamed. Li¨¢n, materializing beside the recipe scroll, traced a finger down its edge, and the ink rearranged itself, altering ten thousand years to ten minutes.


    The Noodle God turned back. Blinked at his scroll. Then roared.


    The chase that followed was neither clumsy nor comical.


    It was art.


    Zhen Wei leapt through moonlit arches, Li¨¢n flowing beside him like a second shadow. Behind them, the Noodle God¡¯s fury shook the palace, his voice echoing like thunder.


    "You disrespect the very heavens!"


    The Noodle God''s roar shook the foundations as they sprinted through the courtyard. Zhen Wei tossed Li¨¢n half the stolen noodles, their glow pulsing like captured stars in their palms. They ate as they ran, the taste of divinity bursting on their tongues - sweet, then bitter, then gone too soon.


    Li¨¢n laughed between breaths, his youthful face flushed with adrenaline. "The look on his face when he saw the altered recipe! Ten minutes instead of ten millennia!"


    Zhen Wei grinned but kept running. The Noodle God''s fury wasn''t something to take lightly. Already they could hear the clatter of armored boots¡­ the Heavenly Guard had been alerted!


    "We should return to the tribunal hall," Zhen Wei said, his voice low. "Before this escalates further."


    Li¨¢n''s smile didn''t fade, but his eyes darkened. "And admit our crime? Let them scold us like children again?¡± He wiped the noodle grease on his pants. ¡°The heavens have enough rules without us adding confessions to them, ge."


    The Noodle God¡¯s roar still echoed through the palace when the Heavenly Guards appeared, six armored sentinels materializing from the mist, their spears gleaming like frozen lightning.


    Zhen Wei grabbed Li¨¢n¡¯s wrist. "Run."


    They burst into the Jade Lantern District, where the lower-tier gods and celestial servants lived. Narrow streets wound between closed tea houses and shuttered market stalls, their paper lanterns swaying in the sudden wind of the chase.


    Li¨¢n vaulted over the sleeping tortoise spirit, its shell piled high with moon peaches that trembled as the guards'' armored boots shook the street. Zhen Wei flipped backward with theatrical grace, just as a spear tore through his sleeve, leaving the embroidered hem fluttering like a surrender flag he''d never raise.


    "Ge!" Li¨¢n caught a rolling peach before it could smash, his voice caught between laughter and panic. "They''re actually trying to kill us over noodles!"


    Zhen Wei landed atop the floating dumpling stall, sending porcelain bowls cascading. He snatched one midair, stuffing his mouth shamelessly. "Not just noodles," he corrected through the bite. "Sacred noodles. The kind that¡­"


    A spear embedded itself in the stall''s wooden frame, vibrating an inch from his hip.


    "¡­Apparently warrant attempted murder," Li¨¢n finished dryly, kicking the weapon loose. He grabbed Zhen Wei''s wrist. "Move, you reckless¡­!"


    Zhen Wei twisted free only to sling an arm around Li¨¢n''s shoulders, pulling him into a sidelong dash down a spice-scented alley. "Didi, didi," he chided, breathless with adrenaline, "since when do you fear heaven''s wrath?"


    "Since my idiot brother made me accessory to culinary treason!"


    The guards'' shouts multiplied behind them. Zhen Wei''s grin widened.


    Li¨¢n groaned. "That look means you''re about to do something stupid."


    "Stupid?" Zhen Wei pressed a hand to his chest in mock offense as they leapt onto a low-hanging cloud bridge. "I prefer inspired." With his free hand, he flicked open his war fan¡­


    ¡­And the night exploded into silver dust.


    When it cleared, the guards stood bewildered amidst phantom images: A singing sparrow perched on one''s helmet. A dancing fox leading another in circles. And at the center, a shimmering afterimage of Zhen Wei blowing them a kiss before vanishing.


    Somewhere beyond the district''s curved rooftops, two voices rang out, one laughing, one exasperated, both inextricably intertwined:


    "I hate you!"


    "No you don''t!"


    Many (God years) later¡­


    The stars were just beginning to fade when Li¨¢n tossed the empty wine gourd off the edge of the floating balcony. It spun once, twice, and disappeared into the mist below with a satisfying plonk.


    "Littering," Zhen Wei muttered, sprawled against the railing, one leg dangling into nothing. "Very divine of you."


    Li¨¢n snorted and held up the last of the wine in a chipped ceramic cup. "I¡¯ll donate a poem to the River Spirits later. Something tasteful. Tragic. Possibly slurred."


    Zhen Wei groaned. "Not another limerick."


    "There once was a god from the sky," Li¨¢n began cheerfully.


    "Don¡¯t."


    "Who stole sacred noodles to fry¡­"


    Zhen Wei flung a grape at him. It missed, bounced off a cloud, and vanished into the void.


    "I regret everything."


    Li¨¢n smiled and leaned back against the carved stone railing. His sleeves fluttered in the early morning breeze, loose and wrinkled from the night¡¯s revelries, or possibly battles; it was getting harder to tell the difference lately. The edge of his collar was stained dark, half-cleaned.


    "Do you ever miss it?" Li¨¢n asked suddenly, staring into the rippling horizon.


    Zhen Wei blinked. "Miss what?"


    "Being mortal."


    The question hung in the air between them, heavier than the wine they''d drunk.


    Zhen Wei tilted his head. "You were barely mortal long enough to miss it. What, twenty years?"


    "Twenty-three," Li¨¢n corrected. He turned the chipped cup in his hands, watching the dawn light catch on its uneven glaze. "Long enough to remember hunger. Long enough to know what it feels like to not heal from a wound."


    Zhen Wei studied him. "You¡¯d trade immortality for that?"


    Li¨¢n laughed, but it was quieter than usual. "No. But sometimes I wonder if we lost something when we stopped being breakable."


    "You are breakable."


    "Not like them." Li¨¢n gestured vaguely toward the mortal realm below. "They burn brighter because they know they¡¯ll end. We just¡­ persist."


    Zhen Wei was silent for a long moment. Then, softly: "You¡¯re drunk."


    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    Li¨¢n grinned. "A little."


    "And philosophical."


    "Blame the wine."


    Zhen Wei reached over and flicked the rim of Li¨¢n¡¯s cup. "This the same wine you stole from the mortal realm too?"


    Li¨¢n¡¯s smile turned wistful. "No. That ran out centuries ago."


    They fell into comfortable silence. The kind that only two immortals who¡¯d survived a thousand bad ideas together could share without words.


    Eventually, Li¨¢n placed the cup gently on the railing between them. "To the mortals we were supposed to be."


    Zhen Wei raised an imaginary glass. "To the gods we became instead."


    "And eternal regrets," Li¨¢n added, clinking his empty cup against Zhen Wei¡¯s invisible one.


    The sun crested the edge of the world. Light spilled like wine over the floating rooftops of Tian.


    Zhen Wei turned to speak, but paused. A single lotus petal had drifted loose from Li¨¢n¡¯s armor and now lay in the cup, half-submerged in the last of the wine.


    It hadn¡¯t been there before.


    Li¨¢n didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    The lotus petal in Li¨¢n¡¯s cup trembled, though there was no wind.


    Zhen Wei stared at it, his fingers twitching toward the stem as if to pluck it free, but then Li¨¢n stretched, rolling his shoulders with a sigh.


    "Another day, another celestial decree to ignore," he said, pushing off the railing. The movement jostled the cup, and when Zhen Wei looked again, the petal was gone.


    "You¡¯re not still thinking about that nonsense, are you?" Zhen Wei asked, following him inside. The palace halls were empty at this hour, their footsteps echoing off jade tiles.


    Li¨¢n shrugged. "Just wondering what it would¡¯ve been like."


    "To die?"


    "To matter the way mortals do."


    Zhen Wei caught his arm, forcing him to stop. "You matter."


    Li¨¢n¡¯s smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes. "To you, maybe."


    "To the heavens."


    "To the heavens, I¡¯m a nuisance." Li¨¢n tugged free, nodding toward the frescoed walls, depictions of glorious battles where their faces were conspicuously absent.


    "When was the last time we were invited to a victory banquet?"


    Zhen Wei opened his mouth, then shut it.


    Li¨¢n laughed softly. "Exactly."


    The first light of dawn gilded the rooftops of Tian as Zhen Wei and Li¨¢n descended from the floating balcony, their steps carrying them from the serene heights of the palace down into the waking streets below. The air smelled of dew-steeped blossoms and the faint metallic tang of celestial smithies already at work.


    Zhen Wei stretched, his arms open wide above his head. "Where to now? The teahouse? The training grounds?" He smirked. "Another ill-advised adventure?"


    Li¨¢n flicked a stray grape stem at him. "At this hour? Even I have limits."


    Zhen Wei laughed. ¡°Oh, since when? You didn¡¯t use to!¡±


    They passed beneath an arched bridge, its shadow cool against their skin. The streets here were narrow, paved with stones that shimmered faintly underfoot, remnants of some long-forgotten god¡¯s vanity. Market stalls were just beginning to open, their awnings unfurling like flower petals.


    A vendor selling moon-peach pastries blinked sleepily at them, then promptly dropped his tray in recognition.


    His tray hit the cobblestones with a clatter, golden pastries tumbling into the dust in clouds of flaky crust and caramelized peach glaze.


    Zhen Wei winced, ¡°What a waste!¡± and flashed the man an apologetic grin just as Li¨¢n¡¯s elbow jammed into his ribs.


    ¡°Move,¡± Li¨¢n hissed, dragging him toward the nearest alley. The scent of burnt sugar and brown butter clung to their heels, a taunting ghost of the breakfast they¡¯d now never taste.


