Marked by the Celestial Court
Far above the mortal world, beyond clouds and storm, the Celestial Court stirred.
Marble halls stretched into infinity, golden banners trembling without wind. Gods of judgment, war, and wisdom turned their eyes toward one tiny disturbance: a mortal carrying the Heaven-defying flame, walking unguarded among the Qinling Mountains.
The Court's attention was rare and terrifying. Most mortals were insignificant, but Xinyi—barefoot, exhausted, bleeding from long journeys—had already drawn more than a glance.
An elderly god with robes white as cloud and eyes sharp as stars rose from his seat. His voice echoed through the infinite halls:
"She moves beyond the borders," he said, each word carrying weight of thunder. "And the Judge of Shadows allows it."
A younger god, cloaked in night and smoke, hissed. "Yichén dares to intervene? Has he gone mad? Does he not remember the law?"
"He remembers," the elder replied. "But he hesitates. That hesitation has consequences."
The words carried down, twisting like silver threads through space, touching the mountains, the rivers, and even the forests below.
Somewhere far beneath the celestial glow, Xinyi felt it as a tightening in her chest—a pressure she could not explain. Not pain, exactly. Not fear, exactly. A warning, and a promise.
Meanwhile, the Inquisitors who had survived Yichén's earlier assault regrouped. Their talismans burned faintly where shadows had tried to bind them. Their hands were trembling, minds racing to comprehend what they had seen.
"The Judge of Shadows…" one muttered. "He should have destroyed us."
"He chose her," another whispered, voice breaking. "We are marked."
And in the mortal realm, marking was never subtle.
Xinyi had settled near a hidden grove of bamboo, the lantern at her side, finally allowing her body a moment of rest. Her wrist had been bandaged with care, her leg soaked in cold mountain water. The flame pulsed softly, as if it knew she needed reassurance.
Hours passed in silence. Even the wind had slowed, leaving only the rhythmic chirping of insects and the distant rush of a mountain stream.
She dared a small laugh, bitter and dry. "So, I'm marked. Great."
A shadow detached itself from the trees.
Yichén appeared as quietly as the mist itself, his presence bending the night around him. The silver sigils along his skin shimmered faintly, catching the moonlight. He knelt slightly beside her—not threatening, not distant. Close enough that the warmth of his presence pressed against her without touching.
"You should not rest here," he said softly, voice like a river moving over stone.
"Then I'll die," she replied without hesitation. "I have nowhere else to go."
He studied her for a long moment. His eyes, endless and unreadable, softened imperceptibly.
"You are reckless," he said finally.
"And you follow me," she countered, a faint smile teasing the corner of her lips.
"I do not follow," he replied. "I ensure balance is not broken too quickly."
Her eyes narrowed. "Balance? Heaven calls it balance, but it's tyranny. You know it."
Yichén's gaze drifted upward, toward the hidden stars that mortals could not see. "I know enough," he said. "And yet the law is clear. You are not meant to exist with that flame."
"I exist anyway," she whispered. "And you help me anyway. Why?"
For the first time, he hesitated. The shadows around them seemed to pause, sensing the weight of his silence.
"Because…" he began, voice barely audible, "…the world will not change unless someone dares to defy it. Even a god."
Xinyi blinked. The words were dangerous, unspoken truths that no mortal should ever hear. And yet, she believed them, in the marrow of her bones.
A sudden rustle in the bamboo made them both tense.
Yichén rose silently, placing himself between Xinyi and the source of movement. The Inquisitors had returned—not one, but a dozen this time, moving with precision, their talismans burning faintly, the air humming with suppressed power.
"They know where you are," he said, voice calm but carrying a weight that made her stomach tighten. "And now they hunt without mercy."
Xinyi felt fear rise, but it was tempered by something sharper—determination. She had survived countless hardships before, and she would not falter now.
"I will not run," she said firmly. "Not anymore."
Yichén's gaze softened. "Then you will fight."
For hours, under the cover of mist and shadow, the mountains became a battlefield. Shadows twisted under Yichén's command, binding, striking, and protecting with silent efficiency. Xinyi fought alongside him, wielding the flame with precision, learning its subtle language.
She was a mortal, yes, but in that moment, guided by a god, she was something else: a force the heavens could not ignore.
By dawn