The wind howled across the continent as Xiang Yu led Lian and Mei on a relentless journey. This time, there were no scenic stops, no visting night markets. It wasn’t a vacation. It was an urgent pursuit and the two girls echoed his sentiments.
What would have taken mortals months to traverse, they crossed in a week. But even with his demonic speed and divine endurance, Xiang Yu was slower than usual. The wound he suffered in the Realm of Annihilation had long vanished without a trace.
There was no scar, no mark but the discomfort lingered like a phantom. His body felt foreign and his spirit unsettled like something was wreaking havoc inside him. The only thing that eased his discomfort was Han Xin’s hair crown.
He had found it tucked in the velvet box on his dresser while preparing to leave. It was just as beautiful as its owner and it pulsed with quiet power. Xiang Yu didn’t know why the Divine Emperor had left it behind. At the time he had assumed he was meant to give it to Han Xin thus he took it with him.
But the moment he held it, the ache in his body dulled. The crown, carved from celestial gold and threaded with strands of divine essence, was no mere ornament. It was a weapon, just as potent as Han Xin’s sword, and just as intimate.
Xiang Yu rubbed it gently, letting its warmth seep into his skin. His heart ached with longing. He didn’t care about how his body felt. He would rather exhaust himself, travel night and day to get to his lover.
He just wanted to see Han Xin again. To hold him. To whisper that everything was going to be alright. Xiang Yu sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the crown rest against his chest.
In the far reaches of the western side of the continent, nestled between jagged cliffs and the sleeping sea, lay the fishing village of Lianhe. It was a place where winter never truly ended. The landscape was a monochrome canvas of snow and silence. The ground, the thatched roofs, even the distant mountains wore thick white sheets, as if the heavens themselves had tucked the world in for eternal slumber.
The wind whispered across the frozen bay, carrying the scent of salt and pine through narrow alleys where no laughter echoed, only the creak of wood and the hush of falling snow. Boats sat frozen in their moorings, their hulls rimmed with ice, nets stiff and crusted with frost hanging like forgotten memories. Lanterns flickered behind frosted windows, their light dim and trembling, like fireflies trapped in glass.
The houses were built low and close, their beams dark with age, their eaves heavy with icicles that glistened like divine tears. They huddled together as if sharing warmth, as if bracing against something more than the cold.
This was the price of proximity. The gateway to the western demon realm lay not far from Lianhe. It was close enough to poison the air with its chill, yet far enough that they didn’t get attacked often.
When they were attacked, there was no barrier protecting the village from the realm’s wrath. Attacks came without warning, and the villagers had learned to live with one eye on the sea and one hand on a blade.
Only a few months of sun graced the village each year, and even then, the warmth felt borrowed. Lianhe endured, not because it was strong, but because it had no choice.
Just like every other day, snow fell in soft, unhurried flakes, blanketing the rooftops of Lianhe in a hush that felt sacred. Smoke curled from chimneys, but one trail rose thinner, and sweeter. It was incense.
At the edge of the village, nestled between pine-covered cliffs, stood a shrine of dark stone and white wood. Its roof bowed under snow, its lantern ever-burning, casting a warm glow against the cold. The villagers called it the Shrine of the Nameless Immortal, the name carved into its base in ancient script no one could read.
Years ago, when the skies turned red and the western winds carried the stench of sulfur, demons crept from the western realm. They came not in legions, but in whispers stealing children, poisoning wells, unraveling dreams. Lianhe had no warriors, no protective walls. Only nets and prayers.
And then he came. A man cloaked in snow-white hair and a blue robe threaded with gold. His eyes held the weight of stars. He spoke little. But when the demons attacked, he stood at the edge of the village and raised his hand. The sky split. The sea roared. And the demons fled. They never returned.
Whatever Han Xin had done, whatever divine force he had summoned or threat he had made, it worked. The demons never returned to Lianhe. They would attack everwhere else but not Lianhe. The village, once vulnerable and trembling, now stood untouched, as if marked by something ancient and absolute. A presence the demons dared not defy.
Each morning, before the sun crested the frozen cliffs, the villagers gathered at the shrine. A lantern of silver and glass was lit in the predawn hush, its flame never allowed to die. Incense sticks wrapped in red silk and dipped in crushed lotus petals were burned in reverent silence. There were complicated mantras, no glistening gold but just kneeling, and the whisper of gratitude.
"Keep us safe, Silent Flame," the elder would murmur, bowing low. "Let your mercy linger."
Children placed white feathers at the base of the shrine, a tribute to the man’s snow-colored hair. Fishermen left glistening scales from their catch, believing it would bring luck to the sea. And when storms threatened, a second lantern was lit its flame a plea for protection.
This morning was no different.
An old village elder trudged through the snow-covered path, wrapped in patched furs, his breath curling into the air like incense smoke. He paused beside the cliffside shrine, its offering bowl buried beneath a fresh layer of snow. Bowing his head, he dug carefully, uncovering the sacred stone.
His back bent like the oaks behind the shrine, he carried a bundle of red silk-wrapped incense sticks, each one prepared by hand the night before. Without a word, he knelt, brushed the snow from the bowl, and placed the first stick upright.