    They moved on, leaving the stammering vendor behind. The farther they walked, the more the celestial city awoke around them, lesser gods rushing to their duties, messenger spirits darting like minnows through the air, the occasional immortal beast grumbling in its pen.


    It was in this hum of morning activity that the messenger found them.


    "Lord Zhen Wei! Lord Li¨¢n!" a clear voice called out.


    The messenger, a minor god of missives no taller than a mortal adolescent, bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the ground. His ink-stained fingers trembled against his thighs, and the bronze clasps of his hastily donned robe were misaligned, as though he¡¯d been roused from sleep. A single scroll case bounced against his hip, its jade seal cracked from use. When he straightened, his eyes darted between them like a sparrow caught in a storm.


    Li¨¢n waved a lazy hand. "At ease. We¡¯re off-duty nuisances today."


    "Lord Zhen Wei! Lord Li¨¢n!" The young god continued, "The, the Celestial Emperor demands your presence!"


    Li¨¢n arched an eyebrow. "Demands?"


    The messenger gulped. "R-requests. Urgently."


    Zhen Wei and Li¨¢n exchanged a glance. The Emperor didn¡¯t request their presence. Not unless something was very, very wrong.


    Without another word, they followed the messenger, their earlier banter forgotten, their footsteps quickening toward whatever storm awaited.


    The Celestial Emperor sat upon his jade throne, flanked by generals whose stern expressions seemed carved from the same unyielding stone as the palace pillars. The air hung thick with sandalwood incense and something heavier, the sharp, metallic tension of impending calamity.


    Zhen Wei and Li¨¢n Zhiruo approached in perfect unison, their earlier playfulness tempered by protocol. They bowed as one, fists pressed to palms, the formal salute of warriors acknowledging their sovereign.


    "Radiant Majesty," Zhen Wei intoned.


    The Emperor studied them, his gaze weighing centuries of service against their reputation for chaos. "Zhen Wei. Li¨¢n Zhiruo." His voice resonated like distant thunder. "You honor us with your promptness."


    Li¨¢n Zhiruo''s answering smile was all deference, though a spark of mischief still glimmered beneath his lowered lashes.


    "This unworthy one is at Heaven''s service."


    Zhen Wei noted how his friend''s fingers curled slightly at his sides, the only tell of Li¨¢n Zhiruo''s tension.


    The Emperor''s long sleeves whispered against the dais as he leaned forward. "A disturbance has occurred in the mortal realm. These villages, are..." His fingers tightened imperceptibly on the armrests. "Are no more."


    Zhen Wei''s brow furrowed. "An earthquake?"


    The Emperor''s fingers tightened on the armrests of his throne. "See for yourselves."


    The vision unfolded like a poisoned scroll: Three villages gone. Not collapsed, not ruined¡­ simply erased. Where homes once stood yawned a blackness so absolute it hurt to behold. The edges were smooth as glass, as if the village had been plucked from existence by some colossal hand.


    Li¨¢n Zhiruo''s breath hitched.


    His fingers found the Bixie pendant at his belt, a comforting weight until this moment. Now the jade burned against his palm, as it began to faintly glow with a strange heat.


    What in the ten hells¡­?


    Zhen Wei''s hand moved to rest on his sword hilt as he peered into the vision further.


    What could cause this?


    The Emperor''s voice cut through the chamber, sharp as a honed blade. "This is no earthly phenomenon. The void consumes everything it touches. Land, flesh, even memory."


    Li¨¢n Zhiruo''s fingers twitched around the pendant.


    "How far has it spread?"


    "We know for certain that these villages are already lost." The Emperor''s gaze swept the assembled generals. "The earth gives no warning. One moment they exist, the next there is only silence. It¡¯s possible that there are more losses that we have yet to discover.¡±


    Zhen Wei studied the vision, frowning. The void¡¯s edges were unnaturally precise, as if the missing land had been carved away by a blade wielded with godlike intent. No fraying, no debris. Just¡­ absence.


    "With respect, Radiant Majesty." The scarred general stepped forward, his throat scar pulsing as he spoke. "These two are hardly suited for such delicate work. Their... familiarity with the mortal realm borders on obsession."


    A murmur of agreement rippled through the ranks.


    Another general, her armor etched with storm motifs, added, "Just last cycle they were caught bribing the River God for mortal wine. And let us not forget the incident with the¡­"


    "Enough."


    The Emperor''s command silenced the room. But his eyes lingered on Zhen Wei, then Li¨¢n, weighing something unseen. "Who better to walk corrupted lands than those who know them best?"


    Zhen Wei met Li¨¢n''s gaze.


    All traces of their usual laughter had vanished.


    The unspoken truth hung between them:


    This was a test.


    The heavy jade gates of the Inner Sanctum sealed behind them with a sound like a tomb closing. The air here was different, thicker with the scent of magnolia blossoms and the distant murmur of palace servants, a world away from the suffocating dread of the Emperor¡¯s chamber.


    Zhen Wei exhaled sharply, as if he¡¯d been holding his breath the entire time. "Three villages. Just¡­ gone." His voice was too light, the way it always got when he was forcing calm.


    Li¨¢n Zhiruo didn¡¯t answer at first. His hand still rested on the hilt of his sword, fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against the lacquered scabbard. When he finally spoke, it was through clenched teeth. "No warning. No resistance. That¡¯s not natural erosion. That¡¯s consumption."


    Zhen shot him a sideways glance. "Since when do you use words like ¡®erosion¡¯? Have you been reading those mortal geology scrolls again?"


    A flicker of annoyance, then Li¨¢n¡¯s mouth twitched, despite himself.


    "Shut up. The point is, the Emperor didn¡¯t call us in there because we¡¯re experts. He called us in because we¡¯re expendable."


    Zhen¡¯s smirk faded. Ahead of them, a pair of lesser officials hurried past, bowing hastily without meeting their eyes. The silence between them stretched, taut as a bowstring.


    "You felt it too, then," Zhen said at last. "The way the generals looked at us. Like they were already measuring our funeral shrouds."


    Li¨¢n¡¯s jaw tightened.


    "Let them. But if the Emperor thinks sending us to the edge of oblivion will make us fall in line, he¡¯s forgotten who he¡¯s dealing with."


    Zhen laughed, but there was no joy in it.


    "Oh, I¡¯m sure he remembers. That¡¯s the problem." He kicked a pebble, sending it skittering across the polished courtyard stones. "Still. That void¡­ Did you see the edges? Like it was cut out of the world. Not torn. Not burned. Just¡­ removed."


    Li¨¢n stopped walking. "You¡¯re thinking too much."


    "Someone has to," Zhen shot back.


    For a long moment, they stood there, the weight of the unspoken pressing down between them, the mission, the politics, the gnawing sense that neither of them was being told the full truth.


    Then Li¨¢n sighed, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shed the tension.


    "We¡¯ll need supplies. Proper ones. Not whatever cursed rations the Quartermaster tries to pawn off on ¡®disgraced¡¯ operatives."


    Zhen¡¯s grin returned, sharp and familiar.


    "I¡¯ll handle it. Remember the wine cellar under the Hall of Infinite Wisdom?"


    "Zhen, "


    "Relax. I¡¯ll leave a few coins this time. Probably."


    Li¨¢n groaned, but there was something almost fond in it.


    As they turned toward the barracks, the bright midday sunlight caught the gold in their robes, turning them molten, two small bright figures walking forward into their destiny.

 002- One Bed, Two Gods, and Several Existential Threats

    The air smelled of burned sugar.


    Zhen Wei crouched at the edge of the world, his shadow stretching long and thin into the abyss before him. The void wasn''t a wound. It was an amputation. The line between existence and nothingness was so precise he could have drawn it with a blade.


    Behind him, Li¨¢n Zhiruo stood rigid, his fingers curled around the Bixie pendant at his belt. The jade had been glowing faintly since they arrived, pulsing like a nervous heartbeat.


    The abandoned village stretched before them, frozen in a moment of perfect erasure. The air hung thick with the scent of charred wood and something metallic, like blood left to dry in the sun. Yet there were no flames, no smoke, just the void''s razor-straight border cutting through what had once been homes.


    A child''s red sandal sat just beyond the void''s edge, laces neatly tied as if its owner had simply stepped out of it. Next to it, a wooden bowl of congee had fossilized mid-spill, the grains suspended in time like insects caught in amber.


    Li¨¢n''s boot scuffed the dirt, sending a pebble skittering toward the void''s edge. It stopped dead at the boundary line, as if hitting an invisible wall.


    "No bodies," he observed, his voice tight.


    "No screams," Zhen agreed.


    He crouched, reaching out to hover his fingers over the sandal without quite touching it. "Just... leftovers. Like a scribe abandoned his scroll mid-character and left the ink to dry."


    A gust of wind carried the faint sound of wind chimes from somewhere deeper in the abandoned village. Strange, all the houses nearby had their doors and windows torn off, with nothing left to make such sounds.


    "You ever seen anything like this?" Zhen asked, uncharacteristically serious. "Even during the Heavenly Wars?"


    Li¨¢n shook his head slowly, his hand resting on his sword hilt. "Demons consume. Ghosts haunt. This..." He gestured at the perfect geometric edges of the emptiness. "This isn''t destruction. It''s like the gods took a blade to the fabric of existence itself."


    Zhen grinned. "Let''s see if it bites."


    Before Li¨¢n could grab him, Zhen dragged the sleeve of his robe through the void''s edge.


    The effect was instantaneous.


    Fine blue silk unraveled into threads, the embroidery dissolving like sugar in rain. The skin of his wrist beneath wrinkled, then smoothed, then freckled with age spots before cycling back to youth.


    "Fascinating," Zhen murmured.


