Deep within the highest Heaven, where even divine beasts walked lightly and mortals dared not fathom, there existed a realm hidden from all but the Will of Heaven. It was a place beyond ownership, beyond conquest. A garden that few knew of, and fewer had seen.
The earth pierced like a mountain, though no foundation held it to the world below. Its slopes were veiled in rolling mist and covered with blossoms of every hue—followers that shimmered with quiet divinity. This was the domain of a thousand Heavenly Flowers.
Uncountable paths wound along the floating peaks, spiraling upward without end. The ascent was marked not by steps, but by tribulations. The further one ascended, the more venerable the air, the more dignified the flowers. Along the path stood a thousand Heavenly Beasts, silent and unyielding. Each guarded a Heavenly Flower with a trial which challenged the very Dao itself. And to climb from root to summit would take a lifetime.
The realm was so saturated with Qi so pure it could shimmer within mortal eyes. Any attempts to cultivate it brought agonizing death. Any attempts to reach for a Heavenly Flower was blocked by a trial unfair. Any attempts to take a shortcut among the paths would make it become truly endless. This place was not meant to be subjugated, it was meant to be revered.
At the peak, the world was silent. There, on a natural terrace, stood a stone table and a chair. Carved into the table was a name: Bailou Garden. No hands had etched those characters, they had been there since the beginning.
Beneath the open sky, where stars lingered even in daylight, was left a single flower.
Unlike the others, its petals remained closed. Translucent and pale as the morning mist, it looked fragile—almost incomplete. Yet at its heart was an unblemished core, still and luminous, as pure as the Heavens themselves.
The realm bathed in the love of the Heavens, and no being within it was more cherished than that lonely flower.
When the Heavenly Dao Pavilion stumbled upon the hidden realm, it was the Pavilion Master who led the way. Others saw mystery. He saw reverence.
Upon reaching the summit, he stopped before the flower. He stared in silence. A moment passed—then, without word or hesitation he knelt.
His disciples froze. Not once in a hundred thousand years had he bowed—save for his master's funeral.
The Pavilion Master lowered himself, his head and hands pressed to the earth. His voice was soft.
"This lowly one greets the one beloved by the Heavens."
No thunder answered. No divine voice echoed from above.
But in the quiet stillness, every disciple felt it. The Heavens had acknowledged his words.
One by one, they followed their master's example and bowed low.
When the Pavilion Master rose, his expression had changed. His gaze held clarity, as if he had seen beyond the sky.
"The Tian Li will awaken," he said. "It will blossom with spiritual intelligence. We are to protect it until the time comes."
The disciples bowed again, this time without needing to be told.
"We heed the Heaven's command."
⸻
Years passed.
The Heavens remained silent.
But those who served them moved.
At the edge of the realm—the base of the Bailou Garden—Zhan Zheng knelt before carved heavenly stones. His black robes bore the emblem of the Demon Sealing Sect. His presence remained unflinching, unshakable beneath the gaze of Heaven.
In his hands, he held a chicken. It was nothing more than an ordinary beast—if it could even be called that. Common, feathered, unaware. It clucked once, softly, before an iron blade passed through its throat.
Blood touched the heavenly stones, and the formation beneath his feet awakened.
"I offer this lifespan," Zhan Zheng said quietly, "in exchange for a single climb."
The Heavenly Qi around him compressed. The ritual took hold. In the eyes of the Heavens, he would now ascend bound by a chicken's lifespan. The most difficult path opened before him—twenty years to reach the summit. But for Zhan Zheng, even beneath the weight of the Heavens, twenty years was generous. With the ritual sealed, he stepped calmly onto the path.
The mountain did not welcome him.
There were no signs, no winds to guide him upward. Only the thin path, carved into an endless ascent, winding between floating cliffs and fields of radiant blossoms. The Qi here whispered warnings to the uninvited. The Heavenly Beasts, though silent, turned their gaze as he passed—watching, but not striking.
He walked.
There were no shortcuts. No bursts of power or flight. Not in this realm. Every step was earned. Every breath, heavy.
His feet cracked where the stone was jagged. His sleeves caught dew from morning mists, and even that dew shimmered with suppressing power. His pace slowed under the cold of night. Several times, he paused—not from exhaustion, but from the quiet weight that pressed down on all living things here.
By the time he reached the summit, his robes and hair were disheveled, but his demeanor was all the same.
At the peak, seated beside the stone table, was an old man in simple white robes of the Heavenly Dao Pavilion. He sipped from a wooden cup, his eyes half-lidded and relaxed.
"Zhan Zheng," the old man said. "I did not expect you here."
Zhan Zheng inclined his head. "Senior Kong Ming."
Kong Ming waved him over lazily. "Come sit. No need for formalities here."
