It rained in the Celestial Realm that night.
Not thunder or storm — but a gentle, silver rain that shimmered as it fell. It was rare, born only of emotional imbalance across the higher realms.
The sky was weeping.
And Lian Qiao sat beneath it, curled on the temple steps of Peach Blossom Sect, soaked to the bone and silent.
She had lost the duel.
Not in skill.Not in strength.
But in self.
The moment the Rite demanded truth, her flame had wavered. Not because she lacked power — but because she lacked certainty.
"I don't know if I'm strong enough to do it again."
The words haunted her now.
Over and over.
Even as the Flamebinder glowed gently beside her like a loyal dog refusing to leave her side.
She wanted to believe she was strong.
That remembering her past made her whole again.
But what if it just reminded her of what she had failed to protect?
She didn't hear him arrive.
But she felt him.
A shift in the air. The quiet stillness of gravity tilting.
Mo Yujin.
He stood beneath the same rain, steps away, black robes glistening, hair slicked back, raindrops trailing down his face like glass.
Neither spoke.
Until—
"You shouldn't be here," she said, softly. "You'll get wet."
"I'm already wet," he replied calmly.
Her lips twitched. "How very poetic."
A pause.
"I saw the trial," he said.
"I figured," she replied, voice cracking slightly. "Everyone did."
He stepped forward.
"You were honest."
"And weak," she added bitterly.
"No," he said. "You were real."
She looked up then — eyes wide, rimmed red, glistening in the rain.
He was closer now. Too close.
She should've moved.He should've left.The rain should've stopped.
But it didn't.
It only deepened the silence, like a curtain dropped around the two of them.
He reached out.
Slowly. Carefully.
His fingers brushed the side of her face — tracing a raindrop from her temple to her cheek.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't breathe.
"You said you didn't know if you were strong enough," he murmured."But I've seen strength forged in fire, and I've seen it forged in silence.Yours is both."
She shook her head. "I'm still scared."
"Then let me stand beside you," he said. "Even if you fall."
She blinked.
And for once — no prophecy screamed. No seal cracked.
There was just her.And him.And the air between them.
He leaned in.
And she didn't stop him.
Their lips met — not as a triumphant promise, but as a quiet ache.
A kiss that tasted of rain and memory and all the things they weren't allowed to say out loud.
When they broke apart, barely an inch between them, she whispered:
"This was a mistake."
He nodded.
But didn't step back.
"Then let it be our first one."