    Li¨¢n yanked him backward so hard Zhen¡¯s teeth clacked. The sudden force sent Zhen sprawling onto his backside in the dirt, his boots kicking up a cloud of dust that settled like cremated bone across his ruined robes.


    For a breathless moment, he just sat there, long legs splayed, torn sleeve flapping, staring at his own wrist as if it might dissolve next.


    "You idiot," Li¨¢n hissed, looming over him.


    Zhen laughed, stood back up and brushed non-existent dust from his knees. "Well, if we''re dealing with a celestial tailor who can''t measure properly, I vote we¡­"


    A faint creaking sound cut him off. They both turned to see a single wooden shutter swinging on a nearby house - the only movement in the entire dead village. As they watched, it slowed... stopped... then began swinging again of its own accord.


    "Okay," Zhen said, clapping his hands together.


    "New plan. We drink until this makes sense or we forget we saw it. Your pick, Didi."


    Li¨¢n didn''t smile.


    "We check one more house¡­¡±


    "Killjoy," Zhen muttered, but followed as Li¨¢n moved toward the sound, both of them stepping carefully around the frozen remnants of interrupted lives.


    A wet, rattling cough tore through the silence. The sound of drowning lungs, human and failing, choking on their own blood


    It came from the carcass of a nearby hut, its thatched roof caved in like a broken ribcage. Splintered beams jutted upward, piercing the twilight like blackened bones.


    A shadow was shifting in the ruin¡¯s belly.


    Something alive in all this stillness.


    Both gods went still.


    Li¨¢n''s sword was in his hand before the second wheezing breath.


    "Hello?" Zhen called, his voice bright as he scanned the shadows. His free hand flicked a signal behind his back: two fingers, then a curl.


    Li¨¢n moved instantly. He flowed into position at Zhen¡¯s left shoulder, sword drawn but angled low, covering the blind spot Zhen¡¯s stance left open. Their shoulders nearly brushed, close enough to share breath.


    When Zhen shifted his weight left, Li¨¢n pivoted right without a word, clearing the corner with a sweep of his blade.


    Zhen ducked under the broken beams, his movement precise as a heron¡¯s strike.


    Li¨¢n mirrored him, their steps synchronized.


    Then they saw him: a man in torn clothing, crumpled, ball like, in the corner.


    Zhen¡¯s posture stayed light, but his stance widened, ready to lunge.


    Li¨¢n''s sword tip lifted, his fingers already tracing the first sigil of a binding charm in the air. Then he stilled.


    The motion proved unnecessary.


    In the hut''s gloom, an old man lay curled like a discarded puppet. His paper-thin skin clung to sharp bones, stretched so tight it seemed one breath might tear him apart. Milky eyes stared unseeing, the veins beneath blackened as if filled with ink.


    They didn''t need their divine sight to recognize the truth - this broken husk posed no threat to mortals, let alone gods of war. Yet Zhen''s hand remained on his blade. There was something wrong in how perfectly still the man lay, how his chest neither rose nor fell.


    "Not dead," Li¨¢n murmured. "Not alive."


    The farmer''s head snapped toward them with a crack of vertebrae. A smile split his face, too wide for human jaws. "Ah," he rasped. "Heaven''s dogs finally came to sniff at the scraps."


    Zhen crouched beside him, his usual smirk gone. He reached out, hesitated, then gently turned the old man¡¯s face toward the light. ¡°L¨£or¨¦n ji¨¡¡­ tell us what did this.¡±


    The man¡¯s breath rattled, wet and thick.


    His milk-white eyes rolled blindly, then locked onto Zhen¡¯s face, as if he could see straight through to the divine bones beneath his skin.


    ¡°You¡¯re too late.¡± His lips split, revealing blackened gums. ¡°It breathes now.¡±


    A whisper of verse slithered through the air, the words old as burial jade:


    "ÊÉÕßÎÞ¹í


    Ψ³ÝÁôºÛ


    ¼¢³±ÍÌÌì"


    (Sh¨¬ zh¨§ w¨² gu¨«


    W¨¦i ch¨« li¨² h¨¦n


    J¨© ch¨¢o t¨±n ti¨¡n)


    "The eaten leave no ghosts,


    only teeth-marks behind¡­


    a tide of hunger swallows heaven."


    Li¨¢n''s grip tightened on his sword. "What in the eighteenth level of Di Yu does that mean?"


    The farmer''s black-veined eyes rolled toward the void. "It means... the Yama Kings are taking notes."


    Without warning, the farmer¡¯s hand shot out, fingers clamping around Li¨¢n¡¯s wrist with corpse-cold strength. His nails, blue as drowned flesh, dug deep enough to draw beads of crimson.


    Li¨¢n jerked back, but the grip held like iron shackles. His free hand flew to his sword hilt, yet he hesitated, not from mercy, but from the sudden, gut-churning realization:


    The man¡¯s pulse was beating backward.


    ¡°It learned,¡± the farmer rasped, then his jaw unhinged with a wet crack. His blackened tongue lolled between teeth now splintered inward, as if something had gnawed its way out from behind them.


    The voice that emerged wasn¡¯t human. It multiplied: a chorus of men, women, children, all the voices the void had swallowed.


    "From the last ones it ate¡­" The last word elongated, a howl that splintered into countless voices before snapping to silence.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s muscles locked. Not in fear, but in revulsion as the blood welling from his wrist defied gravity, streaming upward toward the farmer¡¯s elbow instead of dripping to the ground.


    Zhen¡¯s blade flashed.


    The severed arm thumped to the dirt.


    And the blood snaked sideways across the floorboards, inching toward the void¡¯s edge like a living thing. The fingers, still curled around Li¨¢n¡¯s wrist, twitched in time with the droplets¡¯ crawl.


    ¡°Well,¡± Zhen said, eyeing the creeping blood. ¡°That¡¯s new.¡±


    The old man''s body convulsed, milky eyes rupturing, thick fluid spraying across the dirt where it hissed and bubbled. His cheeks tore upward into a grin too wide for any living face, flesh peeling back to reveal... nothing.


    His throat became a gaping black hole. From that emptiness came an echoing moan, then inky smoke poured forth, wrapping around his collapsing face before streaming toward the fractured void outside the hut.


    Behind them, through the broken doorway, the void rippled in response.


    As the last tendril joined the abyss, the farmer''s body crumbled to dust. For a moment, the smoke formed a single character in the air:


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    "ŒW" (xu¨¦ ¨C "to learn")


    Then it dissolved and the void pulsed, as if sated.


    And for the first time, it held a reflection.


    Not theirs.


    A figure stood within the void¡¯s black glass, tall and slender, draped in white robes that should have gleamed but instead drank the light. Its back was turned, long hair spilling like ink down its spine, unbound and utterly still. The edges of its form wavered, not quite solid, as if Zhen were seeing it through warped glass... or across the surface of a dream.


    Zhen went rigid. His breath caught, fingers twitching at his sides as if to reach out.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s voice cut through the silence, sharp with warning. ¡°Zhen?¡±


    No response.


    Li¨¢n grabbed his arm, shaking him. "What are you..." Then he followed Zhen''s gaze to the void, and saw nothing. Just darkness.


    But Zhen didn''t blink. Didn''t move.


    The figure''s head tilted, just slightly, as if listening. Then it turned.


    "GE!"


    Li¨¢n''s voice tore through the silence like a blade through silk. His hands locked onto Zhen''s shoulders, fingers digging deep enough to bruise even a god''s flesh. When Zhen didn''t respond,


    Li¨¢n shook him hard, the way he¡¯d seen a mother rouse her child from nightmares, back when he was still mortal. The memory surfaced unbidden: that straw-mat hut, the scent of boiling medicinal herbs, the warmth of a human hand on his cheek. Centuries gone, yet his fingers remembered.


    Zhen''s head snapped back, eyes wide and unseeing. His lips were parted around a word he hadn''t spoken.


    "Wake up!" Li¨¢n snarled, giving him another jerk. "Wake up, you reckless bastard, or I swear to every hell I''ll..."


    A gasp. Zhen''s chest heaved as if he''d surfaced from deep water. His pupils contracted, the void''s reflection fading from his gaze like ink in rain.


    "Didi?" Zhen rasped. His hands came up to grip Li¨¢n''s wrists, not to push him away, but to anchor himself. The tremor in his fingers was new.


    Li¨¢n didn''t let go. "You stopped," he said, voice low and furious. "Your heart. Your lungs. Like you''d been unmade mid-thought."


    Zhen''s throat worked. "How long?"


    "Long enough that I considered throwing you into the damn void just to punish you." Li¨¢n finally released him, stepping back to rake a hand through his hair.


    Zhen stared at the debris, then at his own hands, turning them over as if they might not belong to him. His fingers flexed, once, twice, testing their grip on reality. The tremor in them was slight, but Li¨¢n noticed. Zhen never shook.


    ¡°Sorry, I thought I saw¡­¡± The words dropped like stones into silence. He cut himself off, jaw tightening around whatever truth threatened to follow.


    Li¨¢n went very still. Not the stillness of patience, but of a blade balanced on its edge. ¡°What?¡±


    A beat. The wind howled through the abandoned village, carrying the scent of scorched earth and something sweetly rotten.


    Zhen¡¯s eyes stayed vacant for a heartbeat longer with a hollow stare that Li¨¢n had only seen on battlefields. The look of a man who saw when fresh corpses steamed in the snow.


