Rain kissed the earth gently as dusk bled into the horizon.
In the mortal world—thousands of planes removed from Wulian's secret dominion—a small village nestled in a valley between ancient cliffs. Stone houses dotted the hillside like forgotten prayers, and thin trails of smoke curled into the sky, whispering of dinners, warmth, and routines that had remained unchanged for generations.
But something unfamiliar stirred that evening.
Not in the wind, not in the clouds—but in the silence between them.
Down a narrow path woven through rice fields and willow trees, a girl stood barefoot in the mud, her eyes fixed on something the villagers couldn't see.
Her name was Mei Lian.
She had been born in this village. Or so the elders claimed. Yet no one remembered seeing her mother. No one recalled her as a child. She simply… had always been there, like a ghost with a warm smile and hands that healed too fast.
Tonight, her smile was absent. Her hands clenched tightly at her sides.
The sky above cracked open—not with lightning, but light. A quiet rupture in reality. From it, a paper crane floated downward, glowing faintly in hues of gold and deep indigo. It drifted without wind, untouched by gravity, before landing in the rice paddy beside her.
She didn't blink.
"I was wondering when you'd come," Mei Lian whispered.
She bent down, picked it up with careful fingers, and unfolded it slowly. Inside, ink pulsed softly like a heartbeat. A single sentence scrawled in an elegant hand:
"The Court is watching. So is the Void. Walk toward silence, or speak and be consumed."
She read it once, then twice.
Then she burned it with a flick of her finger—no flame, just heat born from intent.
Behind her, someone approached—her childhood friend, Da Xun, the baker's son.
"Lian? You alright? The elders said they saw… something in the sky." He frowned, eyes darting upward. "Did you see it too?"
She turned to face him, her expression unreadable.
"I saw something," she said softly.
Da Xun rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "You've been... different lately."
Mei Lian tilted her head slightly. "You mean the visions? Or the voices?"
He took a step back. "What?"
She smiled, but her eyes didn't.
"Don't worry, Xun. They're not for you."
She walked past him, feet never quite touching the ground, leaving behind footprints made of light instead of mud.
Far away, in a desert kingdom where sand swallowed cities whole, Jinhai sat atop a broken obelisk. His greatsword leaned against the stone beside him, longer than a man and etched with cracks that glowed faintly like old embers refusing to die.
The letter had arrived in a gust of heatless wind, sealed with a mark he hadn't seen in centuries—an eye within a ring of flame.
He read the message and crushed it with a calloused hand.
The wind shifted, and with it, so did his gaze.
"You're still alive, then," he muttered to the sky. "Hmph. Fine. I'll play."
He stood, and the earth trembled slightly beneath his weight.
In a palace built atop clouds frozen in time, Suyin stirred her tea without looking at it. The porcelain clinked softly, an elegant rhythm timed to her thoughts. Around her, the servants moved with mechanical grace, never raising their eyes. To look upon Suyin directly was to invite a second death—one far more humiliating than the first.
The message had arrived as a lotus bloom floating in her ink well.
Typical.
She had known it was coming.
Still, the exact wording pleased her.
"The Court is watching. So is the Void. Walk toward silence, or speak and be consumed."
"Hm," she murmured. "He's awake."
A pause. Then a faint smile.
"Let's see how long you keep your pieces on the board this time, Wulian."
Back in the Void, Wulian stood at the edge of a cliff that overlooked a sea of stars.
Each light below him was a realm, pulsing with the heartbeat of countless lives. His hands were clasped behind his back, his robe fluttering in the windless expanse.
The System's voice drifted beside him.
"All three received their messages."
"Expected reactions?"
"Exactly as predicted."
"And Mei Lian?"
A pause.
"She burned the message without hesitation."
Wulian's lips curved faintly.
"She remembers."
"Should we move to Phase Two?"
He shook his head.
"No. Let them move first. That will reveal more than any question I could ask."
Silence stretched between them, thick and thoughtful.
Then Wulian turned and walked back toward the valley where his Court was forming—an empire in shadow, held together not by laws, but by stories whispered too quietly for the heavens to hear.
Beneath it all, a question lingered:
Who was really pulling the strings now?