Heaven's Tyrant

Let's rewind a bit what happened after Li Tianyu's departure.

The Li estate was too quiet.

A hush of morning warmth crept over the rooftops as always—golden, warm, soft as breath—but without Tianyu's laughter spilling across the training courtyard, without his footsteps echoing through the marble halls, that silence became something heavier. A weight. A presence that pressed against every pillar and filled every corner.

Jiang Xueyi stood on the eastern balcony of her private quarters, arms folded beneath flowing sleeves, pale blue silk pooling at her feet like ripples on still water.

Her gaze swept the horizon—sharp, focused, hungry—as if sheer will might summon her son back. A boy with that cocky smirk. Hair always a little too messy. Eyes too bold for someone his age.

He should've been coming home for breakfast—not playing errand boy for an alliance tribute. Not vanishing into the dangers beyond Suncrest.

She turned sharply.

Down lacquered halls she strode, silk whispering against polished wood, past bowing servants and two sharp corners—until she shoved open the doors to her husband's study.

"You let him go."

Li Zhanyu didn't look up. Surrounded by scrolls and ledgers, brush steady in callused fingers—hands shaped by decades of swordplay and clan affairs—he was as composed as ever.

"This again."

"I told you he wasn't ready."

Her voice cracked—not from sorrow, but fury. The kind only a mother restrained by formality could contain.

"You knew the danger past Suncrest. Knew rogue sect remnants still fester there. And still, you let the elders flatter you into handing him over like he's some outer court disciple."

"He would've gone anyway."

Zhanyu's voice—calm, maddeningly even—cut the air like a blade across silk.

"He planned this. Timed it. Waited for the envoy from the Southern Alliance to overlap with my schedule. He didn't ask. Just slipped out, knowing I'd be too busy to stop him."

"You're the Patriarch. He's fifteen. You could've forbidden it. He wouldn't have disobeyed—not if it came from you. You chose not to stop him."

"He's no child. Fifth Layer of the Essence Profound Realm. He can crush ironwood barehanded."

"He's still a boy! One who barely touched the fifth stage! You really think he's ready for blood-soaked paths and Qi storms? You haven't seen how reckless he's grown. Every breakthrough makes him bolder and arrogant!"

Zhanyu shook his head.

"Cocky, yes. Arrogant, no. If he were arrogant, he'd already be bedding half the outer court girls. But he's not. Still blushes at a glimpse of thigh. Boy still stammers when the maids tease him about bathwater."

Xueyi's lips twisted—half-snarl, half-sorrow. Pain disguised as patience.

"Is that supposed to comfort me?"

"Yes."

The word landed flat and final—like a stone dropped into a still pond.

She paced—slow and deliberate—then turned again, silk shifting like stirred water. Her eyes locked onto the man who once swore to protect their family with every breath.

"I held him, Zhanyu. When he shattered his first talisman chasing fireflies. When he bled on my sleeve, sobbing over a broken wrist, and I told him pain was a teacher. I've watched him turn stubbornness into pride, and pride into purpose."

"And now he's asking to be tested—not protected. He said it himself. Wants real experience. Wants to bleed, to earn his place with scars, not comfort. We can't keep feeding him lotus porridge every time he bruises."

"He needs his mother."

Zhanyu finally looked up. The lines around his eyes were deep, carved by time—not guilt. Not regret. Just stillness. That same unbearable stillness he'd carried since their first child died in her arms.

"You've coddled him too long."

"I don't care."

Defiant. Her voice broke like a blade at full draw.

"I want him back whole. Laughing. Not limping and haunted."

"He will."

Zhanyu's voice softened.

"Because he's our son."

Her eyes flicked to him. Cold. Bitter. Sharp.

"That's rich, coming from you. You barely spoke to him before he left. If he came back half-dead, would you even lift your head from your ledgers?"

He didn't flinch.

"Dear wife… why such cruelty today?"

"I'm not cruel. I'm honest. You send him out like he's a courier.

"I'm not cruel. I'm honest. You sent him out like a courier. Like he's a line item. He's your son. Your blood. And you sit in here like he's a name on a scroll."

Zhanyu let out a slow breath—heavy, like iron drawn across stone.

"I did speak to him."

Her eyes narrowed.

"When?"

"Last night."

She blinked. That stopped her.