    Then, like a lantern flaring to life, his grin split wide. ¡°A really ugly fish!¡±


    He clapped Li¨¢n¡¯s shoulder, fingers lingering just a second too tight. ¡°Teeth like a demon¡¯s comb! Winked at me with both eyes¡­ very forward for a river creature! Don¡¯t you think?¡±


    Li¨¢n watched the performance: the overbright tone, the exaggerated shudder. The way Zhen¡¯s laughter didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes, still dark with whatever he¡¯d really seen in the void.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Liar! ³ÔÈË˵ÃÎ (N¨« sh¨¬ z¨¤i ch¨© r¨¦n shu¨­ m¨¨ng,) you¡¯re ¡®eating people¡¯s dreams¡¯ and calling it truth.¡±


    Zhen pressed a hand to his chest. ¡°Didi! Would I lie?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± Li¨¢n hissed through his teeth as he kicked the remains of the farmer''s sandal at him.


    Zhen dodged deftly and the shoe bounced soundlessly off the parameter of the void.


    "Good thing I''m not that shoe!" But his laughter rang hollow.


    And his shadow, Li¨¢n noted with a chill, still stretched toward the void, even as the man himself moved away.


    The inn''s sign swung on rusted hinges, its painted lotus so weathered it looked like a bloodstain. Inside, the air reeked of sour wine and the greasy remnants of a hundred meals never quite scrubbed from the floorboards.


    Zhen Wei sniffed, wrinkling his nose. "Charming. I take it this isn''t the celestial approved lodging district?"


    Li¨¢n Zhiruo eyed a suspicious stain on the wall that seemed to be moving. "We''re lucky it''s standing at all. This village is half dead already."


    "Ah, but look at the ambiance!" Zhen gestured grandly at a rat gnawing on the stair rail. "The local wildlife! The..."


    Li¨¢n pinched the bridge of his nose. "Next time, you negotiate with the Emperor for mission funds."


    ¡°And miss this?¡± Zhen grinned, slinging an arm around Li¨¢n¡¯s shoulders as they surveyed the crumbling inn. His gesture encompassed the warped floorboards, the suspiciously breathing wall stain, and the rat currently gnawing on the ceiling rafters. ¡°Didi, where¡¯s your sense of adventure? For once, we¡¯re allowed to be here. This is practically a celestial diplomatic mission!¡±


    Li¨¢n shrugged him off, but not before Zhen caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth, that tiny tell Li¨¢n had never managed to train out of himself in three centuries. ¡°My ¡®adventure¡¯ involves not sleeping with vermin.¡± He flicked a glance at Zhen¡¯s dust-streaked robes. ¡°Present company excluded.¡±


    "Ah, but that¡¯s the beauty of it!" Zhen spread his arms wide, nearly toppling a precariously stacked tower of empty wine jugs. "This is the experience. The peeling plaster. The questionable aromas. The..." He kicked a floorboard, which emitted a sound like a dying guqin string. "Rustic acoustics. We¡¯re living like mortals tonight, Didi. By decree."


    Li¨¢n eyed the sad state of the inn with reluctant acceptance, then froze. His gaze locked onto a shadowed corner where a hooded figure sat motionless, fingers rolling a single black jade bead across the knotted wood table. The bead clicked with each pass, precise as a clock''s tick, though the stranger''s face remained hidden in the drape of his hood.


    Zhen followed his stare. "Oh good," he murmured. "Entertainment."


    Li¨¢n¡¯s hand drifted toward his sword. "Or a spy."


    "Same thing!"


    Before Li¨¢n could respond, the innkeeper, a wiry woman with knuckles like knotted rope, took one look at their celestial silks and set her cleaver on the counter with a thunk.


    "No offense, Excellencies," she muttered, eyeing the gold embroidery at their collars, "but last time gods lodged here, the roof caved in." Her gaze flicked to the door, as if expecting divine retribution to follow them in.


    Zhen and Li¨¢n turned to look at each other slowly, identical expressions of offended disbelief on their faces.


    Zhen gestured at himself, then Li¨¢n, mouthing ''We''re the problem?'' with exaggerated incredulity.


    Li¨¢n''s eye twitched. He turned back to the innkeeper, his voice dripping with celestial dignity. "Madam, I assure you, we are the most well behaved gods you''ll ever meet."


    Zhen coughed loudly, which suspiciously sounded like "Noodle heist."


    Li¨¢n stepped on his foot.


    The innkeeper looked between them, entirely unimpressed. "That''s exactly what the last ones said."


    The innkeeper''s cleaver thunked onto the counter. "No gods," she repeated.


    Zhen sighed dramatically, then reached into his sleeve and produced a jingling purse. "What if we''re exceptionally charming gods?" He plonked two gold coins onto the wood with a flourish. "Will this soothe your celestial anxieties?"


    The woman eyed the coins, then Zhen''s grin. Her calloused fingers darted out like a striking viper, snatching the gold before it could vanish. She bit one hard, then her entire demeanor melted into syrupy hospitality.


    "A Xiang!" she bellowed toward the back, slapping the counter. "Come show these esteemed guests to the Celestial Jade Suite!"


    A gangly teenager scrambled out, wiping flour dusted hands on his apron. He gaped at the gold still clutched in the innkeeper''s grip, then at the two gods, before bowing so low his forehead nearly kissed his knees. "This way, Venerable Ones!"


    Zhen leaned toward Li¨¢n as they followed the trembling boy upstairs. "Ah, the Celestial Jade Suite," he whispered. "I believe that''s peasant for ''the room without rat nests.''"


    Below them in the common room, the hooded figure tilted his head upward. Though his face remained shadowed, the weight of his attention pressed against their backs like a physical touch. His fingers stilled around the black jade bead, letting it rest dead-center on the knotted table where it caught the lamplight with an oily gleam.


    Li¨¢n eyed the boy''s trembling shoulders ahead of them. "You realize she''ll murder him if those coins turn to leaves at midnight," he murmured, though his free hand drifted toward his sword hilt, sensing the stranger''s gaze.


    Zhen didn''t glance back. "Then we''ll tip him extra to run fast," he said cheerfully, but his steps slowed just enough to position himself between Li¨¢n and the railing overlooking the common room. A casual shield. "Besides, our admirer down there seems more interested in watching than stabbing. For now."


    The stair creaked ominously underfoot. Somewhere below, the jade bead began rolling again with that same metronomic click... click... click...


    "Ah! The Celestial Jade Suite does justice to its name!" Zhen declared, sweeping into the room with arms outstretched as if greeting royalty.


    He turned to A-Xiang with a stage whisper: "Tell me, does this palatial accommodation include a complimentary foot bath? Or must we summon the singing sparrows ourselves?"


    The boy¡¯s nervous laugh died in his throat as they took in the space:


    The room was large, suspiciously so for such a dilapidated inn, with high ceilings and grime-clouded windows that let in watery moonlight. Dust motes swirled around a single narrow bed (barely wide enough for one, though Zhen would certainly argue otherwise), its quilt frayed but recently beaten free of dust. Cobwebs draped the corners like tattered banners, and shadowy holes in the floorboards promised midnight rodent visitors.


    Yet against one wall stood a low table of surprisingly good rosewood, flanked by four stools with turquoise cushions. A lacquered tray held an antique tea set, the glaze crackled with age but the pot still warm to the touch. Most peculiar was the incense burner: a bronze crane with its head bowed in eternal supplication, smoke curling from the bowl cradled in its beak. The scent, sandalwood and something unplaceably sweet, almost masked the room¡¯s mildew.


    Above the bed hung a garish tapestry, its dyes faded to ghosts of their original opulence. Two women lounged on a picnic blanket, feeding each other grapes with scandalously bare fingers, while ruby-eyed foxes frolicked at their feet. The stitching was crude, the proportions laughable (one woman¡¯s hand was larger than her head), yet the scene pulsed with bawdy joy.


    Zhen traced a finger through the dust on the tea tray. "Someone prepared for us."


    A-Xiang backed away, bowing so deeply he nearly upended the incense burner. "I¡¯ll just... fetch the extra blankets..."


    He fled before they could point out the obvious: no blankets in the world could make that bed fit two celestial warriors.


    Zhen plopped himself onto the lone bed with a dramatic sigh, arms spread wide. "Behold," he announced, "the lap of luxury." The wooden frame groaned in protest beneath him, one leg visibly shorter than the others.


    Li¨¢n stood frozen in the doorway, his gaze locked on the single cot. Then slowly, dangerously, he turned his head toward Zhen.


    "Ge." His voice was deceptively calm. "There''s only one bed."


    Zhen blinked up at the water stained ceiling. "Astute observation, didi. Truly, your divine perception knows no bounds."


    "You noticed."


    "I procured." Zhen folded his hands behind his head, grinning. "And what better way to strengthen fraternal bonds than shared¡­"


    The air cracked.


    One moment Li¨¢n stood three paces away, his face a mask of glacial calm. The next¡­


    ¡­steel shrieked as his sword embedded itself in the mattress between Zhen¡¯s thighs, the blade vibrating with the force of the strike. The hilt quivered mere inches from Zhen¡¯s most vulnerable areas, so close the tassel brushed his robes.


    Li¨¢n hadn¡¯t moved. At least, no mortal eye would have seen it. One breath he was still, the next his weapon was planted like a banner claiming territory, all without so much as a shift in his stance.


    Zhen blinked at the sword. "Ah." He tilted his head. "I see you¡¯ve chosen violence as your love language tonight."


    Li¨¢n leaned down, bracing one hand on the hilt. "You have three breaths to explain why I shouldn''t throw you out the window."


    Zhen''s grin didn''t waver. "One: the fall wouldn''t kill me. Two: you''d miss me too much. Three..." He patted the lumpy mattress. "I already tested it. It''s firm. Good for your back."


    A beat. The sword withdrew and Li¨¢n took one step back.


    He dragged a hand down his face in total exasperation. "I''m taking the floor."


