Xingyao studied the little girl before him.
For a long moment, their eyes met.
Unlike the countless gazes he had endured over millennia—desire, reverence, flattery, calculation—this girl's gaze was different.
Still. Clear. Unclouded.
Like the surface of a quiet lake.
The faint pearl mark on her brow glowed softly under the celestial light, as if answering the stars that crowned his realm. Her energy, though fragile, carried a strange echo of something far older than her tender years.
Despite himself, he asked, "Which palace are you from?"
The girl blinked and smiled. "I'm Xiao Zhu from Ling Yuan Palace."
Xingyao's brows lifted slightly.
So this was the girl.
Even he, who cared nothing for idle talk, had heard the whispers — mainly because Qingfeng, like the spring breeze he embodied, came and went through Xingyun Palace as he pleased.
He remembered clearly, only a few days ago —
Qingfeng had burst into his courtyard uninvited (as always),
carrying a wine jug sloshing with fragrant spirit brew,
and tossing his arm around Xingyao's shoulders as though they were mere mortals with no stars to govern.
"Come out," Qingfeng had grinned. "Drink with me, you old hermit."
Xingyao had only sighed and let himself be dragged to the pavilion.
They had drunk quietly beneath the stars, with constellations blooming around them like silver lotuses.
At some point, Qingfeng had spoken with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Did you hear? Mo Chen has a disciple now."
Xingyao had taken a slow sip, pale lashes lowering.
A long breath later, he had murmured, almost absentmindedly, "I see. He is more... normal than I thought."
Qingfeng had raised a brow, surprised.
"That's it? I thought you'd be shocked like I was. He's raised icicles sharper than swords at every woman who dared breathe near his palace, and now suddenly, he's raising a girl?"
Xingyao had only smiled faintly, offering no further comment.
Now, standing in his own starlit garden, the very girl from those whispered rumors stood before him, hair mussed by the wind, sleeves dusty from wandering, wide-eyed and unafraid.
As if compelled by instinct, she stepped a little closer. "Immortal… may I ask something strange?"
He nodded. "Ask."
She tilted her head, as if searching for words. "Why do you look so lonely?"
He blinked, of all things, that was the last question he expected.
"Why do you say that?"
She frowned slightly. "I don't know. Your eyes… they look like the sky before it rains."
She hesitated, then continued with sincerity only a newborn spirit could carry: "Big and wide and full of something. But quiet. Like it can't say it."
For a heartbeat, Xingyao simply stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed — a low, soft sound, carried away by the drifting stardust.
"No one's ever said that to me before," he murmured. "They're usually too intimidated… or too busy asking for something."
Xiao Zhu tilted her head again. "Why? You're kind. And you talk very nicely."
Another laugh. Softer.
"Because I'm the God of Stars."
Her eyes lit up. "Ooh… what do you do, exactly?"
He turned toward the lake that mirrored the stars. "I listen. Mortals look up to the sky and pray. Their wishes rise like sparks, and some find their way here, to this lake."
She leaned forward slightly, listening.
"I let them gather. I read them. Sometimes I grant them. Sometimes I let them fade. Not every wish is meant to come true."
That was the version he gave.
He did far more than listen.
He wove the patterns of fate across the night sky, bent constellations into maps of destiny, tilted the threads of fortune ever so slightly, guiding empires to rise or fall with a whisper of starlight.
But she didn't need to know that.
Not yet.
"That's so amazing," she whispered. "You're very impressive. Just like Master, Wenlan, and the others."
Xingyao turned to look at her.
She said it without awe. Without flattery. Just quiet certainty.
She wasn't trying to please him.
Perhaps out of quiet gratitude for her saving Xingluo, or perhaps because of her honesty, he let her stay.
She asked more questions — some childish, some curious — and he answered them all with rare patience.
At some point, the conversation faded into a companionable silence.
Xiao Zhu tucked herself beside him, small legs folded neatly beneath her, hands resting in her lap.
And then — without fear, without hesitation — she fell asleep.
Just like that.
Xingyao gazed down at her.
The starlight touched her features, making them glow — porcelain skin, a faint pearl mark glimmering upon her brow, lashes like delicate brushstrokes, and beneath her right eye, a tiny vermilion mole, soft as a dew-kissed petal.
He had, of course, seen Yunhua.
The Goddess of Flowers was the standard by which heavenly beauty was measured. But where Yunhua was dazzling like a peony at full bloom, Xiao Zhu was quiet — a snowdrop blooming in the moonlight.
Yunhua's gaze always held hidden motives. She made beauty a weapon — a means to seek, to conquer, to bind.
Xiao Zhu simply was.
She did not try to impress.
She did not even seem aware of how beautiful she was.
And that...
His gaze lowered, lingering on her sleeping form.
"So this," he murmured to the stars above, "is the pearl that even Mo Chen could not ignore."
He looked at her again, listening to the soft rhythm of her breath.
"I can see why."