The wind was soft that day â the kind that makes you miss things you never lost.
Golden leaves danced from the old ginkgo tree, twirling like they remembered someone.
And beneath it sat a man time had tried to age, but failed.
His sweater was thick, grey, warm like a memory.
One hand wrapped around a book, the other around a coffee cup.
Silver hair kissed his shoulders. His face held years â but his eyes?
Still young. Still full of stories.
âYéyé!â
She came running barefoot, socks abandoned somewhere behind her.
Tiny arms flew straight into him, and he caught her, coffee tilting, heart full.
âAiyoo... youâll break my old bones one day,â he said, chuckling.
âBut you promised a story.â
âI did?â he teased. âIâm older than the moon, little one. My memoryâs fading.â
âYouâre still the prettiest moon Iâve seen.â
His laugh echoed like it had nowhere else to be.
âWho taught you to be this sweet? Iâm going to punish you with extra cookies.â
More little feet padded across the stones.
Other kids came running â neighbours, cousins â
And then came the adults, slow and smiling, called by the same warmth that lived under this tree.
And then she came.
A scarf wrapped around her neck, tray full of buns and warm things in her hands.
Cheeks red from the cold, smile softer than any winter sky.
âYouâre showing off again,â she said, kissing his cheek.
âLet me just this once. Iâm telling a story today.â He laughed and returned her kiss softly.
They all gathered â kids, parents, the old, the tired, the still-young.
Blankets spread. Buns passed around. Steam rose from cups.
And beneath the tree, they waited.
âWhatâs the story called?â his granddaughter asked.
âIt doesnât have a name,â he said. âNot yet. But it starts in a time before names mattered.â
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âIs it real?â
He looked at her â and something flickered behind those bright eyes.
Sadness. Wonder. Fire.
âToo real.â
And then, he began.
âThere are things in this world older than the stars.
Realms you canât see unless youâre dreaming,
where demons sleep beneath rivers,
and spirits whisper through stones.
There was once a woman who burnedâ¦
not because she wanted to â but because the world needed fire.â
His voice faded â not like silence, but like smoke rising into the sky.
The leaves stopped falling.
The courtyard blurred.
Suddenly, the wind changed.
And just like that⦠the story began
The Heavenly Realm was the most adored, the most envied.
By mortals, spirits, and even some gods.
It was the realm above realms â the dream before dreams.
It looked like something someone might imagine in a dream and forget the second they woke up.
Magic laced the air â warm, soft, subtle.
Steam floated from bowls of food, curling up and vanishing into clouds.
Music played somewhere, soft harp strings tugging at silence.
No one touched the instruments. They just played. Like everything else in this place â effortless. Too perfect.
The sky was pink. No, blue. Maybe a little purple too. Like someone had spilled watercolor all over it.
And the clouds shimmered â not like glitter, no â like stardust that had nowhere else to be.
The air smelled like incense and fresh peaches. And the laughter?
Rich. Beautiful. Too light to carry pain.
This was the home of the divine ones. The spiritual beings.
And today? They were celebrating.
But not everyone up there was laughing.
Far â far from the floating feast â there was a land where the air was cold.
Where the sky didnât glitter.
Where magic didnât hum.
It growled.
No harps. No food. No warmth.
Only silence.
Stone.
Steel.
And the quiet echo of warriors sharpening their blades â not because they were preparing for battle,
but because they never stopped preparing.
They were the Protectors.
The ones who fought almost every war in the Six Realms.
The ones who bled while others sang.
The ones who didnât need invitations to war â just a reason.
And today, for some reasonâ¦
theyâd been summoned to the feast.
---
The gates of the great banquet hall creaked open.
Silver.
Almost like frost had touched it and decided to stay.
The air shifted.
Noâ¦
It wasnât the air.
It was them.
They walked in, one by one, in silence.
Armor that looked like it had tasted fire.
Cloaks that dragged across the floor like shadows.
Masks. All of them wore masks. No skin. No names. No sound.
Just presence. Heavy and cold.
Five thousand beings had gathered to celebrate.
But now?
They stared.
They didnât even breathe too loudly.
The Protectors walked straight up to the Heavenly King.
He smiled â the kind of smile kings wear when they donât know what else to do.
Heavenly King:
âWelcome. You honor us with your presence. Join us. Eat. Laugh. Youâve earned it.â
The one in front⦠different. Taller. Cloaked in black with silver trimming, armor gleaming like stormlight.
Still. Quiet.
Then finally â a voice. Calm. Smooth. Cold.
Protector Leader:
âWe donât dine with those who forget us as long as their clothes are clean.â
No anger.
Just fact.
An official standing near the King stepped forward, already annoyed.
Official:
âMind your words. This is the Heavenly Kingââ
But the leader tilted their head ever so slightly.
Like a lion deciding whether the ant is worth eating.
Protector Leader:
âIf words bother you more than war⦠maybe this roomâs too loud for you. You shouldn't be celebrating then, should you?"
Gasps.
Of course.
The Protectors didnât care. They never did.
The leader gave the smallest of bows. Like an afterthought.
And walked out.
The others followed â silent again, like ghosts wrapped in steel.
The atmosphere was tense.
Everyone avoided eye contact.
"Let's continue celebrating" The Heavenly King announced, clearing his throat awkwardly.
---
Far from the banquet hall, behind layered barriers and ancient symbols no one dared to touch, was their home.
A fortress carved into stone. Hidden in the clouds.
The cold didnât chase them there. It belonged to them.
Inside, fire roared. Food was served. Laughter â not light and airy, but rough, real â echoed off the walls.
They didnât feast like the spirits.
They didnât toast with pretty cups and gentle fingers.
They drank from metal. Ate with their hands sometimes.
They laughed because theyâd survived. Again.
And then, beneath the torchlight â
The leader removed their mask.
And for a moment â
even the moon mightâve paused to look.
She was a woman.
Not just any woman.
Sharp jaw, high cheekbones.
Eyes like molten gold if gold had learned how to hurt.
Hair black with streaks of silver, tied up like it had better things to do.
A scar â clean, quiet â curved across her cheek like a reminder.
She didnât hide it.
She didnât hide anything.
She was beautiful â but in the way storms are beautiful.
Not made for softness. Made for respect.
She didnât speak.
Didnât need to.
They knew her name.
Even if the rest of the realms had forgotten it.
Sixuan.
The woman who burned for the sake of the Heavens.