It didn't take long—we arrived swiftly, as if the place had been waiting for us.
True to its name, the sect was adorned with symbols of the sun and moon: radiant golds and silvers woven into banners, lanterns shaped like celestial bodies swaying gently in the breeze. The architecture was steeped in tradition—arched roofs, crimson pillars, and intricate carvings of phoenixes and dragons locked in eternal dance. It was unmistakably styled after classical Chinese wedding ornamentation: silk drapes, ceremonial incense, and rows of lotus-shaped lanterns lining the courtyard.
The air was thick with reverence and ritual. Disciples moved with quiet purpose, dressed in formal robes, their expressions solemn but proud. This wasn't just a wedding—it was a convergence of sects, a binding of legacies. And somewhere within it, the Saintess of the Sun and Moon Sect waited to be wed.
I stood up, towering over everyone in sight. My presence was impossible to ignore. Most here stood between eight and ten feet tall—proud cultivators from allied sects, dressed in ceremonial robes and adorned with clan emblems. But I eclipsed them all.
Over thirteen feet of silence and inevitability.
Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Even those who tried not to look found themselves glancing, then staring. I wasn't dressed to impress. I didn't need to be. My height alone broke the rhythm of the gathering—like a mountain rising in the middle of a courtyard.
I didn't speak. I didn't posture. I stood.
Then the two figures at the heart of the ceremony approached.
The groom—son of one of the elders of our Blackdragon Sect—stood at nine feet five. His ceremonial armour gleamed beneath the sun-and-moon banners, each plate etched with ancestral sigils and sect emblems. His posture was proud, deliberate, shaped by legacy and expectation. Every step he took echoed with the weight of his lineage.
Beside him walked the bride, the Saintess of the Sun and Moon Sect. She stood at nine feet three, veiled in silver and gold, her robes embroidered with celestial symbols: twin phoenixes, eclipsed suns, and crescent moons. Her presence was quieter, but no less commanding. She moved like prophecy fulfilled, her gaze steady, her silence sacred.
We were here to ensure nothing went wrong at this wedding.
The sect we were allying with had problems—fractured loyalties, lingering enemies, and a reputation rotting beneath its ceremonial polish. Their influence was fading. Their borders are contested. This union wasn't a celebration. It was a lifeline.
They allied with us not out of reverence, but desperation. Our sect governs a province within Mìngjiè Xiānlù—a territory ranked beyond Level Ten. Divine-tier. Untouchable. Where even the heavens of the gods hesitate.
Our presence wasn't symbolic. It was stabilising.
We weren't guests.
We were the guarantee.
And if anything threatened this alliance, we would end it—without spectacle, without mercy.
Not long after, the crowd fractured.
A handful of cultivators—hidden among the guests—lunged toward the Saintess. Their movements were fast, coordinated, desperate. They weren't here to disrupt the ceremony. They were here to end it.
The groom reacted instantly. His intent surged—sharp, absolute. He didn't touch his sword. He didn't need to. It rose on its own, slicing through the air with precision born of legacy. The attackers fell before they reached her. Blood hit the tiles. Silence followed.
I stepped beside them.
Velanisse followed.
Yubai followed.
Lingxue followed.
We didn't speak. We didn't ask. We moved as one.
The Saintess didn't flinch. Her veil fluttered in the aftermath, untouched. The groom stood between her and the fallen, his sword hovering, still hungry.
We were no longer observers.
We were the line.
And if this wedding were to continue, it would do so beneath our shadow.
We defended the groom and the Saintess.
It became a bloodbath—fast, brutal, inevitable. Blades sang. Bodies fell. The courtyard, once dressed in silk and ceremony, was soaked in ash, blood, and intent.
But no one was surprised.
Some had come not to witness a union, but to destroy it. There were factions obsessed with erasing the Sun and Moon Sect—old enemies, bitter rivals, cultivators who saw this wedding as weakness. They didn't care about vows or banners. They came to end a legacy.
We didn't let them.
Velanisse impaled two before they drew breath. Yubai cleaved through a masked elder with a single strike. Lingxue severed a throat mid-incantation. I burned three alive, my twin swords carving through robes, bone, and memory.