Zhan Zheng approached the table and sat, wordless as his gaze drifted over the realm below. Kong Ming poured him a cup of spirit tea, its warmth and aroma gentle as it touched Zhan Zheng.
"I heard the original guardian was replaced."
"Bai Xueyin asked for it," Kong Ming replied. "Said her presence would disturb the flower's rhythm. You know how they are—some people can't sit still without a clear purpose. The Tian Li was fine with me. I don't know why she bothered with stories."
Zhan Zheng nodded once. "Then allow me to see it."
Kong Ming smiled softly and stood, motioning toward the flower's resting place.
Together, they crossed the terrace.
Then stopped.
The light breeze continued to blow. The sky above remained calm. But the place where Tian Li had bloomed, untouched for millennia, was now empty.
Kong Ming blinked once.
Zhan Zheng said nothing at first. His breath slowed.
The stone base was there. The soil was untouched. Not crushed, not torn, just… empty.
"It was here this morning," Kong Ming said quietly, breaking their stupor.
Zhan Zheng lowered himself to one knee, not in reverence, but in examination. He touched the center of the flower's stone cradle with two fingers. The surface was cool. Qi still lingered faintly—soft, but fading. Not torn away, not suppressed.
"It was taken," he said at last.
Kong Ming gave him a sharp glance. "Impossible. Nothing leaves Bailou Garden. Not without Heaven's will."
Zhan Zheng paused. "Then could the Heavens have permitted it? Or worse—commanded it?"
Kong Ming stared upward. The constellations above shimmered in still formation. The Heavens bore witness but offered no reply.
"If that is true…" the old man murmured, "No. The Heavens would not forsake its beloved."
Zhan Zheng said nothing. His gaze had turned inward, toward the entire Bailou Garden.
"There was no wind," Kong Ming added. "No beasts stirred. No warnings."
"No footprints," Zhan Zheng said. "No broken Qi. No signs of violence."
"The soil is undisturbed," Kong Ming agreed. "They weren't taken by force."
"But this was not sanctioned," Zhan Zheng said.
Kong Ming looked skyward again. "The Heavens are quiet… eerily quiet."
"They were deceived," Zhan Zheng replied.
"Then someone veiled their departure… even from the Heavenly Dao?"
"It seems so," Zhan Zheng answered. "And if that veil is only now lifting… the Tian Li has been gone for some time."
He trailed off. The air had grown still.
"Then the consequences have yet to arrive," Kong Ming finished.
Zhan Zheng rose, his eyes steady. "To steal a child of the Heavens and snatch them beneath their gaze… this kind of act will affect everyone."
⸻
Far from the summit, past the stillness of constellations and the silver threads of cloud, a tear was forming in the Heavens.
It was not loud. The stars did not blink. The Divine Beasts did not stir. But something ancient recoiled as the realm itself warped to allow what it should not.
A woman stepped through the rift she had carved—alone, unaccompanied, her robes torn by unseen forces.
In her arms, she cradled the translucent bloom—the Tian Li, now faintly glowing, its petals quivering in quiet protest. Though it had no voice, the flower pulsed with unease, as if sensing the descent from sacred heights into something unspeakable.
Blood trickled from the woman's lips, but she did not falter. Every breath she took was a vow. Every step downward was carved from sacrifice.
To descend the Heavenly Realms was not travel, it was defiance.
To carry what the Heavens cherished most was not theft—it was betrayal.
Yet she continued.
Her fingers trembled against the soft petals. "Shh," she whispered to the flower, though it did not cry. "There is no choice. If you remain, all will suffer."
With each realm she passed, the cost grew heavier. Her cultivation withered. Her soul strained. Her light—the fire that once burned brightly within the lantern—flickered endlessly.
And far above, in the Jade Registry—the ethereal tablet within the hands of the Dynasty's Emperor—her name vanished.
No warning. No ripple.
Only absence.
The Emperor's hand trembled. It had been an era since a name of such rank had vanished. Death could not have taken her—not without reverberation. This was something else. Something worse.
She fell through the Mortal Realm like a stone cast from the heavens. She did not look back.
And beyond it—where light began to fade and warmth forgot to follow—she stepped into the Underworld.
The air changed.
It was no longer merely cold. It was hungry.
The flower in her arms dimmed, shivering against the unfamiliar Qi, and she staggered. Her feet touched cracked obsidian and jagged sand. The mists here did not drift—they clung, clawed, and pulled.
She pressed forward, through the choking dark, until she reached a place where even the Underworld hesitated to breathe. A fractured altar of old heavenly stones. Dead vines. A void that pulsed faintly with forgotten rhythm.
Here, she knelt.
With the last of her strength, she placed the flower down.
"Live," she breathed, casting a final barrier onto the Tian Li.
Then her body collapsed beside it, half-turned, eyes still open—gazing upward through a sky that no longer remembered the stars.