The autumn rain drummed against the library windows of Beijing Normal University, creating a rhythmic soundtrack to Shen Yifan's Thursday afternoon. He sat hunched over a thick volume of ancient Chinese mythology, his fingers tracing the faded characters describing the legendary Phoenix—a creature of fire and rebirth that had fascinated him since childhood. Around him, the musty scent of old paper and binding glue filled the air, a smell he'd grown to love over his four years as a history student.
"You're going to ruin your eyes reading in this light," Lin Qingqing announced, dropping into the chair across from him with her usual lack of ceremony. His roommate and best friend since freshman year, she was a Beta studying journalism with the tenacity of a bloodhound on a scent. "It's almost six. Don't you have to take your medication?"
Yifan glanced at his phone, surprised to see she was right. Time always slipped away when he was researching. "Thanks, Qingqing. I almost forgot again."
He pulled the small pill case from his backpack—the same plain white container he'd been given by his grandmother years ago. The suppressants inside were unremarkable, small blue tablets he'd taken every day at six PM since he was fifteen. His grandmother had been insistent about the timing, almost obsessive, though she'd never fully explained why. "Your body needs them, Fanfan," she'd said in her gentle but firm way. "Promise me you'll never forget. Never."
And he never had. Even after her death three months ago, he maintained the routine religiously. It felt like keeping a promise to her memory.
Qingqing watched him swallow the pill with a swig of water from his bottle. "You know, you've never actually told me what those are for. Are you okay? You're not sick, are you?"
"Just supplements," Yifan replied automatically, the answer he'd been giving people for years. "Grandmother insisted I take them. Something about family history of deficiencies."
It wasn't technically a lie. He didn't actually know what they were for. His grandmother had handled all his medical care, homeschooling him until high school, keeping him somewhat isolated from other children. When he'd finally been allowed to attend regular school, she'd made him promise never to skip the medication. The few times he'd asked his doctor about them, he'd been told they were perfectly safe supplements that his grandmother had specially formulated. Nothing to worry about.
"Well, as long as you're healthy," Qingqing said, though her journalistic instincts clearly sensed there was more to the story. She'd learned over the years not to push too hard. "Are you ready for Professor Wang's presentation tomorrow? I heard he's brutal on seniors."
Yifan groaned, closing the mythology book. "Don't remind me. I still need to finish my section on Phoenix symbolism in Tang Dynasty poetry. Why did I choose such an obscure topic?"
"Because you're obsessed with phoenixes," Qingqing said matter-of-factly. "Seriously, Fanfan, I've never seen anyone so fixated on one mythological creature. Your entire senior thesis is about Phoenix legends across different dynasties. Your screensaver is a phoenix. You have phoenix artwork all over our dorm room. If I didn't know better, I'd think you were one."
She laughed at her own joke, but Yifan felt a strange flutter in his chest. It was true—he'd always been drawn to Phoenix mythology with an intensity he couldn't explain. The stories called to something deep inside him, something that felt like memory rather than mere interest. Sometimes when he read the ancient texts, he could almost hear the cry of a phoenix in his mind, could almost feel the sensation of flames that didn't burn, of wings that caught the wind.
"Maybe in another life," he said lightly, trying to shake off the odd feeling.
The library's automatic lights flickered on as the evening deepened, casting harsh fluorescent illumination across the rows of books. A few other students were scattered throughout the space, most of them Betas like Qingqing. There were a couple of Alphas studying in the far corner—Yifan could tell by their build and the faint scent of dominance they carried—but they paid him no attention.
That was normal. As an Omega, Yifan had learned to keep a low profile. His suppressants kept his scent minimal, practically undetectable, which suited him fine. He'd never liked the attention that came with being an Omega, the way some Alphas looked at unmated Omegas like prizes to be won. His grandmother had taught him to be careful, to stay safe, to avoid drawing notice.
"I should get back to the dorm," Yifan said, beginning to pack his belongings. "I want to get a few more hours of work in before bed."
"You work too hard," Qingqing complained, but she helped him gather his scattered notes. "When's the last time you did something fun? Went to a party? Talked to someone who wasn't me or a dusty old professor?"
"I like dusty old professors," Yifan protested. "And I'm having fun. Research is fun."
"Research is not fun. Research is work disguised as fun. You know what's fun? That new hotpot place that opened near campus. We should go this weekend."
"Maybe," Yifan said, which they both knew meant probably not.
They walked out of the library together, Qingqing chattering about her latest investigative piece for the student newspaper while Yifan half-listened, his mind still on the Phoenix texts he'd been reading. The rain had stopped, leaving the campus paths slick and glistening under the streetlights. The autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of wet leaves and the distant smell of someone cooking dinner.
