She stood at the pinnacle of the world.
The grand hall unfurled before her—vast, reverent, aglow with golden light that pulsed like a living heartbeat. Banners, stitched from threads of qi, hung from the heavens—each bearing the emblem of a major sect, swaying as if bowing to her ascent.
Below, a sea of cultivators cheered. Their faces were upturned, filled with adoration, with respect. The air thrummed with recognition. It was the sweet, intoxicating scent of hard-won victory.
And she—Jia Wei Xin—stood at the center stage, adorned in ceremonial crimson, with a crown of celestial jade resting on her brow.
Applause. Reverence. Awe.
The cultivator who had once stumbled into this world with nothing but a stubborn will and a strange sense of humor had now become the most powerful martial artist of her generation. The youngest to ever ascend to a celestial title. The woman who had united fractured sects and shattered old dogmas.
Beside her stood Liu Mo Fei, impossibly elegant in his white robes, the quiet strength at her side. His eyes—steady and filled with pride—never left her.
On her other side was Zhang Tian, dressed in black and silver, arms crossed as if pretending to be bored, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. His gaze roved the room like a predator—but lingered only on her.
Behind them stood her battle-worn team—Mei Lan, Chen Yu, Yan Ping, Luo Han—comrades in countless victories and wounds, each face lit with hard-earned pride. Even some stern sect elders offered rare, approving nods. People flowed forward, a stream of well-wishers. They offered congratulations. Their voices were a harmonious chorus of praise.
And then—
The doors at the far end of the hall groaned open.
A blast of cold swept in—sharp and unforgiving—as if winter itself had risen to deliver judgment. The noise and joy vanished, sucked into a vacuum of dread.
A single figure stepped inside.
An undeniable aura of power radiated from him. He was an old man. His long, white hair flowed like a waterfall. His robes were simple, yet radiated ancient, revered authority. His eyes, however, held a chilling intensity. He was someone of immense respect. A living legend. A grand elder whose word carried the weight of mountains.
The hall fell silent.
Even the oldest elders bent their heads.
He walked forward, each step echoing like a bell of judgment.
"I have found something important," he said, voice sharp as a blade drawn in court.
His gaze fixed on her.
"Jia Wei Xin is the last living descendant of the Celestial Xaen bloodline. The very lineage that almost annihilated our realm two hundred years ago."
A gasp swept the room.
"She carries the seed of destruction. Her existence alone endangers balance. We have spent centuries wiping out her kin—yet somehow, she survives."
The words hung in the air. Heavy with accusation. Poisoning the golden light of her triumph. The cheering crowd transformed. Faces twisted. Horror, fear, righteous fury. The adoring gazes turned cold, condemning. Weapons materialized in hands. Pointed directly at her. The whispers returned. But now they were venomous. Filled with hatred.
"Kill her!" "A demon in disguise!" "The Xaen's curse!"
"No… I am Jia Wei Xin," she breathed, her voice trembling but clear. "My lineage does not define me. You know who I am. You've seen what I've fought for. I would never harm the realm—I would die to protect it."
But Mei Lan and Yan Ping were trembling.
The rest of the team looked away.
The Grand Elder's voice rang out, cold and absolute, carrying the weight of centuries. "Cloud Serpent Sect Leader—your ancestors were nearly wiped out by the Celestial Xaen bloodline. You know the vow we took. For two hundred years, it has been our sacred mission to eliminate every last trace of them. This is your duty. Your purpose. You know what must be done."
And then—
Liu Mo Fei stepped forward, drawing his sword.
She froze. "Sifu?"
He raised the blade.
Liu Mo Fei's eyes met hers. They were filled with desperate apology. A silent plea for understanding. He was torn. His loyalty to his sect, his ancestors, clashed violently with the bond they had forged. But the pressure from the "righteous" sects was immense. The weight of his inherited duty.
And Zhang Tian?
His Demon Sect, formidable as it was, was no match for this unified, righteous fury. He saw the threats. The unspoken ultimatums. His eyes, usually so full of mischievous light, became distant. Clouded with a terrible pragmatism. He took a step back. Then another. Slowly receding into the shadows. He didn't fight her. But he didn't fight for her either. He decided to "go away." To sit at the back seat. Not to interfere. To protect his own.
She felt it, then—the betrayal. The collapse.
Two men. Her anchors in this strange world. Both professed devotion. And both stepped away when it mattered most.
She screamed as the blade plunged into her chest—
She woke with a choked gasp, heart jackhammering, lungs starving for air. No blade. No blood. Only breath—and the taste of betrayal still fresh on her tongue.
And the faint scent of wine, sweat, and smoke.
Jia Wei Xin blinked against the dim glow of the dying brazier, trying to anchor herself back into reality. The dream—the nightmare—had felt so real her body was still trembling.
She pushed herself upright—
And froze.
There they were. Sprawled across the plush carpet like two drunken spirit beasts—one in white, one in black. Her so-called protectors. Her constant rivals. And, clearly, the twin banes of her romantic peace.