under red skies

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts...it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS IT HURTS!!!!

Now, it doesn't matter how long she screams, or how much she begs for relief. None will come. She's already dead. Her son is already gone. Everything—

Everything is gone, now. Only ashes remain.

Hua Cheng watches the look in Bai Wuxiang's eyes.

Slowly building hatred.

Watches as he stops viewing his wife, the mother of his children, as a forger of blades, but rather...

Hudie shudders, unable to breathe, unable to think coherently—when Jun Wu's hand lands on her shoulder.

"I know how it happened," the god murmurs— And the ghost freezes.

Slowly, her tears stopped, she turns her head to look up at Jun Wu, eyes wide, almost numb in their need to feel something other than pain. Anything, no matter how monstrous it's replacement might be.

"What?"

"The bridge," Jun Wu explains. "I know how it fell. I know why."

Hua Cheng watches the god tell her, watches as he spins a story of jealous, petty gods. Creatures that wanted more prayers and wealth for themselves.

Tells Hudie how they lied. How they told him they would give their spiritual power to the bridge when the time came.

But they lied, and they never did.

They lied, and Hudie's boy, her joy, the last good thing in this world—

Her San Lang died.

She clutches the butterfly hairpin in her hands, and she curses them. Bitterly, from the very depths of her heart, Hudie curses them.

"...We can make them pay," her husband offers. "For what they've done. But I..."

His hands land on her shoulders, squeezing gently.

"I need your help, my love."

Her body shakes with grief, breaths ragged—but still there's steel in them when she replies—

"Name it."

Jun Wu no longer sees his wife as one that forges blades—but rather, he begins to see her as a weapon herself.

Tells her that they can bring the heavens itself to it's knees—but that to do it, he'll need the proper blades.

One by one, the former Queen of Wuyong forges them.

In the volcano that burned her kingdom to ash, she turns the mantle itself into a kiln, and with every swing of her hammer, she brings new creations to life.

But now, she isn't only creating blades. Cursed tools and weapons of the like, no. Now, she forges monsters and demons.

Takes the rabid souls from the air around her, beating them down into something new. Something useful.

Bai Wuxiang may have burned the heavenly capital to ash, yes—but Tonglu became known as the executioner of the gods.

Clipping their wings, tearing their golden palaces down.

They whispered in fear of her kiln, the monsters that would burst free from it and tear at the world.

The Kingdom of Wuyong was slowly forgotten—and the only thing that was left behind, in the end, was the volcano that laid waste to it.

The Kiln of Monsters. Mount Tonglu.

The Queen of Wuyong died in the streets of the heavenly city, many years ago. She watched, later, when her husband abandoned her body at the foot of the kiln—

Mei Nianqing came for her.

She watched from the shadows as her lover mourned. Not like Bai Wuxiang had, before.

Mei Nianqing cradled her in his arms as he wept—but he made no promises of revenge. Made no efforts to explain how Hudie's children had been taken, or why.

He only created a grave for her, keeping a portion of her ashes—burying the rest. And he made a promise.

That he would protect their son, Bolin. Even if the boy could never know the truth. Hudie stood in the shadows, and she ached to go to him, to thank him.

Oh, in that moment—she could have rested in peace.

But Bai Wuxiang's words were already so deeply ingrained in her heart.

That the heavens were liars, thieves, and monsters. That their jealousy and hatred of her husband's success had led them to tear him down.

And with them, her boy.

Her beautiful, perfect boy.

Her San Lang.

Mei Nianqing called her name, and she could not answer.

Tonglu Hudie was dead. She died in the fields of Wuyong. Burned with her son, even if the streets of heaven would be stained by her blood a year later.

Now, all that remained was the savage ghost, the armorer of hell, Goddess of Mount Tonglu—

Zhao Beitong.

Named for the heavenly dynasty she toppled. For the city streets she stained red with her own blood, then the blood of the gods themselves.

She took her revenge, and used that anger. Tried to cram it into the aching gap that was left inside of her.