Blood pooled across the tiles.
Smoke curled through the air.
The scent of iron replaced the incense.
We didn't speak.
We didn't hesitate.
We ended what needed ending.
And when the silence returned, it wasn't peace.
It was fear.
No one screamed.
The crowd didn't scatter. They defended themselves. Cultivators from allied sects drew blades, summoned intent, and met their enemies head-on. This wasn't panic—it was war wrapped in ceremony.
Their enemies had come prepared. They didn't just target the Saintess and the groom. They struck at anyone loyal to the Sun and Moon Sect, anyone who stood in the way of their vendetta. Blood spilt across the courtyard, sect emblems torn, vows broken mid-incantation.
But we weren't here for them.
We were here to protect the groom and the Saintess. That was our mission.
And we fulfilled it without hesitation.
We didn't falter.
We didn't fail.
We would be significantly rewarded.
After it was over, I helped clean up the bodies.
I didn't drag them. I didn't bury them. I incinerated them with my intent—quiet, absolute. Flesh turned to ash. Blood vanished from the tiles. The courtyard, moments ago, soaked in violence, was clean as if nothing had happened.
No one spoke. No one thanked me. They understood.
This was part of the mission.
I returned to the wedding. The banners still fluttered. The incense still burned. The Saintess stood untouched. The groom's sword hovered, still sharp. And the officiant, pale but composed, prepared to continue.
The ceremony hadn't ended.
It had survived.
"Thank you—all four of you. Especially you, Senior Sister Lingxue, for protecting us both."
Lingxue didn't bow. She didn't smile. Her voice was quiet, precise.
"It's fine. It's my duty. You're the son of my master. I protect my junior brother.
He bowed to all four of us.
Not out of formality—out of recognition. The alliance had survived because of us.
We stayed for the celebration.
Velanisse stood near the Saintess—silent, watchful.
Yubai lingered by the groom, blade sheathed, voice low. Ready.
Lingxue sat beside me.
I tasted every dish laid for the wedding, every wine poured in honour of the union.
Then she asked:
"Tell me what you're planning, Shen Wuyin."
"Why would you ask me that, when it's clear as day I have no intention of telling you?"
"I don't like you. That much is obvious. You don't deserve your power. The only reason I've tolerated your existence is because I know what you're capable of—and that you could kill me in an instant."
"You don't hate me for what I am. You hate me because I don't give you what others do—reverence, worship, obedience."
I drank the wine. "Any other questions I might answer?"
"You annoy me, Shen Wuyin. No—I don't have any other questions."
We returned to the sect and received our rewards for completing the mission.
No ceremony. No praise. Just the weight of what we carried, and the price they were willing to pay for it.
I was heading back to my residence when Lingxue stopped me near the door. I waited. She didn't speak right away.
Then:
"Let's go on another mission together. Maybe just the two of us. Alone."
"Not interested. I have other plans. Maybe some other time."
I moved her aside without touching her and closed the door.
Inside, Gǔlóng Shu was cooking. When she saw me, she smiled and pulled me into a hug.
"Welcome back, husband. I heard you did well on your mission, so I made a surprise dish for you. Thai green curry—just like how your mum used to make."
"You remembered what I taught you. Thank you."
She watched me eat, joy flickering behind her eyes.
I didn't speak of it often.
My mother used to make this.
Before the sickness.
She died at fifty-two.
"It's great. Thank you—I appreciate the surprise."
I smiled and hugged her in return. She leaned her head against my chest.
"I asked my sister to come," she said softly. "But she declined."
"It's fine here. A gift for you—I know how much you love your tea blends and porcelain. You can add it to your collection."
She smiled. "Thank you, Ren. I appreciate the gift."
She looked at the porcelain craft.
It held her and her elder sister—both in their dragon forms, coiled in flight, etched in glaze.
The detail was delicate, but the power was unmistakable.
Memory sealed in ceramic.
She poured herself a cup of tea—twice, savoring the warmth.
"This is amazing," she said. "I love this flavor."
Her voice was soft, but certain. The kind of joy that doesn't need ceremony.