    "Nonsense!" Zhen rolled sideways, claiming exactly half the bed with limb flailing precision. He patted the remaining space. "Plenty of room! Unless you''re scared I''ll steal the blankets..."


    Li¨¢n''s boot thunked onto the mattress, crushing Zhen''s robes underfoot.


    "I''m scared you''ll breathe too loudly. And I might stab you in your sleep, Ge."


    Behind them, the door creaked open.


    A Xiang peeked in, arms piled with moth eaten blankets. He took in the scene: the sword, the boot on the bed, Zhen''s gleeful sprawl.


    "I''ll just... leave these here," he whispered, dumping the fabric and fleeing.


    Zhen called after him: "We''ll need breakfast too! Preferably something that hasn''t touched the floor!"


    A distant, despairing wail was the only reply.


    The gold coins on the counter bubbled, their surfaces warping like wax over flame. They fused together, reshaping into a single gleaming character:


    ÅÜ (P¨£o ¨C ¡°Run.¡±)


    Then the metal evaporated, leaving only a scorch mark shaped like a laughing fox, its muzzle split in a grin too wide for any living creature.


    Across the room, the hooded figure¡¯s black jade bead clicked against the table.


    Click.


    Click.


    Click.


    The rhythm matched the dripping of the inn¡¯s leaky roof or perhaps a slowing heartbeat.


    Above, the floorboards creaked as two gods settled into a room that smelled of sandalwood and decay.


    The bead rolled one final time¡­


    ¡­and came to rest pointing straight toward the stairs.

 003 Two Gods One Void

    Zhen prodded the garish tapestry with his sword tip. "Didi. Either I''m drunk..."


    "You''re always drunk," Li¨¢n muttered, his back turned as he unbuckled his vambraces.


    "...or your interior decorating is trying to seduce me."


    The woven foxes'' ruby eyes glinted as a draft slithered through the room. Up close, the work was cruder than Zhen had first thought. One woman''s hand was larger than her head, the grapes she held misshapen lumps, but the colors still burned unnaturally bright despite the dust. The dyes hadn''t faded so much as concentrated, pooling in the threads like old blood.


    Li¨¢n finally turned, his gaze flicking over the scene. "Third rate brothel art," he said flatly. "Probably stolen."


    Zhen traced a finger along the picnic blanket''s edge. The threads hummed under his touch. "Odd choice for an inn called The Celestial Jade Suite, don''t you think?" He gasped dramatically. "Didi, is this a love nest? Have you brought me somewhere scandalous?"


    Li¨¢n''s boot connected with the bed frame hard enough to shake the wall. "It''s a death trap. Look at the stitching."


    Zhen leaned in until his breath stirred the threads. Up close, the tapestry''s flaws became something far worse than poor craftsmanship.


    The crude stitches weren''t clumsy. They were mimicry. Each thread deliberately imperfect, as if someone had tried to replicate celestial embroidery from memory and gotten it just wrong enough to unsettle. The foxes'' fur bristled with tiny, near invisible characters: blessings, wards, fragments of poetry, all sewn backward or half unraveled. The hu ìï character glared up at him, its looping strokes intact, but the next character had been cut away so cleanly the silk around it hadn''t even frayed. As if the word had never existed at all.


    Zhen''s fingers hovered over the gap. "Didi, look at this."


    A flicker. A twitch of red at the edge of his vision.


    He froze.


    The woman''s hand, the one too large for her body, had relaxed since he''d last glanced. Her fingers, once curled around a grape, now lay open. Palm up. Beckoning.


    Zhen didn''t blink. "Li¨¢n."


    A beat.


    Then Li¨¢n''s shoulder pressed against his, sword angled toward the fabric. "I see it."


    They stared. The tapestry stayed stubbornly, mockingly still.


    Then Li¨¢n exhaled through his nose and turned his head just slightly to scan the room.


    Zhen saw it in his periphery: the woman''s head tilted. Not much. Just enough that her painted cheek now touched her shoulder. Her lips, once pursed around a laugh, parted.


    He whipped his gaze back.


    The tapestry froze mid movement.


    Li¨¢n''s sword hissed free.


    Zhen grinned. "Ah! It wants us to stay."


    Li¨¢n''s sword cleared its sheath in a silver arc just as a cloying sweetness flooded the room. The incense burner''s smoke thickened, pooling like syrup in their lungs.


    Zhen''s knees buckled first.


    "Ge?" Li¨¢n''s voice slurred as his blade clattered to the floor. "The... crane..."


    Through drooping eyelids, Zhen saw it: the bronze crane''s bowed head had lifted, its beak now aimed directly at them.


    The last thing he heard before darkness took him was the click click click of the hooded man''s jade bead, rolling rhythmically across the floor below, each tap louder than the last, as if ascending toward them without ever touching the stairs.


    The dream came sweet as poisoned honey, borne on the wings of bronze cranes.


    No decadent delight, but a gilded snare.


    Cold silk brushed his skin. The scent of scorched sugar filled the air. A voice stretched thin across centuries whispered in the dark.


    The white-robed figure stood at the foot of the bed, its back to him. Moonlight passed through it, illuminating nothing but the endless fall of its hair, black as the void''s edges, moving in currents no air could stir.


    "You looked away too soon, ge."


    Li¨¢n''s voice. Almost. The way an echo resembles a shout. The way a corpse resembles a sleeper.


    Zhen tried to sit up. His body refused. Not the paralysis of fear, but the weight of something older: the press of a god''s palm against his ribs.


    The figure tilted its head. Not a gesture of curiosity.


    The motion of a predator catching a scent.


    "It remembers your face."


    Then it unfolded.


    Not with the grotesque snapping of bones, but with the terrible grace of a scripture scroll unfurling in reverse, silk sleeves whispering secrets as they rearranged the air between them. Its spine arched like a bridge between worlds, neck elongating not with the jerk of broken vertebrae, but with the liquid slowness of ink dispersing in water.


    And then.


    The face.


    Not blank. Not anymore.


    Li¨¢n''s features surfaced beneath that alabaster skin, but wrong in ways that made Zhen''s divine blood turn to ice. Too symmetrical. Too flawless. The curve of his cheekbones sharp enough to draw blood, his lips the exact shade of peach blossoms dipped in frost. Every detail perfected, polished, amplified, as if someone had taken the memory of Li¨¢n and refined it into something that no living being could, or should, ever be.


    His eyes were the worst.


    Still dark as the void between stars, but now luminous, lit from within by a glow that pulsed in time with Zhen''s hammering heart. When he blinked, his lashes left afterimages, like comet trails across the dark.


    "You looked away too soon," the thing murmured, and its voice was Li¨¢n''s if Li¨¢n had never known pain, never known loss. A voice that had never been roughened by laughter or hoarse from screaming.


    Zhen''s breath caught.


    It was beautiful.


    It was wrong.


    And the worst part?


    Some traitorous part of him ached to reach out.


    A wet click came from the corner.


    The tapestry''s foxes had turned their heads. Not woven thread anymore. Flesh. Teeth. Tongues lolling between needle-sharp fangs.


    The largest bared its bloody gums.


    "You''re still inside," it giggled.


    Zhen sat up.


    The incense burner''s crane had rotated, its beak spewing smoke that coiled into the character for hunger (¼¢).


    Across the room, Li¨¢n sat rigid, his sword across his knees. Awake. Watching.


    The tapestry''s foxes had all shifted to stare at him.


    One paw, once embroidered, now left damp prints on the floorboards.


    Li¨¢n''s voice cleaved the darkness like a blade through air:


    "Tell me what you saw ge."


    Not a question. A confession.


    Zhen watched the way Li¨¢n''s head tilted, that unnatural, avian jerk, and understood. The too-smooth motion of his neck. The unblinking stare.


    He''d seen it too.


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    Li¨¢n moved like a blade through moonlight.


    One fluid motion, no hesitation. The steel slid between Zhen''s ribs with the cruel precision of a calligrapher''s final stroke.


    Zhen gasped. Not from the pain (that would come later), but from the shock of cold metal parting his flesh. His hands rose instinctively, fingers curling around the blade as if he could push the reality back through his own skin.


    Blood welled between his fingers, impossibly bright against the silver.


    A wet cough wracked his body. Hot iron flooded his mouth, spilled down his chin in thick ropes. Through the blur of tears, he looked up.


    And saw the eyes.


    Not Li¨¢n''s dark, expressive gaze. These eyes burned with corpse-light, twin suns eclipsed by the void. The face was perfect. Too perfect. Every beloved feature polished into something inhuman.


    "D...didi?" The word bubbled from his ruined lungs, mixed with blood and something worse.


    Hope. Even now.


    Even like this.


    The sword twisted.


    ¡ª


    Zhen woke with a sound like a drowning man breaching water, a raw, punched-out gasp that tore his throat. His hands flew to his chest before his eyes fully opened, fingers scrambling across sweat-slick skin, searching for the wound, the blood, the sword''s kiss he could still feel burning between his ribs.


    The room tilted.


    Moonlight cut through the warped window, painting everything in liquid silver. The incense burner''s crane had rotated, its beak now empty, the last wisp of smoke uncoiling from its throat like a dying breath. The character for hunger (¼¢) lingered in the air for a heartbeat before dissolving. Only the scent remained, cloying and thick, like peaches left to rot in honey, but even that was fading, leaching away along with the unnatural stillness that had held them down.


    His heartbeat was a trapped bird against his sternum. Too fast. Too loud. He could hear each frantic thud-thud-thud as if his ribs had become a drum.


    No blood. No blade.


    But his skin remembered. The phantom pain lingered, a cold brand where steel should have been.