The part of her that was still a mother, desperately mourning her children. But nothing could ever seem to fill it.

There were moments of kindness that were offered to her, over and over again. Moments that Hua Cheng knows, watching the story unfold, would have saved Xie Lian.

He followed such a similar path, for a time—as a tool for the same demon. But all he needed was one person to show kindness. One person to prove that the world was capable of goodness.

But there was not enough kindness in the world to save Zhao Beitong.

And then, she learned the truth.

In the final days of the heavens, from the mouth of the final heavenly official.

Zhu Xin drags across the ground from one of her hands—and her hammer from the other. Eyes glowing red in the dark, nails like talons.

The former wind master cries.

"I-I'm sorry!" He weeps, scrambling backwards on the ground, his face streaked with blood. "We—We tried to brig you into the ranks, why are you—?!"

He howls with pain when her hammer slams into his torso, crushing several of his ribs, her face streaked with his blood.

"You think that makes a difference to me?" She questions, her voice cold—nearly unrecognizable from the way it was before "My children were already dead." She raises the hammer again, "WHAT GOOD DOES YOUR ACCEPTANCE DO ME NOW?!"

"We—we should have helped! I-I know that now!"

The Wind Master sobs.

Maybe she'll turn him into twin blades, the spinning sort. Or a fan, even. She might like that.

As she brings down the hammer again, he screams—

"WE SHOULD HAVE AGREED TO HELP, I'M SORRY!"

The rest of his ribs collapse with a sick crunch—but she stops.

"...You did agree," she corrects him flatly. "You all agreed, and then you turned your backs on us."

The Wind Master shakes his head vehemently, blood streaming down his chin. "No!" He croaks, his breaths coming in shattering wheezes, bloody foam spewing from his lips.

"H-How could we have answered so many prayers, if we were all helping him?! We— Wuyong was just one kingdom in the world, how could we abandon the rest of it to save them? We—we told him no!"

He coughs raggedly, broken bones grating together. "But—But we were WRONG, please—I—!"

Zhao Beitong's fingers tremble as she stares down at him, trying to— Trying to understand.

She knows, logically, that the Wind Master cannot recover from his injuries. That a dying man has no reason to lie.

She remembers how insistent she was, when he asked about the bridge. That he could not do such a thing alone. That even to try was madness.

She remembers the doubt she felt, when he secluded himself. The same doubt that made her try to flee that day, with San Lang in tow.

And Zhao Beitong knows something else. Something in her soul.

San Lang would not have disobeyed her, in a moment like that. He would have waited for her at the gate, just as his mother asked. Not because he didn't want to help—but because he wouldn't risk being separated from her.

Now, she thinks back on that moment. That last day.

Seeing him on the bridge, with a palace guard holding his arm. Likely leading him over. She gave no such orders for anyone to take her son to the bridge—and there would be only one other being with the power to give such a command.

And oh, she can imagine what he was thinking.

That people would trust the bridge, if they saw the prince crossing it. Wouldn't doubt it, if Jun Wu was willing to risk his own son.

Because what kind of father would risk his child's life on ego alone? What kind of man would allow his own arrogance to blind him to the risk?

He probably did blame the heavenly officials. Probably meant every word, when he told his wife that it was their fault. That they did this.

But Jun Wu was the one who lied. He was the one who put their son on the bridge that day.

Her hammer falls to the ground with a clatter.

She sits, watching as the Wind Master takes his last breaths. The last heavenly official. The last creature that remains of this place—and she waits.

Waits, until he comes, surveying the destruction that they have wrought with—

With satisfaction.

"San Lang would have been—"

He falls silent, looking down at the blade sprouting from his chest. Shining black steel. Forged to avenge his own child.

The blade Zhu Xin.

When he looks up at his wife, his expression is one of utter shock. "You...You—!" The blade is yanked from his chest without mercy.

Only to be returned once again, with an even more vicious blow.

