A millennium had passed since the last war, and the lineage of King Tiān still ruled the great kingdom of Huǒyuán. The current monarch, King Tiān Lóngxuān, and his graceful queen, Yù Yuè, were blessed with a son, Tiān Jùn.
From the moment he could talk, Tiān Jùn was haunted.
Night after night, dreams burned through his sleep, smoke swirling, wings slicing the air, voices whispering things he couldn't name. Royal physicians declared him healthy. Dream-readers found nothing.
But his mother knew.
Something was wrong.
"Mum... I had the nightmare again..." the boy whispered, his voice trembling, his small body soaked in sweat.
Queen Yù Yuè turned to him at once, drawing him into her arms, wrapping him tight in silk blankets. Her voice was soft, trembling with worry as she brushed the damp hair from his forehead.
"My son, what did you see this time?"
"Don't be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. I promise."
But the child cried harder, his small frame shaking.
Queen Yù Yuè's heart shattered with every sob, and in desperation, she turned to the only one she believed might help.
That very night, the King and Queen brought Tiān Jùn before the Immortal Priest.
The air in the temple was heavy with incense. The priest sat cross-legged in the center, surrounded by ancient relics and burning lanterns. He meditated for hours, unmoving, lost in silence as though he wrestled with a truth too dangerous to speak.
When his eyes finally opened... he spoke only one thing:
"Let him dream. When the time is right... the flame will return to the fire."
Queen Yù Yuè went pale.
King Tiān Lóngxuān only frowned, though his eyes betrayed fear.
The priest returned to his meditation.
That night, the dreams came again.
Tiān Jùn awoke, gasping for air.
His skin was cold. His fingers trembled.
He rushed into his mother's arms, shivering violently.
"Mum... I had the nightmare again."
"My son... what did you see?" she asked, gently holding him. "Don't be afraid. Nothing will happen to you."
"I saw myself... wandering through the king's chamber," he said, eyes wide with tears. "I was searching for something. When I found it... a force, I don't know what... it grabbed me and threw me out—across the village border. I cried... I bled... but no one came."
His sobs broke her completely.
She held him tighter, as if she could shield him from the curse itself.
By morning, Queen Yù Yuè was at the palace doors, seeking an audience with the King.
But the guards refused her.
So she waited — silent, still, a mother in mourning — until the doors creaked open.
King Tiān Lóngxuān stood there, his face unreadable.
He dismissed the guards and servants and ushered her inside.
At the same time, in his chambers, young Tiān Jùn woke up alone.
"Mother?" he called.
No answer.
A maid bowed respectfully and whispered, "Her Majesty is with the King."
Confused and uneasy, Tiān Jùn crept down the corridor. The guards stood stiffly, saying nothing.
"Is my mother inside?" he asked.
A maid nodded softly.
The corridor was too quiet. Too still.
His young heart beating hard, the boy stepped close to the chamber doors — and heard voices.
He peered through a narrow crack.
Queen Yù Yuè stood facing her husband, her eyes full of sorrow.
"My king... I don't want our son to die," she pleaded. "These dreams — they're not ordinary anymore."
King Tiān Lóngxuān turned away. His shoulders tensed, his gaze heavy.
"I know," he said at last. "His dreams will only get worse. I believe... It's time to find him a wife."
Queen Yù Yuè fell to her knees.
"He's only five years old!" she cried. "He knows nothing about love. Nothing of this curse. He is our son! I can't bear to lose him!"
A silence lingered.
Then the King shouted:
"Yù Yuè!! What should I do? We can't have another child! I'm cursed!!"
Outside the door, the young prince collapsed to his knees, breath caught in his chest.
"Cursed...?" he whispered.
Meanwhile, in the southern heartlands of Huǒyuán, life stirred differently.
The kingdom stretched far and wide, divided into three great provinces:
The Southern Province: prosperous and alive with traders and blacksmiths.
The Eastern Province: blessed with fertile soil, home to farmers and herbalists.
