The massive, iron-banded gates of Wàng Yōu Zhèn stood partially open, a slumbering mouth in the pre-dawn gloom. Two figures, silhouetted against the distant, fading lantern light of the town, moved with the slow, deliberate pace of the utterly spent.
The vibrant red of Qianyi's wedding dress was a dull, filthy maroon in the darkness, and Yisha's steps were heavy, each one a small victory.
A young guard leaning on his spear snapped to attention, his eyes widening as they drew near. "Xu Qianyi? Jia Yisha?" he breathed, his voice laced with genuine alarm. He rushed forward, his armor clinking softly. "Are you okay? What happened?"
"We're fine," Qianyi said, the words a hollow rasp. She attempted to straighten her posture, a flicker of her usual pride surfacing through the exhaustion.
The guard, Xiǎo Ān, fell into step beside them, his brow furrowed with concern. "But... didn't you get married today? What are you doing back here? And in such a state..." His eyes darted between their torn clothes and mud-caked faces, his mind racing to the most obvious, dramatic conclusion. "He had a mistress, didn't he? I knew it! I could tell that cultivator had shifty eyes. I never trusted him."
Yisha managed a weak, breathy laugh and reached out, her knuckles connecting lightly with his shoulder plate. "Your imagination is a wild, untamed thing, Xiǎo Ān. It wasn't a mistress." The truth was far darker, but it was not a story for the gate.
The girls moved past him, the cobblestones of Wàng Yōu Jiē cold and unwelcoming beneath their bare feet. They had only taken a few steps when Xiǎo Ān called out after them, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Duì le. Líng Niángniang... she's been in a stormy mood all day. Don't say I didn't warn you."
A shared glance of pure dread passed between the sisters. They nodded their thanks and continued into the heart of the sleeping town.
The legendary Forget-Sorrows Street was a ghost of its daytime self. At this hour—Yín Shí, the hour of the ghost—the cacophony of merchants, the scent of sizzling lamb skewers and sandalwood incense, the press of bodies under a canopy of a thousand red lanterns, all of it was gone.
Silence reigned, broken only by the scuttling of a lone rat and the whisper of a cold wind sweeping discarded paper cups along the stones. The lanterns were extinguished, their crimson bodies dark and skeletal. At this hour, only ghosts, lovers, and the deeply unfortunate walked these streets.
And at the end of this river of darkness, its source and its destination, stood the Zuì Mèng Lóu.
Even in the dead of night, the pavilion was a silent titan. Its six stories of dark, polished wood speared the sky, a structure so grand it seemed to command the stars around it.
It was not merely a building; it was a presence. While the rest of the street slept, a few golden lights still burned in its upper levels like watchful eyes, a beacon that had always guided them home.
They trudged towards the entrance, their tattered forms a stark contrast to the pavilion's opulent facade. The two guards stationed at the ornate double doors, clad in immaculate dark silk, initially moved to block their path before recognition dawned.
"Dà Xiǎojiě? Èr Xiǎojiě?" one stammered, his composure shattered. "By the heavens, what happened to you?"
"A long story," Qianyi replied, her voice thin with strain. "One I have no energy to tell."
Yisha bit her lip, her gaze darting nervously toward the side entrance. "Is she…?" she left the question hanging, heavy with implication.
The senior guard's expression was grim. "She's upstairs. And yes, she's… pretty pissed."
"What happened?" Yisha asked, a fresh knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. Had their failure already reached her ears?
Qianyi shot her a look. "Do you think she knows?"
"How could she?" Yisha whispered back, though her confidence was feigned.
The guard shook his head. "It might not be about you. She had a guest earlier. A man I've never seen before. He left just before the second watch, and her mood turned… glacial."
"Oh," Yisha said, a sliver of hope piercing her dread. "Okay. Thanks."
"No problem. Here," the guard said, gesturing to his junior. "Help them around back. Use the service lift."
The assistance was providential. As they rounded the corner toward the discreet service entrance, the last of Qianyi's strength finally deserted her. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed against the younger guard, who caught her with a grunt of surprise.
"Qiānqiān!" Yisha cried, but she was too weak to help, her own body trembling.