    Beneath the bed, Li¨¢n lay where he''d collapsed, his limbs slack from the drugged smoke. Moonlight softened his features into something almost peaceful, if not for the tension still clinging to his jaw. His sword had fallen beside him, its polished blade scattering thin slivers of light across the floorboards, the only movement in the still room.


    He hadn''t stirred through any of it.


    Zhen¡¯s gaze snapped upward, suddenly remembering the grotesque wall hanging above him.


    The tapestry¡¯s foxes had all turned their heads to stare at him. Their ruby eyes gleamed wet in the moonlight, no longer embroidered shapes but living stares. One creature had peeled a paw free of the fabric, flesh made real, not thread, veins and muscle now connected in weft and weave.


    Wet paw prints tracked down the wall and across the floorboards. The trail glistened, a dark echo leading from the tapestry to his didi¡¯s throat and back again.


    Zhen¡¯s body moved before his mind could follow, centuries of battle-honed instinct overriding fear. His fingers dug into Li¨¢n¡¯s shoulder just as the fox¡¯s damp paw flexed, claws unsheathing with a sound like iced glass splitting under velvet.


    Li¨¢n woke the way a blade leaves its scabbard, all lethal grace. His hand found his sword mid-breath, the steel flashing upward in an arc that should have severed the creeping paw. But the fox rippled backward into the tapestry, threads knitting themselves closed with a sound like old parchment being folded.


    The severed claw-tip dissolved into black vapor that smelled of scorched tanghulu. That moment when the candy-maker¡¯s sugar tips from amber to bitter, the scent of childhood summers turned to smoke.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s free hand flew to his throat, where the paw prints glistened. His voice was a blade sheathed in morning frost. "What the hell..."


    Above them, the tapestry¡¯s foxes grinned with needle-teeth. The largest licked its chops, tongue stitched with minuscule characters, the same celestial script from the void¡¯s vision.


    Zhen¡¯s phantom wound throbbed quietly as the shimmering needlework began to slow.


    The moon had sunk lower, its light now the color of tarnished silver. The tapestry finally hung inert, its foxes stiff as if they¡¯d never moved but the damp claw prints on the floorboards remained.


    Zhen crouched by the incense burner, tilting it toward the weak light. The bronze crane¡¯s beak was clogged with a residue that smelled of burnt tanghulu syrup and something medicinal.


    "This isn¡¯t just sleep incense. It¡¯s memory incense. The kind archivists use to redact sealed scrolls." He scraped a fingernail along the interior, revealing a layer of blackened sugar laced with ground ghostgrass, an herb that didn¡¯t just knock you out, but made you forget why.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s sword tapped the floor where the fox¡¯s claw had dissolved. He rubbed at his neck with his free hand, fingers pressing hard as if he could scrub away the memory of those damp paw prints.


    "Ghostgrass explains it," he muttered. "I don¡¯t remember anything after we examined the tapestry¡­. no wait." His brow furrowed. "There was... tapping? Clicking? Outside our door. But it¡¯s..." He gestured vaguely at his temple. "Like I drank two jugs of haojiu and tried to recite scriptures backward."


    Zhen stiffened. ¡°ÕÒµ½ÁË£¡(Zh¨£o d¨¤o le!)¡± The words burst from him like a sword leaving its sheath, half triumph, half warning. His fingers danced through the air, tracing the arc of that damned jade bead rolling across the hooded man¡¯s knuckles. ¡°The clicking, it was that guy downstairs!¡±


    Li¨¢n was already moving, sword tip testing the door''s bolt.


    The iron shrieked as it slid, but held fast. "Still locked. He never crossed this threshold." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Then how?"


    Their eyes fell simultaneously on the jade bead shard by the threshold.


    "Because he didn¡¯t need to enter."


    Zhen held up the shard, the remnants of the jade bead wedged beneath the doorframe.


    Its warmth pulsed like a second heartbeat against his palm. "He planted this like a ward. Let the incense do the rest. drag us under, feed us dreams. Classic memory-herb manipulation." He flicked the shard with his thumbnail. "You really didn''t dream at all? Just... nothing?"


    Li¨¢n''s fingers stilled on his sword hilt. "Blackness. Then waking to your hand shaking me and those¡­" A jerk of his chin toward the tapestry''s now-frozen foxes.


    "You saw something else?"


    Zhen rolled the jade between his fingers, buying time. The carved characters burned now, spelling warnings he refused to read aloud.


    "Some wandering spirit in scholar''s robes," he muttered. "Pale as a corpse-wraith. Spouted cryptic nonsense about ''looking away too soon.''" A hollow laugh. "Probably just my own thoughts dressed in ghostgrass fumes."


    Every word tasted like ash.


    He doubled down and shrugged, "Ghostgrass hallucinations. You know how it is, cheap wine and bad dreams."


    Every word true, yet false as a mirage.


    No mention of the way its stolen face had mirrored Li¨¢n¡¯s exactly, the curve of its brow, the slant of its smile, before twisting into something too perfect to be real.


    The figure¡¯s stolen features haunted him, but naming them would make them real. Would weave them into the world.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s gaze weighed the silence between them.


    Li¨¢n exhaled through his nose. "We track the bead¡¯s owner. Now." He moved toward the door, then paused. "And Zhen?"


    "Yes, Didi?"


    "Next time you lie to me," he said softly, "do it better."


    Li¨¢n¡¯s thumb brushed the edge of his blade, his voice deceptively light. "At least tell me this yaoguai in scholar¡¯s robes was handsome. If I¡¯m to be haunted, I¡¯d prefer something pleasing to look at."


    Zhen rolled his eyes and shouldered past, though his fingers lingered half a breath too long on the doorframe. "Focus, Didi. Our mystery host didn¡¯t dose us with memory-herbs for a courtship."


    Beyond the threshold, the inn held its breath. No creak of floorboards, no rustle of robes, just the hollow silence of a snare waiting to spring.


    They stepped out¡­and the world split.


    The hallway before them no longer existed.


    Where there had once been polished wood and the murmur of other guests, now only ruin remained. The floorboards yawned open like rotten teeth, revealing a black maw beneath. The roof sagged, its beams skeletal fingers clutching at the remnants of plaster.


    A draft whistled through gaps in the walls, carrying the scent of mildew and long-dead ashes.


    Zhen whirled back. Their room still stood intact behind them, the rumpled bed, the cold incense burner, even the damned tapestry¡¯s foxes frozen mid-snarl.


    Through the doorway, it looked exactly as they¡¯d left it: worn but lived-in.


    A sanctuary.


    A lie.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s sword hissed free. "We didn¡¯t move," he said, very softly. "The inn did."


    Above them, a single roof tile cracked loose and shattered on the broken floor. The sound echoed like a bone breaking.


    Zhen nudged a rotting floorboard with his boot. It crumbled like stale cake into the darkness below. "I¡¯m not sure about that ''the inn moved'' theory. Feels like we¡¯re in the same place." He cocked his head. "Unless we slept for two hundred years. You don¡¯t look two centuries dustier, Didi."


    Li¨¢n flicked a cobweb from his sleeve. "If we did, at least the spiders have fine taste. They wove you a proper burial shroud."


    A gust of wind howled through the gaps in the walls, making the entire structure groan like a tired ghost.


    "Well," Zhen said brightly, "no matter what eldritch nonsense this is, I vote we don¡¯t stay to admire the d¨¦cor."


    "Finally," Li¨¢n sighed, "something we agree on."


    As if offended, the building gave a final creaking shudder¡ªhalf warning, half farewell.


    The stairs groaned underfoot, each step exhaling a puff of dust that glittered in the thin moonlight. Zhen led with his sword drawn, Li¨¢n a half-pace behind¡ªclose enough to share breath, far enough to strike.


    The inn¡¯s main room sprawled before them, preserved in grotesque perfection.


    It was exactly as they remembered: the same overturned stools, the same smudged counter where the innkeeper had slammed her cleaver, even the same half-peeled mural of a mountain spirit on the far wall. Only the decay betrayed the truth. The wood had grayed, the colors bleached by time. The hearth lay cold, its ashes long since scattered to the wind. And the air¡­


    Zhen wrinkled his nose. ¡°Smells like a library¡¯s ghost.¡±


    Li¨¢n¡¯s blade tip lifted toward the shadowed corner where the hooded man had sat.


    ¡°There.¡±


    The table stood untouched by dust, its surface polished as if by anxious hands. On it rested a single jade bead, twin to the one they¡¯d found upstairs. This one pulsed faintly, casting greenish light over the grain of the wood¡ªilluminating a single character carved into the table beneath it:


    Íü


    (W¨¤ng: Forget)


    Zhen reached for it.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s hand clamped around his wrist.


    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± His grip was iron. ¡°That¡¯s not a trail. It¡¯s a trap.¡±


    Above them, the rafters creaked.


    A sound like laughter.


    ¡°UP!¡± Li¨¢n¡¯s command tore through the chaos as he vaulted back up the stairs, Zhen half a step behind.


    The inn flickered around them.


    One heartbeat, a corpse-shell of rot, floorboards gaping like ribcages.


    The next, alive with yesterday¡¯s smoke and spilled wine.


    Then back again, faster, faster, a lantern¡¯s stuttering death throes.


    Zhen¡¯s phantom wound pulsed in time with each shift, the pain a blade twisting deeper with every flash. He grabbed for the railing, but his hand passed through it as the wood dissolved into another era.


    Then the real laughter came.


    It wasn¡¯t a sound. It was a violation. A screech of splintered bone dragged across the strings of a broken erhu, vibrating inside their skulls like a parasite burrowing into meat. Li¨¢n¡¯s knees buckled, his hands slamming over his ears, but the noise wasn¡¯t outside him anymore. It was in his veins, in his teeth, chewing through his divine bones like they were kindling.


