By night, the water had receded fully. The storm clouds finally broke, releasing a thin, hesitant drizzle—as if Heaven had found the courage to grieve.
Madam Yin sat on the veranda, Nezha's sash in her lap, staring into nothing. Li Jing stood guard beside her, silent, hands clasped behind his back.
The lanterns swayed gently in the wind. The house felt too large, too empty. Every corner still echoed with Nezha's laughter, his footsteps, his arguments, his restless energy.
None of it would return.
"Jing," Madam Yin whispered.
"Yes," he answered, voice soft, almost breaking.
"I felt him," she said. "In those last moments… our boy wasn't afraid."
Li Jing swallowed hard.
"No," he murmured. "He wasn't."
"He loved us."
Li Jing closed his eyes, tears finally gathering.
"He always did."
Madam Yin pressed the sash to her face. The rain outside deepened, a soft, steady sound—like someone sobbing behind a closed door.
The Sleepless House
That night the Li Manor did not sleep.
Servants lit incense and set candles for Nezha's spirit. Neighbors left offerings quietly outside the gate. The rain became mist, then fog, curling low across the ground like mourning cloth.
Li Jing sat alone in the hall, a single candle burning.
He kept replaying it—the moment Nezha turned to them, the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the gentle, unbearably adult acceptance.
His son had died with more courage than most warriors ever lived with.
And Li Jing hated it.
He hated the gods.
He hated the dragons.
He hated fate.
He hated himself.
He bowed his head into his hands and let the candle burn down beside him.
As dawn approached and the rain thinned, Li Jing finally spoke aloud—voice raw, cracking.
"Nezha… forgive me."
The words fell into the empty hall like stones.
"I don't know how to live without you," he whispered. "But I will not let your sacrifice be erased. If Heaven thinks I will accept this—they underestimate the love of a father."
His grip tightened on the table.
"I will find a way," he said quietly. "To bring you home."
Behind him, Madam Yin sat awake with her hands folded over Nezha's sash, listening—but she did not interrupt.
Because she had already made the same vow in her heart.
The first rays of morning light slipped over Chentang Pass, faint and thin but real.
For the first time since Nezha's death, Li Jing stood tall again.
For the first time, Madam Yin wiped her tears and breathed steadily.
The grief was still there—heavy, permanent—but something underneath it had sharpened.
Not hope. Not yet.
But resolve.
And somewhere beyond mortal sight, in a plane the living cannot reach, something small, warm, and lotus-scented pulsed faintly—
—but neither parent felt it. Not yet.
End of Part II — The Long Night
They mourned.
They vowed.
And beneath the surface of the world, a promise began to take root.
End of Chapter VI: After the Quiet
He gave his life for theirs.
They would not let that sacrifice be the end.
And somewhere in the space between death and rebirth, the lotus remembered.