"It's alright, Èr Xiǎojiě," the young guard said, his voice surprisingly gentle. He lifted Qianyi easily, her head lolling against his shoulder. He carried her to a small, unadorned door, behind which stood a mechanical lift of gleaming brass and dark wood, a marvel of engineering reserved for goods and, on occasion, discretion.
As the lift ascended with a soft hum, the opulent silence of the sixth floor enveloped them. Then, a voice cut through the hush—raised, yet meticulously soft, each word dipped in frost.
"This is the third piece of disappointing news you've delivered to me today." It was a voice that could command armies and shatter souls, a sound of silk wrapped around steel.
A deeper, male voice answered, strained with deference. "I know, my lady. I apologize. Should I… make the problem disappear?"
The lift settled with a final click. The guard, still carrying Qianyi, led Yisha out into a corridor that was the epitome of serene power. The air was thin and cool, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of night-blooming jasmine and the crisp tang of static electricity. They turned right into the main hall, and there she was.
Xuán Líng stood in the center of the vast room, a vision of devastating elegance and contained power. She was tall and slender, her dark brown skin seeming to drink the low light of the room and glow from within.
Her hair was a masterpiece: a high ponytail from which fell nine thick, intricate braids, cascading down her back like a waterfall of night. At the end of each braid, a jingang shi, a perfect diamond, glittered with cold fire. And holding it all in place, a hairpin of the rarest crimson jade, a material whispered to be formed from the blood of phoenixes.
Her dress was the color of fresh-fallen snow, woven from a silk so fine it seemed a trick of the light, shimmering between solid and smoke with her every slight movement. Embroidered across it in thread of absolute black were swirling cloud patterns that seemed to shift and curl with a slow, hypnotic life of their own. A bold, vibrant red lined the thick trim of the sleeves, neckline, and skirt, a slash of warning color.
To the world, she was Xuán Líng, the mysterious, savvily ruthless, and unimaginably wealthy owner of the Zuì Mèng Lóu. To the two girls in the doorway, she was savior, mentor, and the only mother they had ever known. They alone knew the weight of her best-kept secret: that Xuán Líng was the oldest living fox demon, the last of the nine-tailed, and the most powerful being in the realm.
She had been listening to her subordinate, her expression one of cold contemplation. Then her gaze—a gaze that could make mortals fall in love or see their own death—shifted. It landed on the guard, on the limp form of Qianyi in his arms, and finally on Yisha's tear-streaked, dirt-smeared face.
The air in the room grew dense, charged with an ancient, terrible energy.
"Niáng—" The word was a sob, torn from Yisha's chest. It was the dam breaking. All the terror, the pain, the desperate strength she had held onto from the moment the pit had swallowed them, came rushing out. Tears streamed down her face, her body shaking with violent, silent tremors.
Xuán Líng moved. It was not a walk but a glide, a predator's fluid motion that brought her across the hall in an instant. Her eyes, welling with unshed tears that glowed with a faint, hellish crimson, never left Qianyi's pale face. She reached out, and her touch was feather-light as she cupped Qianyi's cheek.
A low growl of thunder, impossibly loud and directly overhead, roared through the silence. It did not rumble in the distance; it cracked, shaking the very foundations of the pagoda, rattling the windows, and vibrating through the stones of the street below. A moment later, the sky tore open. Heavy, furious drops of rain, hard as pebbles, lashed against the roof and balcony in a sudden, violent deluge.
Then, Xuán Líng's burning gaze shifted to Yisha. She said nothing, but her hands were infinitely gentle. She took Yisha's muddy, trembling hands in her own, holding them as if they were the most precious jade. With her other hand, she reached up and touched Yisha's cheek, her thumb softly wiping away the tracks of her tears through the grime.
When she finally spoke, her voice was deceptively quiet, a whisper that carried over the pounding rain and held the weight of millennia. It was a simple question, but in it lay the promise of empires crumbling and mountains turning to dust.
"Shéi zuò de?"
Who did this?
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© 2025 Kiesha Richardson, writing as QiXia. All rights reserved.
Death Blooms for You is an original work of fiction by QiXia. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or adaptation of this story in any form is prohibited. All characters, events, and settings are created for entertainment purposes and bear no intentional resemblance to real persons or situations.