"I poured us both Baijiu. Took one sip and nearly gagged. He tried to look mature. Covered that twitch he gets when the bitterness hits his throat. Said it was awful. Complained. Smiled—that crooked little thing he's had since he was five."

Her lips trembled. Just barely.

"And you think that makes it better?"

"I believe so."

Zhanyu's voice remained steady, eyes unreadable.

"You didn't even try to talk him out of going?"

"Why would I? He wanted it—all of it. The danger, the challenge."

He tilted his head slightly, calm as ever.

She glared at him, heat rising in her chest.

"And most of all, the distance from you."

At that, her breath hitched, just barely.

"And did he say that? Or are you just twisting silence into permission?"

"He also said you're overbearing."

Her eyes narrowed.

"What exactly did he say?"

"…Things he can't say to your face."

She froze. Just for a breath.

Zhanyu returned to his scrolls, but the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

"I know you love him. But you're far too clingy."

Zhanyu set the brush aside at last, each movement deliberate, quiet as a blade being sheathed. His voice lowered—dry, unflinching—not cruel, but edged with the weary certainty of a man who had run out of gentler truths.

"And sure—the boy loves it. Who wouldn't? You're a beautiful woman. Too beautiful, if we're being honest. It's no wonder he clings to you like you're the only warmth left in the world."

He paused, eyes lifting from the half-dried ink to meet hers beneath the flickering lantern light.

"You were his first refuge. His constant. His moon through every storm. The one place he knew he'd never be judged, never be pushed, only held. Of course he curls into your lap. Of course he seeks your hands first when his own begin to shake."

Jiang Xueyi didn't look away.

"After training, do you know what he did? He didn't ask for ointments. Or tonics. Just curled beside me like he used to. Didn't say a word. Just laid there. Still warm with Qi burns, hands trembling, trying to pretend he wasn't in pain."

She moved closer—steps slow, controlled, silk trailing like storm wind behind her.

"He burned his palms during fire talisman drills. Came to me still blistered. Didn't cry—he never cried after seven. But he still asked me to cool them."

Zhanyu didn't move.

"He still rests his head on my lap when he thinks no one's watching," she continued. "Still asks me to tie his hair when he's nervous. When he left, he packed the silver comb I gave him. The one with the phoenix engraving. He didn't think I saw."

Zhanyu exhaled. A soft scoff.

"Wife... Why are we even arguing?"

He leaned back, tone unreadable.

"You blame me for letting him become a man. But you—you never let him stop being a boy."

She didn't answer. Her eyes stayed locked on his.

"He's out there now. In danger."

"You think I don't know? I trained him too. Watched him fall, watched him rise. But if we keep him caged, he'll never learn to stand."

She closed the last few steps in a single stride.

"If something happens out there… if I feel that seal flicker—fade—go dark…"

Her voice trembled.

"I swear, Zhanyu… I will burn down every ridge from Feiyun to the Eastern Sea. I'll gut every sect, torch every den, and carve through every coward wrapped in crimson until I find him."

He rose without flourish.

No burst of Qi. No show of power. Just movement—quiet, steady, certain.

He crossed the room in silence and wrapped his arms around her. Not as the Patriarch of the Li Clan. Not as a cultivator. Just as her husband. Just as a man.

She trembled against him, fists clenched against his robe, breath catching in shallow, fractured bursts. The icy composure she wore before elders and disciples alike shattered the moment his arms encircled her—and she didn't even try to hold it together.

"I know."

"You don't."

Her voice was low, trembling—like a blade honed too many times on grief.

"You've never felt him curl into your lap after a nightmare. Never sat through a whole night holding him while his body writhed from backlash. You didn't see him sobbing into my sleeves at four years old—because some arrogant elder mocked his potential like it was a joke."

Zhanyu said nothing.

Because she was right.

She had carried Tianyu inside her. Brought him into this world. Nursed him through fevers and spirit sickness. Bathed him when his limbs barely moved. Whispered stories into his hair while his little hands clung to her collar like he'd drown without her.

She had memorized every scar on his back. Every twitch of his brow when he lied. Every proud, stupid grin he wore when he came home with bloody knuckles like pain made him taller.

She loved Zhanyu. Respected him. Shared a life.

But Tianyu… Tianyu was hers in a way he'd never understand.

"Wife, he's strong... But more than that… he's ours. He's got your fire, my spine, and both our damn stubbornness. You think someone like that's gonna die easy?"

