Night draped itself over the mountains, cool and silent.The old temple where Lin Feng had been left to rest was half-collapsed, its tiles cracked by centuries of rain. A lone candle flickered beside him, throwing gold across the walls where faded murals still clung — gods, warriors, and forgotten kings.
He lay awake on the straw mat, staring at the ceiling.
Ever since he had returned from that blinding expanse of light — from Heaven's trial, or whatever that storm had been — the world felt sharper. Sounds breathed. Shadows moved. Even silence had texture.
And then there was the parchment.
It lay beside him now, wrapped in a strip of cloth. Its edges pulsed faintly, like the rhythm of a heartbeat muffled beneath silk.
He hesitated before touching it. The faint warmth that met his fingertips was neither divine nor demonic. It felt… aware.
"Just what are you?" he murmured under his breath.
The candle flickered violently — and the parchment stirred.
Thin lines of blue light ran across its surface, curling and coiling until they formed shifting runes that vanished as soon as they appeared. He couldn't read them, yet somehow, he understood.They weren't words but emotions — memory, purpose, sorrow.
A sudden wave of exhaustion hit him, and the world dimmed.
When his eyes closed, he was no longer in the ruined temple.
He stood on a field of stars, weightless, surrounded by drifting fragments of shattered heavens. Each fragment carried an image — an immortal's fall, a throne breaking, rivers of light turning to dust.
At the center of it all hung a faint silhouette, its face hidden by mist, its voice quiet and filled with centuries of weariness.
"Child of the New Heaven… do not trust the sky above."
Lin Feng reached out instinctively. "Who are you?"
But the vision shattered before the words could form.
He woke gasping, the candle extinguished, his fingers clutching the parchment so tightly his knuckles whitened. Outside, thunder rolled softly through the distant peaks.
He sat in the darkness for a long time, heart pounding, then whispered to himself,
"Do not trust the sky above…?"
As if answering, the parchment pulsed once — faint and rhythmic — before falling still again.
Meanwhile, in the Ninth Heaven…
High above, beyond the veil of constellations, Envoy Arannis stood alone in the Observatory of Fates. All around her, mirrors of celestial glass reflected the countless threads of mortal destiny — yet one thread, a pale blue one, writhed out of pattern, defying every attempt at charting.
She raised her palm, and the thread flickered to life, showing the image of Lin Feng lying in the ruined temple below.
A quiet voice, belonging to another envoy, echoed from the shadows.
"Why do you trouble yourself with a single mortal?"
Arannis didn't turn. "Because Heaven's decree does not breathe."
"And if the Registrar discovers your meddling?"
"Then I shall bear the punishment."
The stars glimmered against her silver robes as she whispered to herself, almost a prayer —
"A mortal who can hear Heaven's sorrow… what kind of fate have we written?"
Far below, Lin Feng's candle reignited on its own, the flame a steady blue.
----------------------
Morning crept gently across the mountains, carrying with it the scent of rain.Lin Feng sat cross-legged beside the fallen temple gate, where moss had already begun to reclaim the stones. The parchment rested in his lap, motionless, its earlier glow nowhere to be seen.
For a long while, he simply breathed.The villagers had told him that those chosen by Heaven often awakened their "inner essence" within days. He didn't know what that meant, but something inside him insisted he try.
He closed his eyes.
The world's noise dulled — the rustle of leaves, the cry of distant cranes, even the whisper of the wind through the ruined halls. His breathing steadied, drawn from the base of his spine until it rose like a soft tide through his chest.
Then, faintly, he heard it: a rhythm beneath the quiet, like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
It wasn't the parchment calling him this time.It was his own body, responding — aligning with something vast and unseen.
Within the darkness behind his eyelids, a blue spark bloomed. It twined upward, becoming a seed of light that pulsed gently.
Lin Feng reached toward it with his will — and the world shifted.
The seed unfurled a single leaf, and with that motion, energy flooded him.It was cold, sharp, and alive — filling his veins like liquid wind. He gasped, eyes snapping open. The grass around him bent inward, drawn toward his presence.
And for the briefest instant, the parchment glowed again — its runes forming the outline of a tree whose roots touched the heavens.
Then it faded, leaving him trembling and wide-eyed.
"So this… is what it means to cultivate?" he whispered.
No answer came, yet the air felt different now — aware of him, responding in ways he couldn't explain.
In the Ninth Heaven
Arannis stood within the Hall of Records, a silent cathedral carved from immortal jade. Scrolls hovered in the air like sleeping birds, each one holding an echo of Heaven's decrees.
She had dismissed the attendants, locking the doors behind her. Alone, she moved between the glowing shelves until she reached a sealed alcove — one that hadn't been opened since before the founding of the current Heaven.
Her hand hovered over the barrier. "Forgive me," she murmured. "But the truth cannot remain buried."
With a pulse of divine energy, the seal broke. Dust scattered like fading stars. Inside lay a single withered scroll bound in gold thread.
When she unrolled it, a familiar shimmer pulsed across its surface — the same ancient runic flow that had marked Lin Feng's parchment.
Her heart tightened.
"So it is true… this script belongs to the Old Heaven."
She ran her fingers over the faded lines.
"But why would the Old Heaven's will choose a mortal now?"
As if in answer, a faint light flickered across the scroll — and for the briefest heartbeat, she saw an image: Lin Feng meditating beneath the mountain sunrise, a blue aura coiling around him like wind given form.
Arannis drew back sharply, breath caught between wonder and fear.
"You can already sense him…"
Then, more softly — almost a whisper meant only for herself:
"Then perhaps… the heavens were never as silent as we believed."
Far below, Lin Feng exhaled slowly, the last traces of blue light fading from his hands. In that stillness, a distant echo brushed his mind — soft, melodic, and unfamiliar.
A woman's voice.
"Awaken gently, child of the storm."