Haoran wiped the cold sweat from his brow, exhilaration still humming beneath his skin. The day’s session had tested every tendon and breath, yet it left him with the satisfaction of fire well spent.
At the session’s end, he lingered with a small knot of colleagues, dissecting the drills. They discussed flaws—the slightest errors of breath or hand—and how each movement might be refined toward perfection.
Though he spoke plainly, without pride, the truth was obvious to all: among the Vermilion disciples, Haoran’s name carried the most weight. Besides his rank as third of the Guild Tribunal, he was their contender for the Flame of Scion.
Respect followed him easily, not through loud declarations but in quiet gestures of trust. When he spoke, his banner mates listened, and when he moved, they measured themselves against his form. Now and then, a few would murmur their hopes that perhaps, with him on their side, the Vermilion Banner might be the one lifted higher come next spring, setting a new precedent for the Flame of Scion.
Haoran had heard and dismissed the whispers gently, even though his heart warmed at their faith. But fate had favored Hui Fen in joining the Dragon Banner, the banner of conquest, of authority, of force. The fact that all four of the previous Scions had emerged from the Dragon Banner made it tradition, even though it was never written. If fate itself had tilted toward Hui Fen, it was already a sign that the Flame was his to bear next.
In the Vermilion Bird Banner, Haoran had found a place that demanded not conquest but insight, not domination but mastery, and he soon discovered how well it suited him. Slowly but surely, the Vermilion Bird Banner became home to his heart.
His red robes were no longer second to any other banner. They were a mantle of honor. And wearing them, he became both grateful and content. Others beyond his circle saw his placement beneath the Vermilion Bird as a disappointment, a step below what he might have claimed. But Haoran no longer felt that way. The Vermilion Banner carried its own kind of strength, one no less demanding than the Dragon’s.
At the back of the hall, Jinlin waited with quiet patience, his Pixiu uniform a darker maroon against the bright fire torches. A few of his banner mates stood loosely at his side, watching with respectful distance, as this was Vermilion Bird ground. Jinlin did not interrupt or call out to Haoran, but his gaze rested on him, waiting for the moment Haoran would turn and look his way.
When Haoran eventually turned, he smiled, and Jinlin raised a hand in greeting.
It wasn’t that Haoran had forgotten about the night hunt, but Jinlin and his group had arrived a little early. Haoran’s classmates urged him to go where he was needed, assuring him they would manage. He agreed. Mingjue, Xuelan, and the others from the Vermilion Bird Banner who were also part of the crew followed him.
“Jinlin, Chenxiao, you’re a bit early, but it’s no problem. That just means more time for fun. But first, I have an errand: a book to return. After that, I’ll meet you all at the small gate. I won’t be long.”
Stolen story; please report.
Immortal Songhe had lent him a text earlier that week—a treatise on spiritual resonance and memory imprinting—and it was time to return it.
Haoran stepped out from the Lotus Tower, the warmth of the halls fading behind him as the evening chill settled over the stone path. He quickened his pace, the crisp air brushing coolly against his face, the hem of his robes stirring faintly with each step.
******
The path to Songhe’s residence was one Haoran knew well. He had taken it many times, and though the distance was long, familiarity lent it ease. The modest dwelling stood serene amidst the snow-laden landscape—its elegance born not of grandeur, but of restraint. Dark wooden beams framed the house, etched with subtle carvings of swirling clouds, worn smooth by time yet no less intricate.
Nestled among dense pines, the compound exhaled serenity. A small pond cradled pale lotuses upon black waters, untouched by winter’s chill. Nearby, a lone pink-blossomed tree arched over the stone path, its petals lending a faint sweetness to the cold air. Beyond them stood an open-air shrine, simple yet reverent, where lanterns flickered gently in the breeze. At its heart, a lone statue of the All-Father, staff in hand, surveyed the courtyard with eternal vigilance.
Haoran slowed as he stepped forward, the weight of the place settling over him like a cloak. There was always peace here. Solitude. Yet today, the silence seemed deeper, as though something familiar had quietly departed.
Returning a book might have seemed mundane, but any encounter with Elder Songhe carried the weight of ceremony. Haoran could never forget the first time he had glimpsed what dwelled within this compound—the awe that had taken root then, lingering still.
He had been a young apprentice, barely accustomed to the grandeur of He Yu Zōng, where even the faintest whisper of myth could still leave him breathless.
On that fateful day, returning from lessons, he had wandered aimlessly and stumbled upon Elder Songhe’s secluded abode. A flicker of movement had caught his eye through the misty twilight. Curiosity overcame caution, and he crept closer, peeking through a bamboo thicket at the side of the residence.
What he saw had stolen his breath away: an enormous dragon sprawled lazily across the dry, leaf-covered summer ground. Its silver scales reflected the deepening twilight, as though fragments of the night sky had settled upon its hide. The creature’s body stretched beyond the reach of his sight, and its presence felt like a force of nature—immense and ancient. A faint radiance rippled across its vast form, casting deep indigo shadows between the silver scales. The dragon’s slit-pupiled eyes glowed with fierce intelligence, watching him with an almost playful curiosity.
When its gaze locked with his, Haoran’s knees buckled beneath the weight of its presence. Fear seized him, yet there was something majestic and strangely calm in the creature’s demeanor. It had not roared or bared its fangs; it simply watched him, as though measuring his worth. In that moment, Haoran finally understood why the legends of Immortal Songhe inspired both fear and reverence throughout the cultivation world.
As he stumbled back, mustering the courage to flee, he felt as though he had brushed against something sacred—a being both terrifying and awe-inspiring. In his heart, one thought emerged with startling certainty: that creature could only be the Silver Thread of Shifting Stars, Immortal Songhe.
No one else could possess such power, such a majestic presence that felt closer to myth than reality. Haoran’s admiration deepened into something greater, a solemn respect mixed with reverence for the immortal who walked the boundary between man and legend.