The first thing Xuán Chè registered was the silence. The profound, living silence of a sacred temple had been replaced by the simple, rumbling snores of two loyal dogs nestled against him. The scent of crimson blossoms and rich earth had faded, leaving only the dust of the old cottage.
The second was the faint, golden shimmer in the air—a protective ward, a pale echo of the immense spiritual power that had once thrummed through the land of his dream.
The third was the soft, rhythmic sound of Qianyi's pacing in the next room, a stark counterpoint to the memory of a woman's carefree laughter.
He sat up slowly, his body feeling heavy, his mind a chaotic tapestry woven with threads of impossible beauty and chilling violence. The idyllic road, the joyful foxes, the laughing face of a young Xuán Líng—it had all felt more real than any memory he truly owned.
Then, the shard of malevolence, the poisoned man, the garden's instant decay, and the faceless man's shove that still resonated in his spiritual core. He looked at his open palm. It was empty, yet it hummed with the phantom weight of a secret he could not see.
The cottage door creaked open, cutting through his disorientation. Wù Fēng and Yisha slipped inside, their faces etched with a grim urgency that softened slightly upon seeing him awake.
"Xuán Chè!" Yisha breathed out, a wave of relief momentarily eclipsing her own worries. "You're awake. How do you feel?"
Before he could form a coherent answer, Qianyi emerged from the back room, her eyes darting from the returned scouts to him. "The poison?" she asked Wù Fēng, her voice tight.
"Stable. The suppression field is holding," Wù Fēng assured her, his gaze never leaving Xuán Chè. "But our time is short. Yǒngshèng Jīng is a refinery, not a ruin. The people seem to be going about their daily lives but with harsher treatment. In reality, their life force is being harvested." He then turned his full attention to the young heir. "Your awakening is timely. What do you remember?"
Xuán Chè took a steadying breath, the dream-images surging to the forefront of his mind. "I… saw a man and before I could act I was I was in a paradise," he began, his voice full of awe.
"A paradise," Wu Feng asked.
"Yes. A road with trees of red leaves, a sun that felt like life itself…" He described the white gate, the temple, the couple under the tree. "The woman… it was Xuán Líng. She was young, and she was happy."
Qianyi, who had been listening intently suddenly went still. "The lake," she interjected, her voice hushed. "You described a still lake with a long stone bridge to a shore of bamboo. That's the Mirror of Heaven Lake. It marked the western border of the Yan Empire. My village was on the other side of that bridge."
"And then?" Wù Fēng pressed, his tone intense, knowing that the beauty was a prelude to the horror. "What changed?"
"A darkness came," Xuán Chè said, the words feeling inadequate. "A man was poisoned, just like Li Wei. And a woman… a goddess, I think… she destroyed a sacred garden with a thought. But one flower survived. Small, with petals like the sky just before dawn. It was called… the Dawn-Sigh Blossom."
A spark of desperate hope lit Wù Fēng's eyes. "The concept of purity resisting despair… that could be the key. But to find it, we must find a place that still holds the memory of that purity."
It was Yisha's turn to grow pale. "The red leaves… the feeling of the sun…" she murmured, fragments of her own lost childhood, the parts before the fire and the cave, swirling in her mind. "It feels… familiar. Like a song I've forgotten."
All eyes turned to Wù Fēng. He looked from Yisha's confused face to Xuán Chè's earnest one, and then to Qianyi's questioning gaze. The time for half-truths was over.
"Xuán Chè," Wù Fēng began, his voice losing its whimsical edge, becoming solemn and direct. "The paradise you walked was not just a dream. It was a memory of your home, the Yan Empire in its prime. The blood in your veins is not merely that of a lost royal line. You are the direct descendant of Xuán Líng's daughter."
Xuan Che was confused. "I'm sorry. Xuan Ling had a daughter? And I'm a descendent of—"
"Yes," Wu Feng answered, his gaze turning inward, toward the annals of a painful history. "The story is older than the empires of men. The land of Yan was not built; it was born—a tranquil, secluded realm of the purest spiritual energy, a sanctuary for demons and spirits that emerged as a balm after a primordial catastrophe nearly unmade the world. It was a place of inherent kindness, its carefree inhabitants possessing power that rivaled the gods themselves."
