The golden-armored celestial soldier waited silently just beyond the temple gates.

Feng Yunqu—the celestial maiden—steadied her breath, calmed her thoughts, and stepped quickly after him.

By the light of flickering temple lanterns, she could now see clearly: the celestial warrior stood nearly ten feet tall, his stature massive and imposing beyond human possibility.

This was no mortal being. No ordinary man could possess such overwhelming physical presence. Only those forged of heaven’s will—the celestial  warriors of the celestial realm—could radiate such authority.

And she noticed something else: from head to toe, this celestial soldier was clad in intricately constructed, seamless golden armor. Not a single inch of flesh was visible. Every joint, every contour was protected. Not even the most elite human generals wore armor this impenetrable; mortal craftsmanship simply wasn’t capable of such total coverage.

And yet, Feng Yunqu wasn’t afraid. Not exactly.

She simply understood: this was what a celestial  soldier should be.

As she followed the golden celestial out of the Temple of Taiyi, she allowed herself a glance at the other wu-shamans nearby—those still kneeling, awaiting a celestial  answer from her divination ritual. But none of them reacted. Not one looked their way.

Her heart skipped.

They… don’t see us.

The celestial warrior strode ahead, uncaring. She moved quickly after him.

Soon, her eyes landed on something even stranger.

A floating palanquin.

It rested midair, suspended several feet above the snowy earth. It bore no wheels, no poles, no carriers—no horses or oxen to pull it. It wasn’t even on anything. Just… hanging there in the air.

Her breath caught.

It was exquisitely made. Unlike any palanquin she’d seen in the mortal world—light, compact, elegant, designed with craftsmanship that could only be described as celestial .

The golden celestial turned to her and made a gesture. A silent command:

Board.

Feng Yunqu’s heartbeat thundered in her chest.

She climbed aboard with careful, trembling steps. As her foot pressed down, the palanquin did not dip or sway—it remained utterly still in the air, as if weight meant nothing to it.

Only then did she dare exhale.

She lowered herself into the cushioned seat—then immediately bounced, letting out a startled squeak. «Ah!»

The cushion was soft. So soft that it felt as though she were sinking into clouds.

But even then, she didn’t relax. Her back remained straight, her shoulders stiff. She perched on the edge, barely allowing herself to touch the seat, as if worried some misstep would bring celestial  wrath.

The golden-armored warrior didn’t acknowledge her tension.

He simply rose.

Into the air.

With a quiet hum, the floating palanquin lifted from the ground and soared upward into the sky.

«AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!»

Feng Yunqu shrieked. No more decorum. No more restraint. She clutched anything she could reach and huddled into the seat, trembling violently.

Her entire world spun.

She’d flown.

She was flying.

In a palanquin. In the sky.

By the time they reached the upper slopes of Mount Zi, her limbs were jelly. When the palanquin gently descended, her legs refused to move. She staggered off, stumbled—and collapsed into a crouch, gasping for breath.

She clung to the earth like a drowning woman to driftwood, only slowly beginning to recover.

By the time she finally stood again, she realized where she was—and her eyes widened in disbelief.

The journey had taken only moments… but she was now standing on a ledge that ordinary people would require an entire day and night to climb—if they even made it at all.

And further ahead… was no road.

Only sheer cliff. A vertical wall of stone.

The summit beyond it was inaccessible—except, it seemed, to celestial  beings.

Still panting, she looked up.

«celestial  soldier,» she asked, voice small, «why have you brought me here?»

The celestial turned. The lenses on his helm flickered with faint light. A voice—mechanical, emotionless—came from within the helm.

«I am not a celestial general. I am merely a common footsoldier under the Eastern Sovereign Celestial master.»

She blinked.

This—this enormous, terrifying presence… was only a footsoldier?

Then what did an actual celestial general look like?!

Without another word, the golden soldier turned and… walked forward.

Straight toward the edge of the cliff.

And stepped off.

«Wai—!»

But before she could cry out, something unbelievable happened.

A glowing path of light appeared beneath his feet. From the very edge of the cliff, a spiraling ribbon of luminescent energy unfurled upward, reaching toward the heavens.

The celestial turned, beckoned.

Come.

Feng Yunqu hesitated only a moment longer, then swallowed hard and stepped onto the path.

Immediately, her stomach flipped. The sensation of standing over empty air—of her feet hovering miles above the ground—was overwhelming.

Her legs locked. Her breath caught. Her instincts screamed.

