Several months passed in quiet ripples, like moonlight drifting across still water.
Within the frost-veiled halls of Ling Yuan Palace, life settled into a gentle rhythm.
Under Wenlan's patient guidance, Xiao Zhu trained daily, her small figure seated diligently atop a jade meditation mat, weaving faint streams of spiritual energy into her dantian—slow, yet steady.
Sometimes she stumbled—forgetting to breathe properly, losing focus mid-chant, nodding off during long sessions.
Sometimes she succeeded—feeling the warmth of gathering qi pool inside her like mist gathering on a quiet lake.
And Mo Chen, ever silent, watched from the shadows of frost-veiled pillars.
He rarely spoke, but when Xiao Zhu succeeded—even once—his faint, approving glance or barely-there nod felt warmer than spring sunlight.
Yanxia, however, was nowhere to be seen.
By Mo Chen's decree, she was temporarily barred from Ling Yuan Palace—a punishment she protested loudly and theatrically, storming into Qingfeng's palace in a whirlwind of indignation.
"It's not fair!" she cried, stamping her foot. "I just wanted to take her out for fun!"
Qingfeng, sprawled lazily atop a drifting spirit cloud, sipped from a jade cup of plum wine and lifted a brow.
"Fun?" he echoed. "You dragged her through a beast field, nearly set a tree on fire, and came back without her."
He swirled his wine absently.
"Take it as mercy," he drawled. "If he really got serious, you'd be an icicle hanging from his roof by now."
Yanxia huffed and was about to storm off to complain to Wenlan when Qingfeng caught her sleeve, tugging her lightly back.
She turned sharply, intending to glare—but something in his gaze made her pause, just for a breath.
A flicker of warmth, a teasing edge—but something calm, knowing, beneath it.
She flushed.
"You always take his side!" she accused.
"I don't take sides," Qingfeng said easily. "I just enjoy the spectacle. And you, Yanxia…"
A slow, deliberate smirk curved his lips.
"You do make a very dramatic entrance."
Yanxia blinked, thrown off for a moment, then scowled. "You're impossible."
"Mm," he hummed, swirling his wine. "And you're loud. Somehow it works."
Still fuming, she flounced to the edge of his courtyard and plopped down under a flowering tree, muttering under her breath.
Qingfeng only watched her with that same lazy smile — the kind that never quite reached his eyes, except when it came to her.
Later, when no one was looking, she began sending gifts to Ling Yuan Palace — bundles of spirit fruits, sugar-glazed candies, moon-thread ribbons, a hand-painted scroll or two — all delivered anonymously through passing fairies.
___
Meanwhile, inside Ling Yuan Palace, Xiao Zhu lived quietly.
And always by her side, faithful as a shadow, was Yuebao—the moon fox gifted by Xingyao.
What Xiao Zhu didn't know was that each night, through the fine threads of starlight woven into Yuebao's snowy fur, glimpses of her small, bright existence traveled far across the heavens—
to Xingyun Palace, where the God of Stars quietly received them.
There, reclining under blooming galaxies, Xingyao glimpsed:
— Xiao Zhu puffing her cheeks in frustration during writing practice.
— Xiao Zhu cradling Yuebao like a stuffed toy, asleep among scrolls.
— Xiao Zhu solemnly presenting a crooked character to Wenlan with triumphant pride.
And each time, rare and soft, Xingyao would chuckle—a sound that melted the stillness around him, light as falling stars.
Thus, her days passed quietly and peacefully.
______
Around this time, Xiao Zhu's cultivation began to show true progress.
Her spiritual root pulsed steadily now, no longer fragile. When she gathered spiritual energy, it obeyed more readily, flowing like a gentle stream.
One morning, Wenlan smiled gently after checking her meridians.
"You're stabilizing much faster than expected," she praised, tenderly tucking a loose strand of hair behind Xiao Zhu's delicate ear.
That afternoon, as she practiced condensing spirit energy into her palms, Mo Chen appeared quietly at the courtyard gate.
Snow flurried around his robes.
Xiao Zhu scrambled upright and bowed properly, nearly tripping over Yuebao, who wagged his tail mischievously.
Mo Chen regarded her for a long moment.
Then, stepping closer, and patted her head.
"You're ready," he said quietly.
Xiao Zhu blinked up at him in confusion. "Ready?"
With a faint shimmer, a thin strand of water condensed between his fingers—clear, sharp, shaped into a blade of frozen light.
Mo Chen's voice remained calm.
"Spiritual condensation," he said. "A basic art. Gathering qi into form."
He paused.
"You have an affinity with water. You will learn to summon it—and eventually, to wield it."
Xiao Zhu's eyes shone with wonder.
"I'll try my best, Master!" she declared.
Yuebao barked in agreement.
____
Gather qi. Focus it. Shape it.
Simple.
In theory.
In practice...
Xiao Zhu puffed her cheeks, stretching out her hands, concentrating fiercely.
A faint mist of vapor formed and promptly exploded into a cold cloud, soaking her sleeves.
She yelped, dripping.
Mo Chen sighed—a soft, almost inaudible sound—and flicked his sleeve, freezing the moisture instantly before it faded into the air.
"Again," he said.
Xiao Zhu nodded determinedly.
She tried again.
And again.
Mist splattered. Water knotted her sleeves. Frost gathered in her hair.
Yuebao barked from the sidelines—encouraging, animated, sometimes even waving his little paws as if cheering her on.
But no matter how often she failed, Xiao Zhu never cried.
She clenched her fists tighter. Her small face flushed with stubborn resolve.
And Mo Chen—once so cold, so distant—surprised himself.
Correcting her hand posture gently. Guiding her breath with rare, soft words.
"You're trying too hard," he said once, kneeling to tap her forehead lightly.
"Don't force it. Invite it."
Another time, when she froze her own hands, he caught them, enveloping her small fingers in his own, warmth seeping through his touch like melting frost.
His voice was quiet, steady.
"Spiritual qi is not a weapon," he murmured. "It is a river you learn to flow with."
____
One evening, after countless attempts, Xiao Zhu sat in meditation, moonlight washing over the courtyard.
Between her small palms, a single, perfect thread of water condensed.
Delicate.
Shimmering.
Alive.
She blinked down at it, stunned, then turned to Mo Chen, eyes wide with hope.
He stepped forward.
Silent.
Steady.
His hands—cool yet strong—enveloped hers once more, this time not in correction, but in quiet acknowledgment.
"Good," he said softly.
So soft, it nearly vanished into the wind.
But Xiao Zhu heard it.
And her smile—radiant and pure—lit the courtyard like the first dawn after a long, frozen winter.
High upon the silver-tiled roof of Ling Yuan Palace, Yuebao perked his ears.
A quiet ripple of thought drifted into the stars toward Xingyun Palace.
"She's done it. Xiao Zhu made a breakthrough in her cultivation."
Xingyao lay reclined beneath galaxies in bloom, the starlight etching soft silver against the folds of his robe. Around him, the spirit beasts had gathered in quiet company — Xingluo, the golden finch, chirped once from the low branch of a starlit tree; the twin Shuanghua butterflies danced gently through the air, trailing shimmer in their wake.
The luminous snail, Mingxiu, rested atop an open scroll near Xingyao's elbow, while Liuying, the tiniest of the luminous dragons, curled lazily around a porcelain teacup, tail flicking like a falling star.
They felt it too.
The shift.
The quiet joy.
Xingyao's eyes, half-lidded beneath a cascade of silver lashes, opened slowly.
And he smiled.
A true smile — rare as comet rain — quiet, warm, and fleeting.
And unseen by the heavens above, two threads of fate drew quietly closer.