Footsteps in Qinling Mist
The Qinling Mountains were a world apart.
Where mortals dared not tread, where the rivers cut deep and jagged through stone, and where ancient pines whispered secrets older than any dynasty, the mountains held their own justice. Mist rolled in like living water, curling between rocks, hiding paths, and swallowing footsteps. Travelers often entered and never emerged.
Xinyi moved cautiously, every muscle tense. The air was thick, damp, heavy with the smell of pine and earth, but there was something else—something faint yet undeniable: the trace of a presence that had been with her since the shrine.
Not mortal. Not human.
God.
She clutched the lantern, hiding it beneath her cloak, feeling its warmth against her ribs. The flame pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Its light seemed to push against the shadows, illuminating the path just enough for her to navigate the treacherous rocks and roots.
"East… east to Hua Mountain," she whispered, recalling Yichén's words. "Just a few days' travel, if I survive the night."
The wind shifted, carrying a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Leaves rustled without cause and for the first time since the shrine, Xinyi froze.
Something followed.
Footsteps—soft, careful, deliberate—echoed faintly behind her. Not many, but enough to make her pulse spike.
She slipped into a grove of bamboo, crouching low. Her breath came in slow, controlled measures. The lantern remained hidden, but she could feel the flame reacting to the intruders, growing warmer, more insistent.
Three figures emerged. Silhouetted by the moonlight, their robes whispered against the stone, talismans glinting faintly. Heaven's Inquisitors, undoubtedly. The same kind who had fallen before Yichén's shadow.
Xinyi's fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger at her waist. She was fast, but she knew speed alone would not save her. Not against men who wielded the power of gods.
The first moved forward, voice low and commanding. "The mortal carries the flame," he said. "She cannot escape."
The second spread his arms, paper talismans catching the wind. Symbols of binding, of punishment, of celestial decree. "The Judge of Shadows will not interfere again," he murmured.
Xinyi's stomach sank. They knew Yichén had been there. And they were counting on his absence to finish what he had started.
She stepped back slowly, almost gliding through the bamboo, but the roots betrayed her. One caught her foot, sending a soft crack echoing in the grove.
Instantly, the Inquisitors stopped.
The air tightened. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
And then the ground trembled—not violently, but enough that loose stones slid down the slope. A shadow darker than night slithered from between the trees, coiling like smoke. It moved with impossible speed, silent and purposeful.
Yichén.
He emerged, and the very mist seemed to bend around him. The Inquisitors froze mid-step, pale fear flashing in their eyes. They reached for their weapons, but their movements faltered as shadows stretched, coiling, and struck like living chains.
One fell. The chains wrapped around him, lifting him off the ground without a sound. Another screamed, a short, panicked cry, before he too was bound and rendered helpless. The third dropped to his knees, eyes wide, trembling.
Yichén's gaze never left Xinyi. Calm, measured, untouchable.
"Move," he commanded softly. Not to them, but to her.
She obeyed instinctively.
As she ran beside him, the shadows trailing her steps like protective guardians, she realized something terrifying. Yichén was not merely defending her—he was marking the world for her survival. The mountains themselves seemed to respond to his presence. Mist shifted to obscure their path, rocks trembled underfoot to deter pursuers, and the wind carried only the sounds they needed to hear.
Xinyi glanced at him. For the first time, he looked not like an unyielding god, but like something more human—like someone who had chosen to intervene in a way he was never meant to.
"Why do you stay?" she asked, her voice trembling despite herself. "Why help me when you could just leave?"
Yichén's eyes, silver against shadow, met hers. He did not answer immediately. When he spoke, his voice was calm, almost mournful.
"Because the balance has already begun to shift. You… are not meant to survive. And yet, here you are."
She swallowed, unsure whether to feel relief or terror. "Then stay," she whispered. "Stay long enough to teach me."
He said nothing. The shadows lengthened, guiding them deeper into the Qinling forests, toward paths known only to the mountains themselves.
Hours passed. The Inquisitors were nowhere in sight, but Xinyi knew it was only temporary. Heaven would not abandon its will. They would come again, stronger, smarter, relentless.
And yet, with Yichén at her side, she felt something she had not felt in years: hope.
A mortal's hope, fragile but burning.
The lantern pulsed once more, brighter than before. It was as though it recognized that she was no longer alone. That she now walked with a god who had looked back, a god who had chosen—however silently—to bend the rules of Heaven itself.
High above, the stars shone coldly, eternal witnesses to a world that was slowly starting to change.
And for the first time, Xinyi allowed herself to believe: maybe, just maybe, survival was possible.