He paused, letting the image of that lost paradise settle in the quiet room.
"To monitor the realm and guard against another such catastrophe, deities were sent down. They founded a celestial village on the other side of the Mirror of Heaven Lake, in what would become the Yoji Kingdom. They called it Xīngluò Cūn or the 'Stellar Village.' They were sentinels, sworn not to interfere in mortal—or demon—affairs."
Though secluded, a mortal somehow made his way to Yan. He met a little fox demon, Xuan Ling's daughter, and they fell in love. Xuan Ling did not trust the mortal and forbid her daughter from seeing him. She refused and ran off with him to Youji Kingdom.
A sad smile grew onto Wù Fēng's lips. "The mortal declared the mystical land of Yan his empire. He and the fox princess bore children, and for centuries, their hybrid lineage ruled. But with each generation, the legacy twisted. The descendants grew arrogant, believing their celestial-demon blood made them superior. They began to wage constant, devastating wars against the Yoji Kingdom, seeking to conquer the other side of the lake."
His expression darkened. "That endless conflict, that spillage of sacred blood and pride, was a beacon. It drew the attention of a hungry entity, one who saw not a war, but an opportunity. This entity took advantage of both sides, and in the process, perfected a weapon: the very malevolent poison that now courses through Li Wei's veins. The fall of the Yan Empire was not a simple conquest. It was a carefully orchestrated corruption from within and without, using a weapon born from its own people's hubris."
Wù Fēng fixed his gaze on Xuán Chè, the weight of millennia in his eyes. "The man you saw in your dream, poisoned on the temple floor… was likely your own ancestor. The empire they destroyed was your inheritance. The reason you 'shouldn't be alive' is because the enemy believed they had extinguished the last spark of that royal fox bloodline. They failed."
Xuan Che's chest was heavy. His thoughts were incoherent. He stood up and slowly paced, his finger on his chin. Then he stopped and looked at Yisha, then Qianyi. "Would I call Xuan Ling, grandmother"
Wu Feng, surprised, unleashed an unexpected chuckle as Yisha and Qianyi tilted their heads in synchronized confusion.
"That's what you picked up from all of this?"
"That's what you picked up from all of this?" Yisha asked, a bewildered smile finally breaking through her somber mood.
"No," Wù Fēng said, his amusement fading into sober advice. "You would not address her as zǔmǔ. That is, unless you no longer value your life. She is an ancient, proud demon sovereign. To use such a… domestic term without her explicit invitation would be a profound insult."
"Then what would I call her?" Xuán Chè asked, the practical concern a welcome anchor in the sea of cosmic revelations.
The air in the cottage shifted. The golden barrier at the door shimmered, not from a breach, but from a respectful, seamless integration of a far greater power.
"Why don't you just ask me?" a familiar, calm, and lethally cool voice called from the doorway.
All heads turned.
There, framed against the fading light outside, was Xuán Líng walking toward the entrance. Her presence filled the small space, not with oppressive force, but with an ancient, unshakable gravity. She was a storm contained within a serene form.
"Niáng!" Qianyi and Yisha cried out in unison, their worries momentarily forgotten as they rushed to her. They buried themselves in her embrace, and for a fleeting moment, they were just her daughters again. She grasped their heads, her touch both a comfort and a benediction, and offered them a somber smile that held worlds of unspoken understanding.
Her gaze then swept past Wù Fēng. No words were exchanged, only a single, curt nod—an acknowledgment between two ancient powers, a history passing in a glance. Her focus was singular.
She walked directly to the room where Li Wei lay. She stood over him, her regal posture softening by a fraction. She reached out and brushed a strand of hair from his fevered brow, her fingers lingering on his cool skin.
"My dear boy," she whispered, her voice softer than they had ever heard it, layered with a deep, maternal sadness and a thread of pure, undiluted worry.
The question of what to call her was suddenly, terrifyingly, and wonderfully irrelevant. The Matriarch was here.