"No, I think he's going to throw himself into danger headfirst and never ask for help—because he's too proud to admit when he's hurting."

She looked away. Voice thin as mist.

"…I should've locked the gates."

"And then what?"

He kept his tone gentle.

"Waited by the wall all night, hoping to catch him sneaking back?"

"…Yes."

Zhanyu exhaled. A slow, steady breath.

At last, he reached for his brush and set it aside beside half a scroll of ink-streaked silence. He looked up.

"I know what you're really afraid of."

She didn't speak.

"That he won't come back."

Her eyes flicked to him. She didn't nod. Didn't move. Just stood still.

"...Or that he'll come back different."

A pause.

Then a nod. Small. Hollow. Like agreeing with a truth too heavy to say aloud.

She turned.

Her steps slow.

Her robes trailing behind her like dusk following the sun.

Just before the doors slid shut, her voice cut the air—cold, soft, final. A blade across frost.

"I'll never forgive you if we lose him."

Zhanyu didn't blink.

"You won't have to."

He reached for his brush, but it splintered in his grip—too tight, too bitter.

His voice was quiet. Low. Unsteady.

"Because if he dies... I won't forgive myself either."

Silence returned.

A study filled with scrolls, ledgers, and a century of legacy—where two parents stood alone, hollowed by fear.

***

Five days passed.

No word from the Jade Moon Sect. No signal from the caravans. No confirmation from any of the checkpoints along the Suncrest trail.

What should've been a routine escort vanished into dead air.

Jiang Xueyi stood at the same eastern balcony. The sun had moved. The winds had shifted. But she hadn't.

She hadn't slept. She barely ate. Her cultivation slowed to a crawl—each attempt at meditation fractured by flashes of blood-soaked visions that weren't hers, but felt like they could be.

The charm on her wrist pulsed faintly. Once. Then again. A thrum beneath her skin.

The Silk Binding—ancient, sacred—woven between soul and soul, a mother's gift offered at birth. It had always been more myth than certainty, whispered of in temple scrolls and clan records.

A tale for grieving mothers, not a thing meant to work.

Now… it pulsed wrong.

Not severed. Not gone.

Warped. Distorted. Touched by something that wasn't her son.

Her breath caught.

Then—

A shout shattered the stillness of the Li estate.

"Madam—!"

She turned instantly. Robes snapped like thunder as her body pivoted with practiced sharpness.

A maid stumbled into the courtyard, wild-eyed, nearly collapsing as she thrust forward a scroll wrapped in red silk.

"A message! Captain Zhao's falcon—emergency seal—triple ring!"

"Bring it."

The scroll reached her hand a heartbeat later. She didn't feel it. Only the cold. Cold that crept up her fingers, through her arm, straight into her chest.

She broke the seal.

She read.

Caravan ambushed

Losses heavy

Coordinated strike

Captain Zhao — confirmed dead

Li Liu — slain

Contact lost near Ridgepoint

Li Tianyu — confirmed dead

The scroll slipped from her hand.

She didn't hear it fall.

Her palm flew to the charm, clutching it with shaking fingers. It pulsed once.

Then went still.

No warmth. No flicker. No resonance.

Just silence.

Just absence.

Just cold.

A single heartbeat—cut short.

The Silk Binding went quiet.

As if the soul it tethered had been extinguished.

"…No… no… no…"

Her knees gave out.

But stone never came.

Arms caught her mid-fall. Familiar strength wrapped around her shoulders, steadying her trembling form. The scent of sandalwood and dried ink settled in the air.

Li Zhanyu.

She didn't lift her head. Her fists curled in his robes, digging into his chest, anchoring herself to something that still lived.

"There's nothing..."

Her voice cracked. Her body trembled.

"Xueyi..."

"No heat. No Qi. No light. It's gone... he's gone..."

She clutched harder. Nails bit through fabric. Her breath caught in her throat and shattered against the back of her teeth.

Her lips parted, and the first sob barely made a sound. It wasn't even grief—not yet. It was the hollow echo of a scream that couldn't reach her throat.

For a moment, the matriarch of the Li Clan ceased to exist.

And what remained—was only a mother.

"…Yu'er.....my Yu'er....."

But even her denial sounded like a death knell. Hollow. Empty. Gone.