"You don't get to say his name." She whispers, hacking her head, pulling the blade from his chest again, watching as Bai Wuxiang drops to his knees, gasping from the pain. "Not to me. Not ever again."

Her husband—her first student, the sweet, cocky young man she fell in love with, all those years ago, stares up at her, his lips parted with shock. "You..." he whispers, eyes narrowing. "Even you?"

Zhu Xin trembles in her hold, but Zhao Beitong doesn't falter. "Even me."

"Even when everyone else burned my temples, and prayed to others, you..." Bai Wuxiang parries her third attack, but is too wounded to deflect her fourth.

She knows every gap in his armor, after all. She was the one who forged it. "...You never turned against me. And now—!"

"It wasn't that I prayed to someone else, Jun Wu." His wife whispers, yanking the blade out for the third time, his blood spattering across the ground. "I stopped praying to anyone, long ago."

She stopped praying when she realized no one would answer. That no one could.

"And now, there's only one god left that's responsible for the death of my son," She continues, hitting him again, and again, and again. "You'll be patient with me, won't you? You said I could avenge him, didn't you?!"

She pierces him over and over again.

Once for every layer of hatred that she forged into the blade.

Once, twice, three times. A dozen times.

A hundred times.

Zhao Beitong forged countless blades and spiritual devices over the course of her existence. So many demons, she eventually lost count.

Bai Wuxiang, the White Clothed Calamity, was the first monster that she ever created without purpose. Without intending to.

When she's finished, she stops, breathing hard—her cheeks streaked with blood and smoke as she stares down at the man beneath her.

The prince who offered her the entire world. And in many ways—he gave it to her.

And now, he's just a mass of blood on the ground, bleeding and broken—just like anything else.

Zhao Beitong kneels before him, whispering by his ear—

"You aren't better than anyone."

Even through the pain, his eyes widen slightly.

"I want you to know that." Zhao Beitong continues, her eyes narrowed. "You are selfish, and arrogant, and greedy. And now—look at you."

Look at his broken, trembling body.

"You are just as broken, and frightened as anyone else."

Slowly, she rises to her feet—hair swaying in the breeze, wearing silk, bloodstained robes. "Everyone has left you, and you blame the world. Scream and cry about how unfair it is."

She leaves the sword Zhu Xin buried in his chest, stabbing deep into the earth beneath him.

"They left you because you weren't worth following any longer." She turns her back on him. "Everything you have done—you did it to yourself."

And the same could be said for her—but she's already living her own punishment. Desperate for it to end.

That's where she leaves him.

Bleeding to death in the streets of the former heavenly capital as it burns. The last god, bleeding and burning with the heavens he was so desperate to reach.

She returns to the ashes of the home she once knew—and when she arrives, Zhao Beitong sees—

The lily seed...

The one she planted just before she ascended... It's bloomed into a small field of white flowers.

She kneels among them, holding the pin in her hair. Mourning her old life. Her children. The man she loved.

And eventually, she finds herself surrounded by a pale, ethereal glow. Butterflies.

Not the same species as the sort that once bred in these lands, no. Those are long dead.

These butterflies flutter around her—landing on her head, her shoulders, her hands.

Made from pure spiritual power itself.

There are many different ways to forge a weapon.

Through blood, sacrifice, and death. Acts of great selflessness—or powerful, ancient curses.

How do you forge wraith butterflies?

How, you ask?

To manipulate pure spiritual power—you must understand it for what it is.

Cultivators don't. Gods never did, and nor do ghosts.

Spiritual Power isn't any different from any other form of energy that passes through the natural cycles of life and death.

Heat forms in the hearts of stars like their sun, shining down upon them—feeding the plants, which pass onto animals, then to humans—who all, in turn, decay and rot into plants once again.

Spiritual power is forged in the golden core of one's soul, cultivator or not.

It can be passed on through prayers or cultivation—or even resentment. Building up in the world around them. It sends gods to the heavens above, who take that energy and shine it back down with blessings and miracles for those who pray to them.

