Xu had lived in the Zhao Manor long enough to feel as though her years had been stitched into the very beams of the old house. She had come as a small girl, barely tall enough to carry a teapot without stumbling, and since then had drifted from one post to another like a wandering leaf in the wind.
At first, she worked among the chefs. Her hands, deft and steady, brought out flavors so pure and fragrant that even the visiting elders once nodded their heads in approval. That alone should have been harmless, but in Zhao Manor, talents that drew too much attention were like sparks falling in a dry forest. Yue, the second daughter, with her perfect image and need for all eyes to rest on her, had thrown a tantrum so violent that Xu was promptly removed from the kitchens.
Her next post placed her in the service of the eldest daughter, Mei. Unlike Yue, Mei was fair and restrained, her eyes often buried in scrolls, her days measured in the turning of pages rather than the turning of heads. Xu carried for her tomes so heavy that even young men of the manor muttered under their breath at the sight, yet never once did Xu falter. Mei, soft-spoken as she was, praised Xu's diligence, saying that such steadiness was rare in a world where even servants schemed for higher favor.
But such peace never lasted. Yue's jealousy was like a tide—relentless, returning again and again. During Mei's absence at the Spirit Healing exam, Xu was suddenly accused of theft. The charges were baseless, the evidence laughable, but in the politics of Zhao Manor, truth often bent to favor.
That day, Xu's place in the manor nearly vanished. Her name was dragged through the mud in front of both parents and daughters, Yue's lips curved in cruel satisfaction. Yet, when the silence of judgment pressed in like a heavy shroud, it was Zhao Lian—mischievous, often overlooked, but sharp as the edge of a blade—who stood.
Her words had cut through the accusations:
"You shall not always shine. Because she does her work doesn't give you the right to belittle her. I'll take her, if you don't value a good gift."
The air had shifted in that moment. For Xu, who had stood trembling at the brink of disgrace, it was as if a hand had reached into the abyss to pull her back. When Lian later asked softly, almost casually, "Will you serve me?" there had been no hesitation. Xu's bow had been low, her voice steady. "Yes, Mistress."
And so began their bond. A year they spent together, mistress and maid, weaving a quiet loyalty that could not be seen by outsiders but was etched deeply into Xu's heart. Lian, for all her mischief, was kind in ways the others were not. She allowed Xu to speak, to laugh, to exist without fear of Yue's shadow.
Then came the sickness, and with it, Xu's temporary transfer to Yue's endless train of servants. When she returned from a long errand in the outer villages, it was to a scene of upheaval—the infamous embroidery party, where Zhao Lian's wit had sliced through the family's favoritism, exposing the Zhao household's cracks before the village chief and his sons. Xu had stood at the edges that day, chest swelling with pride. That was her mistress, unafraid, unbending.
From then on, her loyalty was sealed in blood and bone. She had pledged it openly: to follow Lian, to serve her, to protect her.
And yet… now, watching her mistress these past days, Xu could not deny that something had shifted.
The previous Zhao Lian had been like a playful breeze—restless, mischief always on her tongue, but humble before her parents, never daring to defy too strongly. She would tease, yes, but bow her head when the moment demanded.
The current Zhao Lian, however, was something else entirely. Like a hidden fire awakened, she burned with sudden unpredictability. At times, she was laughter and mischief, yes—but beneath it, there was steel. She moved with the reckless boldness of someone unafraid to topple the very pillars of the household if they tried to cage her.
A mischievous explosion, Xu thought privately. A sleeping dragon that had finally stirred.
The servants whispered about possession. The elders whispered about ill omens. But Xu, standing silently at her mistress's side, knew better. She had seen the faint flickers of weariness in Lian's eyes when no one else looked. She had caught the whispers muttered under her breath to someone unseen.
Something had happened the day her mistress fainted. The girl who had risen from that bed was not the same as the one who had collapsed upon it.
And yet—did that change Xu's loyalty? No. If anything, it deepened it.
For Xu was not a woman who bent her vows to convenience. She had been saved once from ruin, and she would repay that debt until her last breath. If her mistress had become fire, then Xu would become the shield that held back the world's water. If Lian had become unreadable mischief, then Xu would become the silent anchor at her side.
Pride filled her chest where others only felt fear. This is my mistress, she thought as she watched Zhao Lian laugh at the chaos she herself created. Let the world misunderstand her—I will not.
And in that quiet certainty, Xu's eyes shone. She would protect Zhao Lian, no matter what storm this new life brought.
---
Back at the Chaos of Doom Heaven.
The skies churned with black clouds, pressing down on the jagged mountains below. Red lightning arced across the heavens, splitting the gloom as if the world itself groaned in dread. Beneath that endless shadow, rows upon rows of demons stood in perfect silence, their ranks stretching to the edge of the abyss. Eyes glowed—some crimson, some molten gold, some slit like serpents—and all were fixed upon the Dark Lava that lay chained in the heart of the pit.
The lava did not boil like the molten rivers of mortal lands. Instead, it pulsed like a living thing, tinted obsidian with streaks of violent red, as though blood and shadow had fused together. Around it hung colossal black chains, forged from the bones of extinct gods and bound into hinges of burning iron. Every link of those chains vibrated softly, releasing a low groan that echoed like mourning wails across the cavern.
Mist seeped across the ground—thick, choking, and poisonous. From within it emerged demons of every form and horror: horned giants with tusks like spears, serpentine bodies that coiled for miles, beasts with wings of tattered flesh. At the forefront stood the lords of this gathering, their figures striking against the dim red glow.
The Sexy Demon—her hanfu little more than a silken veil over pale skin—stood with a languid curve to her hips, arms folded beneath her chest. A sultry smile played on her lips, though her gaze was sharp as a blade. Demonic mist clung to her like a lover, wrapping around her body as though reluctant to let her go.
Beside her, the Sea Demon shifted uneasily. His skin shimmered like scales, his face rippling as though the ocean itself had been bound into humanoid form. His jaw twitched, teeth grinding as he spoke, the sound like the grinding of stone against stone.
"The Dragon Melody has returned," the Sexy Demon murmured, her voice a low caress that carried far beyond the pit.
"Yes." The Sea Demon's face tightened, the twitch in his gills betraying his unease. "That girl must be destroyed. The Saintess must never be allowed to rise again."
Behind them, the Snake Demon's long tongue flicked out, tasting the air thick with sulfur and dread. The others rumbled their agreement, clawed hands tightening, wings twitching with restrained anticipation.
Then it came—the sound that froze them all.
Crack.
The Dark Lava pulsed violently, red light flaring like a heartbeat beneath stone. The surface shimmered relentlessly, its hardened obsidian skin trembling under invisible pressure. Fissures appeared, thin as hair at first, but widening with each pulse of dark power. A sound like distant thunder rolled through the abyss, but it was no storm—it was the laugh of something ancient pressing against its prison.
The demons leaned forward, their breaths sharp, their hearts thrumming with a mix of fear and feverish excitement.
Ten thousand years ago, the Grandmaster of Chaos had risen, his shadow blotting out the sun, his laughter bringing kingdoms to ruin. He had brought calamity upon the realms, threatening balance, destiny, and every thread of existence itself. For over a thousand years, the world trembled under his hand, until the Dragon Saintess appeared. With the last of her divine strength, she had bound him—sealed him into this Dark Lava at the cost of her life.
And now, after a thousand years of silence, the prison groaned with his return.
The fissures spread wider. A faint, rumbling growl echoed from within, vibrating through the chains. The demons shivered—not from fear, but from exhilaration.
The Grandmaster was awakening.