    Zhen¡¯s scream was lost in the onslaught. His phantom wound ruptured. Not memory, not illusion, but real. Hot blood seared down his ribs as the world tore apart beneath them. The floor didn¡¯t collapse. It unraveled, threads of reality snapping one by one, each a whip-crack of agony against their senses.


    Then.


    Falling.


    Not through air, but through nothing. No wind, no sound, just the suffocating press of the void against their skin, cold as a corpse¡¯s gasp. Zhen flailed, grasping for Li¨¢n, for his sword, for anything. But his fingers closed on emptiness. His lungs burned. His golden core sputtered like a guttered candle.


    This isn¡¯t falling, he realized, wild and half-mad with terror.


    This is being unmade.


    Somewhere in the dark, Li¨¢n choked on a gasp. Not pain, not fear, but recognition. The raw, animal understanding of prey that knows it has no teeth.


    Gods weren¡¯t meant to feel this!


    The void swallowed their screams.


    "Quiet at last, Zhen thought, before remembering that only the dead get silence this deep."

 004 Ghosts in the Brushstroke

    The void did not spit them back out.


    It folded them, like a scribe tucking a love letter into a sleeve, creasing the world until the distance between here and there was nothing but a breath. One moment, Zhen¡¯s lungs were collapsing in the dark. The next, cold air razored down his throat, and his knees hit solid ground with a jolt that sent fresh blood seeping through his robes.


    Beside him, Li¨¢n coughed, his fingers digging into the earth like claws. His sword lay a handspan away, its blade dulled by something thicker than dust.


    Zhen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His palm came away smeared black. Not blood.


    Ink.


    "Ah," he croaked. "We¡¯ve been written somewhere new."


    Li¨¢n¡¯s gaze snapped up, sharp as a blade¡¯s edge. Around them, the world resolved into something almost familiar, a courtyard, but not. The stones underfoot were too smooth, the walls too straight, the air too still. No wind. No birds. Just the oppressive weight of a sky that wasn¡¯t quite sky, its color the dull sheen of old parchment.


    And the trees.


    Zhen¡¯s breath hitched.


    They stood in perfect rows, their trunks too uniform, their branches stretching in symmetrical arcs. Not grown.


    Drawn.


    Their leaves rustled without sound, edges crisp as brushstrokes.


    Li¨¢n stood slowly, his sword held loose at his side. "This isn¡¯t real."


    "Mm. But is it unreal enough to kill us?" Zhen prodded a pebble with his boot. It didn¡¯t roll. It pivoted, as if pinned to the ground by an unseen hand.


    A whisper of silk.


    They turned as one.


    At the courtyard¡¯s center stood a figure, tall, slender, its face obscured by a scholar¡¯s hat, its robes the color of ink left to dry in the sun. Not black. Not gray. The absence of color entirely.


    It held a brush in one hand, its tip dripping something dark.


    Zhen¡¯s phantom wound throbbed.


    The figure lifted its head. Beneath the hat¡¯s shadow, there was no face. Only the suggestion of one, a stroke where a brow should be, a smudge for lips.


    Unfinished.


    Waiting.


    Li¨¢n shifted his grip on his sword. "Speak."


    The figure did not.


    Instead, it raised its brush and swept it through the air in a single, fluid motion.


    The world ripped.


    Zhen barely had time to lurch back before the ground where he¡¯d stood peeled upward like paper catching flame, the edges curling into ash. The tear spread, racing toward them, not fire, not decay, but erasure. Where it passed, the courtyard dissolved into blankness, a scream of white silence.


    Li¨¢n grabbed Zhen¡¯s arm and yanked him sideways. "MOVE!"


    They ran.


    The trees bent as they passed, their branches snatching at sleeves, their leaves whispering in a language neither of them knew. Behind them, the void yawned wider, swallowing the path whole.


    Zhen risked a glance back. The figure stood at the heart of the unraveling, its brush moving methodically, unhurried. As if it had all the time in the world.


    As if they didn¡¯t.


    A gate loomed ahead, its arch carved with familiar characters, ones they¡¯d seen stitched into the tapestry¡¯s threads, ones that had shimmered in the dream¡¯s false light.


    "Through!" Li¨¢n didn¡¯t slow.


    They crossed the threshold, and the world snapped back into place like a scroll rolled shut.


    Zhen stumbled, his boots sinking into mud. Real mud. Thick, cold, reeking of rain and earth.


    The inn¡¯s ruins hunched behind them, its roof caved in, its walls sagging. Not flickering between states anymore. Just dead.


    Li¨¢n¡¯s chest heaved. His sword was still in his hand, its tip trembling ever so slightly.


    Zhen opened his mouth.


    A droplet hit his cheek.


    Then another.


    Rain.


    Real¡­ rain.


    The kind that soaked through robes and washed away blood and ink alike.


    Li¨¢n exhaled, long and slow. His fingers flexed around his sword hilt, but he didn¡¯t sheathe it. Not yet.


    Zhen wiped his face and grinned, though it felt like pulling teeth. "Well. That was¡­"


    A sound cut him off.


    Click.


    Click.


    Click.


    Jade beads, rolling across knuckles.


    They turned.


    The hooded man stood at the tree line, his face still shadowed, his fingers still moving. But this time, he wasn¡¯t smiling.


    This time, he lifted his head, and the last bead dropped from his hand into the mud with a sound like a grave closing.


    The bead struck the ground like a cannonball¡­


    and in the instant it shattered, the man was gone.


    A heartbeat later, the shockwave hit, not in flesh, but in spirit.


    It slammed into their cores, rattling divine bones like dice in a gambler¡¯s cup. Zhen¡¯s teeth cracked together with a sickening snap, blood blooming across his tongue. Li¨¢n staggered, his sword arm raised instinctively, as though to block a blow that had already landed deep within.


    ¡°Gods-damned!¡± Zhen spat crimson into the mud. ¡°What the hell was that?¡±


    Li¨¢n¡¯s fingers flexed around his hilt, his knuckles white as bone. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± he said, too calmly. The kind of calm that comes just before a blade finds its mark.


    ¡°But now we can be sure. He was the cause.¡±


    Dust hung heavy in the air, shimmering in the slanted sunlight like powdered glass. As it settled, the scene emerged, and the truth gaped wide before them.


    The inn wasn¡¯t just ruined. It was erased. Where warped timbers had once stood, there was only a raw wound in the earth, puckered, sunken, as if something immense had bitten down and swallowed.


    And beyond that...


    the void had grown.


    It wasn¡¯t a darkness born of nightfall or silence.


    It was hunger, made manifest.


    The world curled inward at the edges, trees dissolving into mist, rocks unraveling like thread. Even the air itself seemed to come undone, folding, fraying, vanishing.


    The land did not break.


    It forgot how to be.


    Li¨¢n didn''t wait for it to remember.


    "Hold on!" he snapped.


    Zhen turned just in time to see Li¨¢n drive his sword into the air itself, not a strike but a turn, the blade slotting into the world''s hidden lock like a key forged for this exact moment.


    Silver light cracked along the edge, bleeding into the rift like ink into fresh paper.


    The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    He seized Zhen''s collar and flung them both forward.


    The void screamed.


    Not with sound.


    With absence.


    A tidal pull in reverse, trying to claim what wasn''t yet dead.


    Zhen''s feet left the ground, his body wrenching sideways as the world tried to keep a piece of him. He felt his shadow stretch behind him like taffy caught on a nail, and for one vertiginous instant, it didn''t want to come.


    Then everything snapped.


    And they were through.


    The sky above Tian was piercing blue.


    Too bright. Too perfect. Like it hadn''t noticed what they''d just come from.


    Zhen hit the courtyard tiles hard enough to crack the edge of his spine. His lungs seized. He rolled onto his side, coughing up more black than red this time, the taste metallic and bitter with something older than blood.


    Ink.


    It coated his teeth like ash.


    Li¨¢n dropped beside him, panting, his hair half-loosed and his robes soaked through with rainwater and divine sweat.


    He didn''t speak.


    They were in the back gardens of Tian. He recognized the koi pavilion to their left, the magnolia grove to the right. Real stone underfoot. Real sky above. The clamor of gods arguing three towers over.


    Home. Maybe.


    Zhen didn''t trust it.


    He sat up slowly, wincing. "That''s twice you''ve dragged me across reality like a sack of mortal rice."


    Li¨¢n didn''t rise.


    He crouched there, eyes fixed on the ground behind Zhen. Silent. Still.


    Zhen squinted at him. "Didi?"


    Li¨¢n''s mouth was tight. "Don''t move."


    Zhen froze. "There better not be a spider."


    Li¨¢n''s voice was cold as steel. "Look behind you. Slowly."


    Zhen turned.


    A reflecting pool stretched out behind him, one of Tian''s sacred ones, meant to catch the stars at night. Now it held only daylight.


    And his reflection.


    Except... not just his.


    His shadow stood behind him in the water, stretched tall and slightly off-center, like an echo drawn by a shaking hand. Its head was tilted, the way the figure in the dream had tilted its head. Listening.


    No face. No movement. But it was there.


    Watching him.


    Zhen shifted. The shadow didn''t.


    His stomach flipped.


    He turned back to Li¨¢n, forced a grin. "Well that''s unsettling."


    Li¨¢n''s knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword. "It didn''t want to let go of you."


    Zhen swallowed. His fingers brushed his chest. "I saw images of a scroll, a living breathing, three dimensional¡­scroll," he said. "There was a man with a brush and no face. He didn''t speak, but I knew him."


    "The one from the courtyard?" Li¨¢n asked.