It can be carried in resentment when those humans become ghosts, still pouring that energy back into the cycle through curses and destruction.

Good or bad, it's all the same cycle. Different streams, all flowing in the same circular current.

And, eventually, those souls pass.

They enter the cycle once more—exploding across the universe in countless little supernovas, reincarnating into new stars. New golden cores, creating spiritual energy once more.

It took her a long time to understand that. Such a long time, to understand that dead isn't gone.

That somewhere out there, in the depths of the universe, is still her San Lang. Just a different star, now. She doesn't know where, or when—wouldn't now his face or voice, if she ever saw him again.

But somewhere, in this great, unforgiving void—he's there. You want know how to forge wraith butterflies?

You learn that ghosts are just spirit fires given shape. That the flames one bursts into upon death are simply the exposed edges of a soul.

And once you understand the shape of your soul, you can mold it. Forge it into new forms.

But to her, a soul is a wish. A hope. A constantly changing, living thing—being reshaped over and over again, in a never ending cycle of change.

A soul is a butterfly.

She sits among those butterflies now, the ever growing number, more and more forming as her core burns on.

Hua Cheng watches her, the Queen of the Ashes, her kiln slowly cooling and going dark, waiting for her soul to spark out. To explode into supernova, to reform.

Watches as Zhao Beitong desperately prays to Rest In Peace. But she goes on, and on, and on.

Across the world, an ill experienced smith tries to reforge himself. To break himself apart, and become something new.

But all he can do is split himself in two.

Hua Cheng watches, his eyes widening, as a bleeding, abandoned god takes on two forms.

A crying, white clothed heavenly calamity. Wearing his white robes, donning a new mask—the white, twisted visage that has long haunted Hua Cheng's nightmares.

And a smiling, handsome young prince.

Hua Cheng watches, and he understands. Watches the ascension of a new emperor.

The strongest martial god of their time, Jun Wu.

Unable to resign himself to the hideous, broken layers of himself that his wife peeled back with her final words to him. When he couldn't resolve the two, he simply...shed that half of himself. Denied it. Refused to look at it.

And then, people were worshipping him again. Praising him again. Once again, the world was exactly as it was supposed to be.

Except this time, the Heavenly Emperor was not a young prince with nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

Now, he had secrets.

Secrets to hide and keep.

And there's a price, of course, when you split your soul in two.

Rising tension. Pressure that needs to be released, over and over again. If he was simply going to outpour that resentment onto the world, well. He'd be found out.

Instead, he makes good use of it.

Of all of the things Jun Wu took credit for over the years—all of her accomplishments, there is one that he lays at her feet, allows his wife to take all of the rewards for.

Zhao Beitong is blamed for the downfall of the last heavenly dynasty. A new generation of gods hunt her.

Curse her.

Call her the world's first calamity.

Jun Wu takes the countless tools she forged for him through the years. His wars. His ascension. His downfall. His revenge.

And he uses them to arm his new soldiers, turning them against her. But none of them can kill her.

Zhao Beitong already killed her mortal body with a blade of her own creation. Her own weapons can't hurt her now. Not anymore.

No matter how badly she wants them to. No matter how desperate she is for her suffering to end—it never does.

Her soul, for some reason, won't let go.

She sits in the memory, on the edge of the kiln, watching the approaching army of heaven from the distance, and she whispers something—to herself, but Hua Cheng hears it anyway.

"I was also born under the star of solitude, you know." Her luck could have been good, or bad.

Heavily sensitive to different sources of influence, varying between extremes. But in the end, it was always down to her own choices.

When Tonglu Hudie was a young girl, and the world was so wide, so open—two very different paths opened before her.

Each offered by two very different young men.

One built her a garden of butterflies. A place where they could bring their children.

God, in every day that has passed since then, Zhao Beitong has ached with regret. Wished she could have chosen that life. To go back.

No paths are set in stone in this life. Not when you're young. But as you grow older, you bind yourself to the choices you make. You are forced to live with your own mistakes.

