The wind over Jinhe whispered like a flute, threading through peach blossoms and paper lanterns. The city slept beside its river, but the river did not sleep—it hummed. Some said the sound was just the current colliding with the rocks; others swore it was a voice, ancient and grieving.
Each night, Wei Lin, a young scholar at the Hall of Records, woke from the same dream. A woman stood on a bridge made of moonlight, her hair floating like black silk on invisible water. She turned, smiled faintly, and whispered a name he never remembered upon waking. The dream ended every night the same way—with a soft splash, as though something precious had fallen into deep water.
He rose before dawn, shaking, candlelight trembling in his hands. "Who are you?" he would whisper to the emptiness. "Why do you call me still?"
The day in Jinhe was a tapestry of color and sound. Monks from the Temple of the Eastern Wind chanted prayers that fluttered like silk banners. Merchants haggled, poets declaimed beneath cherry trees, and spirit-wardens paraded through streets, scattering ashes to keep ghosts at bay.
But the river was swollen this season—higher, darker, restless. Old women said it meant the River God was stirring. Boatmen left rice and wine on the banks to appease him. Wei Lin only watched, pen paused above his parchment, as ripples seemed to form symbols he could almost read.
He had no friends save his fellow scribe, Shen Po, who often teased, "If you stare at that river any longer, it will start writing your poems for you."
Wei Lin smiled faintly. "Perhaps it already has."
That night, the humming grew louder. The river sang—and within it, a faint feminine voice wove through the current, carrying sorrow and love in equal measure.
At the market's edge, under the shade of willow branches, a girl sang. Her guqin rested on her lap, strings gleaming silver beneath the sun. The crowd stilled—not for beauty alone, but for the feeling in her notes. It was as if each sound carried a story of lives unlived, promises unfulfilled.
Wei Lin froze. The melody—the same that haunted his dreams.
She was Liu Meilin, a traveling singer and healer who wandered from city to city, exchanging songs for coin, medicine, or secrets. Her eyes were calm pools of twilight, though they flickered with something old, as if she had seen the world rise and fall more than once.
When her song ended, the world seemed to sigh. Then she saw him.
Their eyes met, and time halted.
For a heartbeat, Wei Lin felt a hundred memories rise—battlefields, temples, the scent of blood and lotus petals. A name burned behind his ribs: Li Wei. Then it vanished.
She tilted her head. "Scholar, why do you look at me as though I've stolen something from your soul?"
"Perhaps because you have," he murmured, dazed.
She smiled faintly. "Then perhaps we are both thieves."
That night, Wei Lin searched the Hall's forbidden wing. Dusty scrolls whispered beneath his fingers until one glowed faintly under candlelight—a parchment inked in gold.
When love defies heaven, the thread shall drown yet never sever.
Five hundred years shall pass, and the river shall sing them awake.
His pulse stilled. The letters shimmered, rising into the air like living light. One golden thread coiled from the scroll and wrapped around his wrist, sinking into his skin.
A voice behind him spoke: "You should not have read that."
Wei Lin turned sharply. A man in pale robes stood in the doorway—Priest Yun, keeper of the Temple of the Eastern Wind. His eyes were old as stone.
"You have stirred fate again, General Li Wei."
"I'm not—" Wei Lin began, but memories struck him: a blade, a battlefield drowned in red, a woman weeping by a lake.
"The curse still binds you," said Yun. "And her. Find her, and heaven will test you again."
"I never asked for this."
"No soul does," Yun replied softly. "But some loves are written deeper than time."
While Wei Lin wrestled with memory, Meilin wandered the riverbank that night. The moon shone like a pearl fallen into black ink. Mist rolled low, parting to reveal a creature of impossible grace—a red fox with six tails tipped in flame.
"Who disturbs the River's Dream?" the fox asked. Its voice was neither male nor female but both, rippling like water.
"I am lost," Meilin said quietly.
The fox circled her. "Lost souls find only what they have forgotten. Do you remember him yet?"
Tears welled in her eyes. "A man in dreams. His name—"
"Li Wei," whispered the fox. "You once gave me sweet rice on the eve of your death. Now I repay the debt: The one you seek walks again beneath your sky. But beware—the Shadow Bride hunts what heaven forbade."
"The Shadow Bride?"
"The Emperor of Shadows' daughter. The curse's keeper. When you loved a mortal five centuries ago, she sealed your fate."
The fox bowed once and vanished into mist, leaving behind a trail of fireflies that formed the shape of a thread before fading into the river.