    "No." Zhen''s voice dropped. "Another one. Older. Or newer. I can''t tell. But they''re connected. The one with the beads and the one with the brush. Maybe two sides of the same brushstroke. I think..." His fingers twitched. "I think they''re rewriting the world. Piece by piece. And the void is the eraser."


    Li¨¢n stared at him. "And you¡­ let it write you?"


    Zhen looked at the pool again.


    The shadow was gone.


    He let out a breath he didn''t realize he was holding.


    "Not let," he said. "It just started. And for a moment, I couldn''t tell where I ended and the ink began."


    Li¨¢n stood at last. His posture was stiff, shoulders tight with thoughts he wasn''t saying. He sheathed his sword with a soft click.


    "We need to report this."


    "We need to lie about this," Zhen corrected. "You saw the generals. You think they''ll let us out again if they know we brushed up against a sentient void that wants to turn me into calligraphy?"


    Li¨¢n hesitated.


    "...Fine," he said at last. "But I''m going to carve protection sigils into your damned shadow if it tries that again."


    Zhen cracked a grin. "Aw. You do care."


    "I just don''t want to drag your smirking corpse back to the Tribunal again."


    As they walked away, Zhen cast one last glance at the pool.


    The water was still. Empty.


    But in the faintest shimmer at the edge, like old ink clinging to paper, something rippled.


    A half-formed stroke.


    Unfinished.


    Waiting.


    Zhen Wei¡¯s house smelled like sandalwood, dust, and ink-stained recklessness.


    Stacks of scrolls and half-read tomes leaned against every available surface, some propped open with teacups, others slowly collapsing under the weight of divine neglect. The sitting cushions didn¡¯t match. The table was lacquered in chipped cinnabar red and held exactly three objects: a brush stand, a bowl of candied hawthorn slices, and a sword wrapped in silk napkins.


    Li¨¢n Zhiruo stepped over a pile of sun-bleached poetry anthologies and sniffed. ¡°You live like a scholar possessed by a raccoon.¡±


    ¡°I am a scholar,¡± Zhen said from across the room, elbow-deep in a cabinet full of questionable wine. ¡°And I¡¯ve never once bitten a mortal in a trash heap.¡±


    ¡°Yet.¡±


    Zhen reemerged triumphantly with a bottle. ¡°Found the plum one!¡±


    Li¨¢n took it wordlessly and dropped onto a cushion that gave an ominous pffft of displaced stuffing. He stared at the ceiling beams, still visibly rattled despite the relative peace. ¡°This place is a disaster.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Zhen flopped down beside him, one leg slung over a stack of herb manuals. ¡°I designed it to reflect the chaos of my soul.¡±


    Li¨¢n raised a brow. ¡°Your soul is a fire hazard.¡±


    They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the koi pond gurgled gently. The late-afternoon sun slanted in through carved windows, turning the motes of dust into slow-drifting constellations.


    A splash.


    Then a gurgling blorp.


    Li¨¢n glanced out toward the garden. ¡°That fish just glared at me.¡±


    Zhen sipped from the bottle. ¡°That¡¯s W¨¨i W¨¨i. She judges all who enter. Especially people who knock over my scroll towers.¡±


    ¡°She has good taste.¡±


    Another splash. This one more dramatic.


    W¨¨i W¨¨i launched herself halfway out of the pond, slapped her tail on the surface like a petty immortal banging a gavel, and vanished back into the water in a storm of bubbles.


    Zhen squinted. ¡°...Okay, that one might¡¯ve been for me.¡±


    Li¨¢n tilted his head. ¡°Do you train your pets to reflect your personality, or does the chaos just... gravitate?¡±


    Zhen passed him the bottle. ¡°It¡¯s more of a vibe.¡±


    They drank in silence for a while, letting the soft rustle of pond reeds and the clatter of scrolls settling fill the gaps between their thoughts.


    Finally, Li¨¢n set down the bottle and said, ¡°So. The void. The painter. The dream that almost turned you into a decorative stroke on some ghost¡¯s calligraphy.¡±


    Zhen groaned and rubbed his face. ¡°Yes, that.¡±


    ¡°What now?¡±


    Zhen hesitated, then leaned back on his elbows, eyes narrowed toward the ceiling. ¡°I don¡¯t trust the Tribunal. Not after the way they looked at us like funeral expenses on legs.¡±


    ¡°No one assigned to investigate a world-ending threat should be told ¡®you¡¯re perfect because you¡¯re expendable,¡¯¡± Li¨¢n said dryly.


    ¡°Exactly. So if we don¡¯t trust the Tribunal¡­¡± Zhen sat up, tossing a candied hawthorn slice into his mouth and talking around it, ¡°then who do we trust?¡±


    Li¨¢n exhaled through his nose. ¡°I haven¡¯t a clue what this void is or what that painter is up to. But I don¡¯t like being two steps behind something that eats reality.¡±


    Zhen frowned, then slowly looked toward the wall.


    A scroll hung there, half-dusted, bearing a single name in elegant, spare calligraphy: Êزؾý ¨C Sh¨¯u C¨¢ng J¨±n.


    Li¨¢n followed his gaze. ¡°You think he¡¯ll talk to us?¡±


    Zhen¡¯s mouth twisted. ¡°He remembers everything, even the things Heaven wants forgotten. If anyone knows what¡¯s going on, it¡¯s him.¡±


    Li¨¢n considered that. ¡°You sure you want to knock on the door of the guy who keeps the things Heaven fears?¡±


    Zhen smirked. ¡°Better than letting the void sketch its masterpiece on my backside. I¡¯m not that kind of canvas.¡±


    Outside, W¨¨i W¨¨i breached dramatically again, spraying water across the garden stones.


    Li¨¢n wiped a droplet off his cheek with a sigh. ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s go see the Archivist of All the Terrifying Things.¡±


    Zhen raised his cup. ¡°To deeply bad decisions and gods with secrets.¡±


    Li¨¢n clinked his cup against it. ¡°Again?¡±


    Zhen: ¡°Always.¡±


    Tian¡¯s lower districts shimmered in the pale afternoon light, their winding walkways layered like a painter¡¯s underdrawing, golden clouds skimming just above cobbled stone, and the air thick with the scent of immortal plum trees.


    Zhen Wei led the way, robes flaring behind him like a slightly scorched banner of defiance.


    Li¨¢n Zhiruo followed at a slower pace, arms crossed, his sword bouncing lightly at his hip. ¡°You¡¯re walking like someone with a very specific plan.¡±


    ¡°I do have a plan,¡± Zhen said, tossing another candied hawthorn in his mouth. ¡°Step one: arrive. Step two: charm the grumpiest man in all of Heaven into opening his glorified broom closet.¡±


    Li¨¢n arched a brow. ¡°You mean the Celestial Archive of Lost and Forbidden Things?¡±


    ¡°Same thing. Honestly, I don¡¯t know why he gave it such a long name. ¡®Grumble House¡¯ would''ve sufficed.¡±


    The path narrowed into a staircase flanked by obsidian pillars carved with shifting characters, ancient scripts that only rearranged themselves when no one was looking. The air changed here, denser, older. It smelled like old ink and dreams left out in the rain.


    At the bottom: a massive bronze door, untouched by time and sealed without seam. No handle, no inscription, no keyhole. Just silence. And an overwhelming sense that the door was... aware.


    Li¨¢n stopped beside him. ¡°So. How do you knock on something that predates the concept of sound?¡±


    Zhen cracked his knuckles. ¡°Watch and learn, Didi.¡±


    He stepped forward, placed his palm flat against the bronze,


    ¡­and promptly got zapped backward by a spark of celestial rebuke.


    He landed on his back in a patch of moss.


    W¨¨i W¨¨i the koi would¡¯ve laughed.


    Li¨¢n leaned over him, deadpan. ¡°Ah yes. The ancient and subtle art of slapping immortal artifacts.¡±


    Zhen coughed. ¡°Might¡¯ve deserved that.¡±


    ¡°You definitely deserved that.¡±


    Zhen sat up, brushing moss from his sleeves. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth, tilted his head dramatically toward the door, and bellowed:


    ¡°SHOU¡¯ER! IT¡¯S ME! I BROUGHT A GUEST AND PROBABLY A HEADACHE!¡±


    Silence.


    Then:


    ¡°I KNOW YOU¡¯RE IN THERE. THE DOOR JUST TRIED TO SMITE ME, WHICH MEANS YOU¡¯RE LISTENING.¡±


    Still nothing.


    Zhen squinted. ¡°Alright. Plan B.¡±


    He took a deep breath and sang, off-key, loudly, and with a kind of chaotic reverence only Zhen could muster:


    ¡°Ohhh mighty Archivist, keeper of scrolls,


    Let us in now, or I¡¯ll sing from my soul!


    I know where your tea stash is hid on the shelf,


    And I¡¯ll spill the location to Li¨¢n himself¡­¡±


    ¡°Zhen Wei.¡±


    The voice didn¡¯t come from behind the door. It came from within it, each word unspooling from the bronze like an old scroll reluctantly unfurling.


    Zhen straightened immediately. ¡°Ah. There he is.¡±


    The door creaked. Slowly. Resentfully.


    With a final grinding sigh, it parted just enough for a slim crack of light to spill through.


    ¡°Enter,¡± came the voice again, dry as sun-baked ink. ¡°But do not touch anything.¡±


    Li¨¢n muttered under his breath, ¡°Already my favorite god.¡±


    Zhen elbowed him. ¡°Behave. He likes me.¡±


    ¡°To everyone¡¯s eternal confusion.¡±


    And together, the two gods stepped through the seal of memory into the heart of forgotten things.