Now, Zhao Beitong has become a butterfly, pinned inside a glass box. Watching, as Jun Wu seals her in.

She isn't the warrior she once was. Isn't the savage ghost that tore the heavens to pieces out of revenge.

It's been centuries—and she's old. She's tired. She wants to go. Wants—

She wants to Rest In Peace.

When her husband comes for her, she hopes he means to give her that.

Instead, with a smiling voice that tells her this is mercy, he's giving her new life, new purpose—

The man she gave her life to curses her.

Her, the Guoshi who taught him how to fight.

Her, the smith that forged the blades he used to ascend. Her, the wife who led his country.

Her, the mother of his children.

Her, the weapon used to enact his revenge.

He curses her. Binds her to the fields and hills of the mountain that she once called home. Strips her of the name she was born with, rather than the titles that he gave her.

When they were young, she often felt as though she couldn't speak against him. There were these invisible rules of society. Things that you could and could not do, and all of them bound her to silence.

Now, the curse forbids her from revealing to the world what he truly is.

In the same way that women like her are always punished for the secrets of the men that pin them down. Always forced to keep them.

She watches the the world, from the small bounds of her cage. She rages. She aches. She births many half formed monsters, sending them out.

Hoping that they'll tell the world the truth. That at the very least, if no one will bring Jun Wu down—someone will come to free her, to slay her. But...

They leave, and any memories of her husband blur. The truth always disappears. One, however, shines above the rest.

Not a mindless beast, no. A beautiful young ghost, with eyes like fire and hair like snow.

A calamity. One that could grow into a being just as powerful as her, one day. One that could set her free. One that could destroy the man that trapped her here.

But she knows...

When he leaves, he'll forget. He'll unleash himself upon the world, just like every other creation she's made for that man before now. He'll level cities. Murder children. Bring so much suffering.

And Zhao Beitong—she won't. She refuses.

She names him Zhang Wei.

After her first born.

He was the bastard son of a king who became a tyrant, executed to spare his family from the wrath of the people once their dynasty was toppled.

Now, she cradles him in her arms, like the mother he can no longer remember. Sings him stolen lullabies.

His eyes are dazed by the beauty of the wraith butterflies surrounding him, and he is at peace.

He is safe. He is loved.

That's when she clips the newborn dragon's wings, and swallows him whole.

She weeps after. Mourns him all over again. Until the valleys flood with her tears

Three centuries later, it happens again.

Another perfectly formed spirit—this one with eyes like the leaves on the trees at the very end of spring, and hair that curls and tangles in every direction.

Another calamity, capable of saving the world—or bringing it to ruin.

He was born in the kingdoms of the north to a quiet, loving home. Then, when the young boy showed potential as a cultivator, he was stolen away. Placed in chains, forced to fight in a far of kingdom, for people he did not know—until eventually, the young man died.

Cast aside and left to rot, like a hound that could no longer hunt. She names him Bolin, after her second born.

Watches him run and laugh, relishing in his newborn freedom—and she promises him, he will never have to fight someone else's wars again.

Zhao Beitong sees to that.

Time passes. It fades and wanes. Eventually, she begins to wonder if the age of calamities has passed. If now, her soul will slowly begin to fade away—and finally, she can re-enter that cycle once more.

But the gates of Tonglu rattle open once more, stronger than ever before.

And when she sees a young, crimson ghost—falling back down from heaven like a cursed falling star, she knows.

That the cycle she is trapped in is not one that can be broken. It will repeat—over and over again.

She knows, the moment Hua Cheng stands before her, how it will end.

When she opens her eyes, now at the end of her chain of memories, she expects to find herself standing in the center of the kiln—and for a new ghost king to stand before her, ready for the slaughter.

But she isn't.

Zhao Beitong slowly turns her head, glancing around.

She isn't trapped in, surrounded by walls of white marble.

There's no surrounding, all encompassing heat.

No, there's just...

Her heart beats unsteadily in her chest for the first time in a thousand years. A garden.

With flowers of every color—but so many blues and purples.

