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That evening, Lady Yin made lotus porridge—the way she used to when he was small.
The air filled with warmth, woodsmoke, and the faint hum of cicadas outside. The scent wrapped around Nezha like an embrace—familiar, safe, *home*.
Li Jing sat near the door, methodically sharpening his sword with slow, rhythmic strokes—not because it needed sharpening, but because his hands needed something to do. He watched his wife feed their son, watched the boy lean into her lap, and said nothing.
Some things were too sacred for words.
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The air that morning was heavy—too still, too bright—the kind of silence that made even the birds refuse to sing.
From the cliffs above Chentang Pass, the Li manor stood overlooking the river like a pearl resting on a sleeping serpent. The household servants whispered of an ill omen—the skies that refused to clear since Nezha's return, the mist that rolled like restless spirits from the sea.
Inside the manor, Madam Yin pressed her hand to the window frame. The wood was cold, beaded with dew though it was midsummer. Her breath fogged the glass. Beyond it, the river's surface trembled.
"Li Jing," she whispered, "the water's rising again."
Her husband stood at the center of the courtyard, armor half-donned, banners swaying. His face was as carved stone—calm, proud, but the faintest tremor pulsed in his jaw.
He had heard the same whispers from his soldiers: The Dragon King's grief had turned to rage.
And who could blame him?
A son drowned. A kingdom shamed. Blood answered with blood—that was the law of Heaven and Earth alike.
But Nezha… Nezha was still their child.
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The sea split open.
From the horizon, a column of dark clouds rose like a mountain unmade, roaring with thunder. At its heart gleamed scales of deep sapphire and gold, eyes like suns behind storm.
Ao Guang—Dragon King of the Eastern Sea—descended upon Chentang Pass.
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Every breath he exhaled boiled the air. Waves the size of palaces slammed against the shore. The very sky bent under the sound of his fury.
His voice tore through the storm:
**"Li Jing! Bring forth your son—or this land will see my fury!"**
Lightning cut the clouds apart.
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Li Jing's soldiers fled their posts. Horses screamed. Children were gathered into temples as priests chanted the names of forgotten gods.
Yet in the center of the chaos, Li Jing did not move. His hand rested on the hilt of his blade.
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Madam Yin stepped beside him, her robe whipping like torn petals in the wind.
"He is our son," she said, her voice steady. "Not a weapon. Not a curse. A child—our child."
Thunder laughed.
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"A child who killed my heir," Ao Guang's fury coiled around the clouds, his body vast and serpentine above the manor. "He did that in my own domain—"
The Dragon King's eyes blazed like twin suns, and the ocean answered his grief. The tide that had retreated now *surged*—not naturally, but with the terrible intent of divine wrath.
From the eastern shore, water climbed against gravity itself. It rose in walls, in towers, in impossible spirals that defied the earth's pull. The sea no longer obeyed the moon—it obeyed *him*.
"You speak of balance, mortal woman," Ao Guang's voice dropped to a rumble that shook the foundations of the manor. "Then know this: the scales *will* be balanced. One son for one son. One family's grief for another's."
The river below Chentang Pass began to reverse its flow, drawn backward toward the sea as if the Dragon King were inhaling the world itself.
"I gave you time to say farewell," he continued, each word deliberate as falling stones. "I granted you one night of peace, though my son lies cold in the depths. I showed you mercy."
His massive form coiled tighter above the manor, blotting out the dawn.
"Do not mistake mercy for weakness."
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The storm howled.
Nezha stepped into the courtyard.
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He looked smaller than the legends whispered—barefoot, hair bound in crimson thread, the wind shivering around him as if even it could not decide whether to fear or protect him.
His eyes were not defiant.
They were hollow—wide and human, ringed with sleepless remorse.
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"It wasn't supposed to end that way," he said softly. "I never meant to—"
Ao Guang's roar drowned him out.
"You never meant? Then what was it—mercy when you killed him? Justice when you mocked his dying cries?"
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The clouds tore open; rain fell like knives.
Nezha raised his hand, and the raindrops froze midair—each drop turning to glass, shattering softly as they hit the earth.
"If death alone can quiet your sorrow," he said, "then let mine do it."
"Nezha—!"
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Madam Yin's cry broke through the storm.
She reached for him, but the air between them bent with divine force—unseen barriers, consequences of the very power that had cursed his life since birth.
Li Jing's hand trembled around his sword. For all his strength, he could not strike down his own son nor stop what Heaven had already set in motion.
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**End of Part I — The Dragon's Descent**
*He offered his life for theirs.*
*The dragon demanded justice.*
*And the heavens held their breath.*
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