«Desire to meet the Celestial Sovereign,» the soldier’s voice came again, mechanical and implacable, «then walk the Path of Heaven.»

«If you fail this test, you shall no longer be the Celestial Sovereign’s maiden.»

Feng Yunqu shut her eyes tight.

She trembled.

Then… opened them.

Her chest rose with a deep breath.

She had no choice.

No retreat.

She focused on the soldier ahead—refused to look down—and began to walk.

Step by step.

Her breath came fast. Her palms were slick with sweat. But with every step, the fear dulled.

Then, she dared glance downward—

And gasped.

Each step she took sent ripples through the light beneath her, like pebbles thrown into a pool. The glowing path shimmered with each footfall—but felt solid, as firm as a stone road.

She walked farther.

The mountain fell away below. The stars shimmered above. She no longer felt like a person.

She was ascending. Toward the celestial .

And then—

At last.

She crossed the final threshold.

There was no sound. No gate. Just a moment—a breath—when everything changed.

The snowy summit vanished.

In its place—

A palace.

A palace of such majesty that it shattered every earthly conception she had ever held.

A palace suspended in the sky.

The Eastern Sovereign Palace.

She’d passed the edge of the illusion—the light-bending veil that cloaked it from mortal sight. Her permission had been granted, the boundary crossed.

Above her loomed the floating gatehouse.

Upon it, glowing with rainbow light, were three ancient characters.

Eastern Sovereign Palace.

                                                   …Scene Break…

While the mortal world below remained in the grip of winter, up here, atop Mount Zi, spring had already come.

The Eastern Sovereign Palace stood under sunlight, surrounded by green hills and blooming trees. Xuan Yuan  ’s earlier celestial outburst had permanently changed the local weather.

Not even Nüwa could analyze it.

Something invisible remained here—something she couldn’t even detect—altering the environment itself.

And so, on one of the floating platforms around the palace, a delicate eight-sided pavilion rested.

A curtain of gauze fluttered in the breeze. Inside, a faint trace of sandalwood smoke curled upward from a bronze incense burner.

Xuan Yuan  reclined lazily on a cushioned seat. Across from him, Huang Rong sat, focused and sharp-eyed.

They were playing Go.

«Xing-gege,» she said after a long pause, «you’ve really improved. I can’t believe how much stronger your play is. Just in a few days!»

Off to the side, Nüwa made a face and rolled her eyes hard enough to sprain her soul.

«Oh please,» she muttered. «That’s not him playing. That’s ‘Hard Mode A.I.’ on his terminal.»

«…What?» Huang Rong blinked.

Xuan Yuan  let out a dry cough, then quickly closed the Go app.

«Oops,» he said, rubbing the back of his neck. «Caught me. Still, Rong’er, you’re amazing. Even the A.I. had to work for it.»

She stared. Then laughed.

«You cheated!»

«It was just a game to pass time while you’re training,» he replied, stretching like a cat on a sun-warmed rock. «Speaking of training… I heard there’s plague in the mortal realm?»

«Yes,» Huang Rong nodded, her face turning serious. «It started in Han Eastern Commandery. Cholera, they say. Refugees have already reached Xiangyang.»

Nüwa snapped her fingers.

A holographic scroll unfurled in front of her, shimmering with light. The map of Han Eastern Commandery flickered with information.

She wore her red outfit today—braids coiled like hoops, ceremonial hairpins glinting. In this moment, she resembled nothing so much as a sci-fi reimagining of a Han dynasty court official.

In Xuan Yuan  ’s head, she looked like a crossover between Danzhu from Sanbenzi and an intergalactic bureaucrat.

The only difference? Danzhu wore black. Nüwa wore red.

«Han Eastern’s also been hit with war,» she explained. «A militia of displaced peasants started throwing corpses over city walls with catapults. Then they poisoned the water supply. Boom. Outbreak.»

«Catapults?» Xuan Yuan  raised an eyebrow. «Where’d they get catapults? That’s not exactly low-skill engineering.»

«Who knows?» Nüwa shrugged. «Someone might be helping them.»

Xuan Yuan  fell silent.

War and plague.

In this era, an outbreak could kill just as many as a battlefield.

When he looked back across the board, he saw Huang Rong’s face had gone pale.

He had never witnessed a true epidemic.

But she had.

She had come from a world of chaos—of crumbling dynasties, of Jin and Song, of Mongol invasions rising like tidal waves. She had wandered the Central Plains, witnessed horrors most men could not endure.

And now, the shadow of those memories returned.