As they crossed the main quad, Yifan felt the now-familiar sensation of being watched. It had started about a week ago—just a prickling awareness at the back of his neck, a sense of eyes tracking his movement. He'd looked around several times but never saw anyone paying him particular attention. He'd convinced himself it was just paranoia, maybe stress from his upcoming thesis defense.
But tonight, the feeling was stronger. More insistent.
He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the darkened paths and shadowy spaces between buildings. Nothing. Just other students hurrying to dinner or the library, everyone focused on their own concerns.
"You okay?" Qingqing asked, noticing his distraction.
"Yeah, just tired I think."
They reached their dormitory building, a six-story structure that had seen better decades. Their room was on the fourth floor, a cramped space they'd made cozy with posters, string lights, and an alarming number of potted plants that Qingqing insisted on maintaining. Yifan's side of the room was neat and organized, his desk covered in carefully stacked books and color-coded notes. Qingqing's side looked like a tornado had hit a stationery store.
"I'm going to grab dinner from the hall," Qingqing announced, dropping her bag on her bed. "Want me to bring you something?"
"Just some rice and vegetables if they have it," Yifan said, already settling at his desk. "Thanks, Qingqing."
Alone in the room, Yifan opened his laptop and pulled up his thesis document. Twenty-thousand words so far on the evolution of Phoenix mythology in Chinese literature. His advisor kept telling him to narrow his focus, but Yifan couldn't help himself. Every dynasty, every poet, every scholar who'd written about the Phoenix felt important, necessary to his understanding.
His phone buzzed with a reminder he'd set weeks ago: "Call Grandmother." His chest tightened painfully as he dismissed it. He kept forgetting to delete these recurring reminders, and each one felt like a small knife wound. She'd died three months ago in a car accident—sudden, shocking, leaving him alone in the world. His parents had died when he was too young to remember them, and his grandmother had been his entire family.
The grief still felt raw some days.
To distract himself, Yifan turned his attention to a new document that had been uploaded to the university's research database that morning. Someone had scanned a collection of Tang Dynasty manuscripts, and one of them mentioned the Phoenix in a context he'd never seen before. He leaned closer to his screen, reading with growing fascination.
The text described the Phoenix not as a bird but as a person—specifically, an Omega of legendary power who reincarnated every thousand years. According to the manuscript, this Phoenix Omega was marked by fire that didn't burn, by eyes that turned gold, by a scent that could entrance any Alpha. The Phoenix was said to be the bridge between life and death, capable of healing and destruction in equal measure.
But the most intriguing part was the final passage: "The Phoenix chooses its mate from among the Guardian Beasts, and this choice determines the fate of the supernatural world for the next millennium. Beware the Phoenix's awakening, for it brings both salvation and war."
Yifan sat back, his heart racing for reasons he couldn't name. Supernatural world? Guardian Beasts? This sounded less like mythology and more like fantasy fiction. Yet the manuscript was authenticated, verified as genuinely from the Tang Dynasty. Scholars didn't write fiction; they recorded what they believed to be true.
He took screenshots of the relevant passages, making notes for his thesis. His advisor would probably tell him this was too speculative, too removed from mainstream academic interpretation, but Yifan couldn't ignore it. Something about the text resonated with him on a deep, almost cellular level.
His phone buzzed again—a text from a number he didn't recognize: "Stop researching. It's not safe."
Yifan frowned at the screen. Probably a wrong number or some weird spam. He deleted it and returned to his work.
But five minutes later, another text: "Shen Yifan. Stop reading about the Phoenix. They're watching."
His blood ran cold. They knew his name. This wasn't random spam.
He was about to respond when Qingqing burst back into the room, carrying a tray of food from the dining hall. "You will not believe the drama happening downstairs. Apparently, two Alphas got into a fight over—Fanfan, you're white as a sheet. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Yifan said quickly, setting his phone face-down. "Just startled me when you came in."
Qingqing looked unconvinced but set the food down on his desk. "Eat something. You look like you've seen a ghost."
Yifan forced himself to eat the rice and vegetables she'd brought, though his appetite had vanished. He kept glancing at his phone, but no more messages came. Maybe it really was just some elaborate prank. Students did that sort of thing sometimes.
Still, he found himself closing his laptop earlier than usual, claiming exhaustion. Qingqing had her headphones on, working on an article, so she just waved goodnight as Yifan climbed into bed. He lay in the darkness, listening to the sounds of the dormitory settling for the night—doors closing, water running through pipes, muffled conversations from neighboring rooms.
Sleep came slowly, and when it did, the dreams began.
He was flying. Not in a plane or on a dragon's back, but with his own wings—enormous wings of fire and gold that caught the wind and carried him higher, higher, until the earth below was a distant patchwork of green and brown. The sky around him was brilliant blue, dotted with clouds that parted at his approach. He felt powerful, free, complete in a way he'd never experienced while awake.