Three nights later, thunder prowled over Jinhe. The storm's breath smelled of rain and longing. Meilin waited beneath the willow bridge, her guqin slung behind her.
Wei Lin appeared with a paper umbrella leaking water down his sleeve.
"Fate has poor timing," she said softly.
"Or perfect," he replied.
They walked beside the swollen river. Lanterns floated past like drifting souls. The storm's edge blurred the city into a dream.
"Tell me," she said, "why do I feel that every time you look at me, a thousand stories ache to be told?"
He looked down. "Because I think I wrote them all."
She stopped, trembling. "Then you remember?"
"Only flashes. A sword. Your voice calling me from water. A promise: If the heavens tear us apart, I'll find you again beneath their ashes."
Lightning flashed. For a moment, golden filaments connected their wrists—fine as silk, bright as fire.
"What is happening?" Meilin whispered.
"The threads," he breathed. "They remember for us."
The river's surface broke open, revealing faint faces within—spirits watching, singing in a tongue older than the wind.
The storm erupted. Rain fell like shattered pearls.
Wei Lin shielded Meilin, but the wind tore at them. From the temple across the water, bells tolled—a warning.
A figure emerged from the storm: tall, draped in funeral silk that writhed as if alive. Her veil shimmered with black tears.
"I warned you," came the voice, cold as a grave. "Love that defies heaven must drown again."
Wei Lin drew a sword he didn't know he carried. The blade pulsed with light, engraved with ancient vows. "You're the Shadow Bride."
"I am justice," she hissed. "And you are the defiance that must end."
Priest Yun appeared beside the temple gate, holding a talisman that burned blue. "Enough, Daughter of Shadows! You were once mortal too—don't forget what mercy felt like."
The Shadow Bride's laughter cut through the storm. "Mercy? My heart was ripped out so they could love. I am mercy's grave."
She flung her veil; black threads lashed toward Meilin like serpents. Wei Lin stepped in front, his sword slicing through darkness. Sparks of gold and shadow exploded into rain.
The clash awakened old guardians:
Shen Po, the scholar's friend, now revealed as a spirit chronicler, drew seals of fire in the air.
Lady Hua, the innkeeper, transformed into the Spirit of Rain, shielding the city with her veil.
The red fox reappeared, tails blazing, striking at shadows.
The twelve monks of the Eastern Wind formed a circle, chanting to anchor the storm.
Even little Bao, a street urchin who once fetched Meilin water, held his lantern high; it turned into a glowing lotus, pushing back the dark.
All Jinhe trembled as mortal and immortal joined battle for love that heaven had long forbidden.
When the Shadow Bride raised her hands, the river itself rose—a wall of black water, roaring.
Meilin, soaked and shaking, dropped to her knees, her guqin before her. "If heaven won't listen, then the river will."
She began to play.
Notes shimmered like tears. The melody pierced the storm—ancient, mournful, defiant. The threads of gold awakened again, spiraling from the guqin strings to the sword, binding Meilin and Wei Lin together in light.
The Shadow Bride screamed as the song pulled at her darkness. For a moment, her veil lifted—and beneath it was not a monster, but a woman whose eyes overflowed with regret.
"Why?" Meilin cried through her music. "Why must love be punished?"
"Because it endures where gods cannot," the Shadow Bride whispered, dissolving into mist.
The storm quieted. The city's lights flickered back to life.
Wei Lin dropped to his knees beside Meilin. Her hands still rested on the guqin, but her eyes were closed.
"Meilin…"
She opened them slowly. "Do not cry, my general," she murmured, voice fading. "The river remembers. Even if heaven forgets."
The golden threads around them brightened once more—then snapped.
The river surged upward, swallowing them whole.
Lanterns burst in the water like dying stars. The willows bowed low, as if mourning.
High above, the red fox stood on the temple roof, tails waving in solemn rhythm. "So the river sings again," it said. "The threads are awake. And heaven trembles."
When the dawn came, Jinhe was quiet.
No one spoke of the storm.
But the river ran clearer that day, and from its depths came the faint sound of two voices singing a lullaby only lovers would know.
Priest Yun stood upon the bridge, clutching his talisman. "It begins again," he whispered. "Perhaps, this time, the ending will be kinder."
The red fox appeared beside him. "Or crueler. Fate has a taste for repetition."
"Then let us hope," said Yun, "that love tastes sweeter still."
They watched as two new lotus flowers bloomed side by side upon the water—one red, one white.
This was the end of part-ll—