What...?

Slowly, she kneels down, reaching out with trembling fingers, taking in the sight of the blooms beneath her fingers. How soft and warm the petals feel beneath her fingertips.

Not a dream. Not a memory. This is something different, it's...

There were so many things she forgot over the years. So gradually, she never even realized it.

Hudie couldn't remember the way the wind felt on her cheeks anymore. How the air tasted, immediately after the rain.

Forgot the fresh smells of the forest. Slightly wild—but clean.

Hudie forgot how moonlight is something you can feel against your skin, shining down on you through the night.

She tilts her head back with a smile, her face young—unlined by years of torment and grief.

And above—she realizes—

Hudie forgot what real butterflies looked like.

How many different colors they could be. Some with broken, fractured wings—and yet, every single one of them is perfect.

It's...this is...

She breathes in the air, feels the wind on her face, heart pounding, trying so very hard to remember more, to feel more—

"Mama!"

Her entire body freezes, eyes widening—and for the first time in so, so long, she feels —feels—

At first, she chokes the name out under her breath, but when she tries again, it's clear —desperation in every syllable.

"S-San Lang?!"

She whips her head around, and— There he is.

Small and gangly, a braid of messy dark hair tucked over his shoulder in a loose braid. Amber eyes sparkling up at her with mischief, a slightly sharpened canine poking through the right corner of his mouth.

He takes a step forward, arms clasped behind him, shoulders thrown back

Even now, playfully mimicking his mother's posture, but—when he smiles, it aches with affection.

Love—and so much sadness.

"I came home," he murmurs, staring up at her. "Like I said I would."

After so long of feeling nothing but pain and rage—

Hudie's eyes flood with tears.

"S-San Lang—" She sobs, stumbling forward, sweeping the little boy up into her arms, shoulders shaking as she clutches him to her, kissing his head, his hair, his nose, every part of him that she can reach. "Oh, San Lang, I—I love you, I'm—I'm so sorry, I —!"

The little boy wraps his arms around her neck in return, hugging her tight. "I love you too," he whispers as his mother weeps against his hair. His voice is soft—lacking the exuberance she remembers. The mischievous playfulness. And, after a moment—

"...I'm sorry."

Hudie shakes her head, arms trembling as she holds him close, hands rubbing his back, pressing her cheek against his hair. "N-No, what should you—what should you ever be sorry for, my love?"

"...I wasn't a good son," he whispers, his tone unreadable. "I always made trouble."

His mother lets out a choked laugh, shaking her head. "Y-you were perfect," she reassures him, cradling the boy close in her arms. "It—It was the best trouble of my life, I promise."

He doesn't speak again, pressing his cheek against her chest—and she holds him tighter, weeping.

Around her, the clearing is full. Mei Nianqing stands behind her, helping little Bolin stretch up on his toes, trying his very hardest to catch butterflies.

There's a young man with dark hair, leaning against a tree, playing a small hand flute, watching his family happily.

Hudie doesn't know how, but she knows—it's the youth Zhang Wei would have grown into, had his soul not been stolen away.

Her family is here.

She closes her eyes, letting out shaky breaths, clutching San Lang against her.

Her family is here.

Her children—they're here.

"I'm sorry," San Lang repeats again, hugging her tighter, his eyes squeezing shut— and again, Hudie reassures him that there's nothing to forgive.

"I'm sorry," he won't stop saying it, trembling in her arms, tears pouring down his cheeks.

"Mom—I'm sorry!"

Her mind is clouded.

Confused.

Because why? What on earth should he ever be sorry for?

Just as she's about to pull back and ask him, reassure him, tell him that everything's alright, that she's hear now, and there's no need between them to ever say sorry—

There's pain. Stabbing, sharp pain.

In the side of her neck, like she's being ripped apart, blood gushing down over her shoulder, down the side of her robes.

Around her, her family doesn't react. There's still happy giggling—the gentle notes of a flute, playing the sweetest song she's ever heard.

And more pain.