Below, someone was calling his name. Not "Yifan" but something else, something older. A name that felt like it belonged to him even though he'd never heard it before.
He looked down and saw a figure standing on a mountain peak—tall, imposing, with long dark hair whipping in the wind. Even from this distance, Yifan could see the ice-blue eyes that tracked his flight, could feel the pull of recognition, of belonging.
The figure raised one hand, and Yifan found himself diving toward the mountain, his wings folding as he fell, fell, fell—
He woke with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs. The dorm room was dark except for the glow of Qingqing's laptop across the room. His roommate was still working, apparently, headphones firmly in place.
Yifan's skin felt hot, almost feverish. He touched his forehead and found it damp with sweat despite the cool autumn air coming through their partially open window. That dream had felt so real—more real than any dream he'd ever had. He could still feel the phantom sensation of wings on his back, could still see those ice-blue eyes watching him.
His phone showed 3:47 AM. He should try to sleep more, but he felt restless, unsettled. Instead, he grabbed his phone and opened a browser, searching for information about dreams of flying, dreams of transformation. Nothing he found felt quite right.
On impulse, he searched for "Guardian Beasts Chinese mythology."
The results were immediate and extensive: the Four Symbols, also called the Four Guardian Beasts—Azure Dragon of the East, White Tiger of the West, Vermillion Bird of the South, Black Tortoise of the North. Protectors, symbols of power, associated with seasons and directions and elements.
But nowhere did he find mention of a Phoenix Omega who chose between them.
He was about to give up when he found a obscure academic forum where supernatural folklore was discussed. Most of the posts seemed to be from enthusiasts rather than serious scholars, but one thread caught his eye: "Phoenix Reincarnation Legends - Fact or Fiction?"
The original poster claimed their family had passed down stories for generations about a real Phoenix who reincarnated every thousand years. According to these stories, the Phoenix was always an Omega, always possessed incredible power, and always became the center of political struggle among supernatural clans. The post included scanned images of what looked like very old family documents, written in classical Chinese.
Yifan's hands trembled slightly as he read. This was insane. He didn't believe in the supernatural, in magic, in reincarnation. He was a rational person, a scholar, someone who dealt in facts and verifiable history.
But some part of him—some deep, quiet part—whispered that it was true.
He must have fallen back asleep at some point because the next thing he knew, sunlight was streaming through the window and Qingqing was shaking his shoulder. "Fanfan! Your alarm has been going off for ten minutes. We're going to be late for Professor Wang's presentation!"
Yifan bolted upright, grabbing for his phone. Sure enough, he'd slept through multiple alarms. "What time is it?"
"Eight-thirty. We have thirty minutes to get across campus."
They both scrambled to get ready, Yifan pulling on the first clean clothes he could find—dark jeans and a soft gray sweater. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like he'd slept on it wrong, and grabbed his backpack. No time for breakfast, barely time to brush his teeth.
They jogged across campus, arriving at the lecture hall with five minutes to spare. Other students were already filing in, and Yifan spotted several Alphas from his program taking seats near the front. One of them—Zhang Wei, who'd always been friendly—caught his eye and waved. Yifan waved back, sliding into a seat near the middle with Qingqing beside him.
"Made it," Qingqing panted. "Barely."
Professor Wang began his presentation promptly at nine, diving into a detailed analysis of Ming Dynasty historiography that would have fascinated Yifan on any other day. But today, he found his attention wandering. He kept thinking about the dreams, the strange texts, the anonymous messages. He kept feeling that sensation of being watched, even here in a crowded lecture hall.
Halfway through the presentation, he felt it intensify. The prickling awareness became almost painful, demanding his attention. Unable to stop himself, Yifan turned in his seat and looked toward the back of the hall.
There, standing in the doorway, was the figure from his dream.
Tall, imposing, with long dark hair pulled back in a traditional style. Ice-blue eyes that seemed to glow even in the fluorescent lighting. Wearing clothes that looked both timeless and expensive—dark robes with subtle embroidery that suggested old money and older traditions.
The man was staring directly at Yifan with an expression of such intense longing and possession that Yifan's breath caught in his throat.
Their eyes met, and the world seemed to stop. Yifan felt something shift inside him, like a key turning in a lock he hadn't known was there. Recognition flooded through him—not of having seen this man before, but of knowing him, of belonging to him, of having loved him across lifetimes.
The man's eyes widened, his lips parting slightly. He took a step forward, one hand reaching out as if to touch Yifan across the impossible distance.
Then Qingqing elbowed him in the ribs. "Stop staring at people. You're being weird."
Yifan blinked and looked away. When he looked back, the doorway was empty. The man was gone, vanished as if he'd never been there at all.
But Yifan could still feel those ice-blue eyes on him, watching him even from wherever the mysterious stranger had disappeared to.
And deep in his chest, something that had been sleeping for a very long time began to wake up.