The Western Province: wild with power, torn between the authority of the Sì Tiān Temple and the Royal Military Camp.
In the bustling Southern Province, a man named Lord Chen held a high status as a wealthy trader. Respected by villagers and merchants alike, his home stood as a beacon of fortune. He had recently married a quiet, graceful woman, the daughter of a temple keeper, from the western provinces. Sì Tiān Temple.
On the night of their wedding, a vision gripped Lord Chen.
He heard a voice —
"A soul reborn... will walk your halls."
Months later, his wife discovered she was pregnant.
And as the time to give birth approached, Lord Chen visited the temple and knelt in prayer.
He closed his eyes.
A voice came in the quiet.
"Am I welcome in your family?"
"If you are the child of my wife... then you are welcome," LordChen replied, trembling.
"I will visit soon," the voice mumbled. "Hurry... your wife will die soon."
Chen's eyes flew open. He gasped, clutching his chest. "No... NOOO!"
He staggered to his feet, calling for his assistant. They rushed back through the shortcut available.
As he reached the threshold at dawn, he heard the cry of a newborn... and the cheers of his household.
He burst into the chamber.
There she was — his child.
Tiny. Perfect. Alive!
His wife lay beside her, still breathing. Hope flared in his chest.
"I'm a father..." he whispered, overwhelmed.
But then—
His wife drew one sharp breath.
And gave up her ghost.
"NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
Lord Chen suffered many losses after the birth of his daughter. He buried his wife but never moved on—his heart sealed in grief, his smile buried with her in the ground.
He named his daughter Mò Lián.
The girl grew beneath the stern gaze of her mother's family—rigid, spiritual, unyielding in their rules. Lord Chen remained distant, consumed by business in his hometown, the Southern Province. He returned only for festivals, a fleeting shadow of a father.
Whispers followed Mò Lián wherever she went. Children shied away, and even those bound by fate recoiled. Her very presence unsettled hearts. They named her the cursed child.
Loneliness became her shadow. Often she sat by her window, eyes lifted toward the skies, her voice soft as though confessing to the night.
"Why am I a girl with no freedom?"
Her only comfort was Yù Xuān, a kind soul older than her, from the sacred inner temple island.
The two had grown together like secret flowers in a barren field. Mò Lián lived cloistered within the monk quarters, while Yù Xuān belonged near the temple island, where only priests were allowed to serve. Their stations were divided, their worlds never meant to touch—yet friendship found them, binding them in ways that defied rank.
Whenever Mò Lián felt caged or restless, she would sneak away to see her.
But these visits always came with consequences.
Her grandparents would search the village, drag her home, and punish her. Beatings followed. Apologies came, and more promises she could never keep. Yet she always found ways to escape.
One humid afternoon, Mò Lián ran to the temple island. But this time, Yù Xuān scolded her so badly.
"You shouldn't be here, not now."
"What? Should I stop coming to see you? Fine!"
Heart aching, Mò Lián stormed away, wiping angry tears from her face. She wandered through the wildflower path, then down to the seashore — her secret place of calm.
The prince of Huǒyuán, Prince Tiān Jùn, just twenty-four years old, stood before Sì Tiān Temple, receiving his title as crown prince.
Queen Yù Yuè accompanied him to pray, but also to consult the High Priest again.
As they finished the rituals, Tiān Jùn stepped closer to his mother and bowed slightly.
"Mother... I would love to visit the seashore."
"Of course, son, you have always loved the sea," she replied with a soft smile. "We have time. I'll speak with the temple elders. Take your Yán Lǐng with you."
Tiān Jùn, followed by his royal military general. General Yán Lǐng rode off in a chariot through the valley.
The prince carried a quiet attachment to the temple island. Whenever he journeyed to Sì Tiān Temple, his steps inevitably led him to the river's edge. There amidst the hush of water and stone, it seemed as if he sought something—perhaps solace, perhaps a memory only he could touch.