When Hudie looks down, her chest heaving with sharp, agonized gasps—

San Lang stares up at her, blood dripping from his jaws, eyes burning like twin cursed stars.

And he whispers again, "I'm sorry." Oh.

Hudie clutches the side of her neck. "I'm sorry, Mom, I-I'm sorry."

Somewhere, beyond the walls of this illusion, she can hear the sounds of something ripping apart. A small creature, slowly being devoured by the jaws of a newly formed beast.

Isn't someone going to stop it? She— Oh.

Hudie's eyes go half-lidded.

That's her.

"I'm sorry."

She's being devoured.

"..." Her fingers tighten around the side of her neck, looking around the clearing at the soft, domestic scene before her.

It's peaceful here. It doesn't hurt.

"...Can I stay here?" She whispers.

The little boy stares up at her, expression unreadable.

"Yes," he replies, with lips stained by the blood of his own mother. "I'll keep you here, until the end."

The illusion flickers, for just a moment.

"Until I can set you free."

She's laying on the floor of her kiln, staring at the endless cavern overhead. Watching.

Hoards of silver wraith butterflies, flighting another ethereal beast—also formed out of spiritual power.

This time, a dragon—spewing flames of pure energy itself. It's...

There's a faint smile on her face, as her third son, her favorite child, cradles her in his arms.

"You learned how to do it," she whispers, lips trembling as her form starts to fade, bit by bit. Too weak, now, to keep its shape—too much of her spiritual power has been devoured.

It's beautiful.

And Zhao Beitong is so, so proud.

Birth is always a terrifying process.

The action of a host being ripped apart in order to bring in new life. An inherently violent cycle—but you never fear the creature that will spring forth.

Because it is yours, and it is part of you.

A new ghost king stares down at her, a single tear dripping down his cheek.

The blood of the mother who forged him staining his lips.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, watching her slowly fade away. "I'm so sorry."

Zhao Beitong closes her eyes with a tired smile, shaking her head.

"You aren't...supposed to apologize when you win, boy."

But this doesn't feel like winning. This feels like losing something that he never truly had.

"Don't..." Her eyes blink once, before slipping shut one final time. "Don't disappoint me, San Lang."

Hudie has never been afraid of dying, or moving on.

There is no such thing as true destruction. Only changing into something new. When she fades away, there's a smile on her face.

A soul is a wish. Something that drives you. That makes you hold on, often against all reason.

Souls can grow, they can break—and they can change.

"I won't," Hua Cheng whispers, a solemn oath, his head bowed.

If you asked Hudie—a soul is a butterfly.

His arms are empty—and when the Goddess of the Kiln opens her eyes again, she sees the sky.

Hears laughing, and the notes of a flute. Holds her youngest child close.

"San Lang," she whispers, a true smile on her face, and finally, for the first time in so long—

Nothing hurts.

There's no pain.

No loss, no fear, no wars.

Just her family.

And Tonglu Hudie never has to leave again.

Hua Cheng stands in the Kiln—alone.

Holding a butterfly.

It stands between his fingertips delicately—the last of the horde wielded but the Goddess of the Kiln.

Wings gently flapping, staring up at him, as if waiting.

For the first time in his life—Hua Cheng has something to mourn other than himself. And no one mourns like a ghost.

Hua Cheng bows his head—and it flies away.

He watches as it drifts across the cavern, towards the slowly opening doors of the kiln.

It drifts through the gates, just as the sun begins to rise over the horizon of the Kingdom of Wuyong for the first time in years.

The Dragon he crafted slowly sinks back down, disappearing back into his form. And with it, comes power.

So much power, that the newly formed ghost king is startled by it—thrumming in every inch of his body. Power, resentment, and...

Warmth.

Hua Cheng has only ever knelt before one man. Prayed to one god. There is only one that he would ever allow to chain him down—for the very reason that he never would.

But now, he bows—his hands clasped before him in a gesture of deep respect.

"...Thank you, Guoshi Tonglu."