Immortal Paladin

229 Weight of Words

[POV: Liu Yana]

The Promised Dunes were a kingdom of gold and desire. Beneath the endless horizon of glittering sand, wind-carved palaces shimmered like desert mirages. Silks draped from towers, and the scent of incense mixed with crushed lotus petals followed every breeze. It was a land where beauty bloomed like wildflowers on dunes, and above it all reigned the Radiant Queen, Liu Yana.

Yet even in paradise, echoes of blood lingered.

In her dreams, they came again.

Hundreds of cultivators, men and women of immense power, stood tall across the Summit Hall. Suspended above their heads was a strange mark: a reversed red cross, faint but pulsing like a curse. For a breath, the scene was still, and then light rained down in thin, merciless rays. No one screamed. No one ran. They simply burst, one by one, into crimson mist. Flesh, soul, and pride were all annihilated in silent hysteria. The vision reset, then repeated, as if the heavens themselves could not comprehend the finality of it. Again, the red crosses. Again, the light. Again, the mist.

And then, abruptly, it stopped.

The blood vanished. The sky calmed. At the center of a grand hall carved from precious stone, Da Wei stood before the survivors. He wasn’t dressed in regalia, nor did his posture carry arrogance. There was no crown, no halo, and no glow of victory. There was only a tired man speaking from a place of aching conviction.

“Let’s end this long cycle of suffering… and become better people together, my fellow Daoists,” he said, his voice calm yet resonant. “We’ve inherited grudges older than our names, fought wars we no longer understand, and sacrificed too many good souls on the altar of pride and power.”

Liu Yana could hear him again, though she knew this was but a dream.

“I’m not asking you to forget your pain. I’m asking you to stop passing it forward. Cultivation isn’t meant to divide us. It’s meant to refine us, to take the weight of our sins and burn them clean in the fire of discipline and understanding.”

His words struck harder than any technique. She remembered how her breath had caught in her throat when he continued, “If your path has led you to hatred, then your foundation is cracked. If your strength comes from making others kneel, then you’ve already lost the heavens.”

The silence had been absolute, broken only when Da Wei raised his hand. A radiant light surged outward, and before them, an elderly woman of the Heavenly Temple was resurrected back to life with a mere wave of a hand.

Liu Yana awoke with a start, her chest heaving, her back slick with sweat. The silk sheets clung to her skin, warm and suffocating. Her golden bed, layered with orange curtains that glowed faintly in the dark, felt more like a prison than a sanctuary. The scent of lotus lingered, too sweet now, cloying in her nostrils.

Around her, half-covered in translucent veils, slept women of unparalleled beauty. Some curled toward her for warmth; others lay sprawled with arms like vines across the pillows. Their bodies were soft and their breathing was just as gentle, but Liu Yana felt no peace. She had not touched any of them in days.

“We repent, Holy One,” she whispered, not knowing why. The words had been echoing within her ever since that day. They came to her unbidden, like a prayer from a soul that didn’t believe.

One of the concubines stirred, her voice laced with concern. “Your Majesty, is there a problem?”

Liu Yana closed her eyes, then opened them slowly, the orange curtain casting wavering shadows across her face. “There’s no problem at all,” she murmured. “Sleep… There’s no need to wake the others.”

She floated soundlessly out of the curtain’s embrace. With a thought, her robes slipped from her pocket dimension and wrapped around her figure. Fabric of solar silk, woven in mystic threads, shimmered against her dusky brown skin, concealing her form but not the unease.

She walked to her balcony. Outside, the dunes glistened under the moonlight. The stars above were unusually clear, untouched by clouds or illusion. She placed her hands on the balcony rail, her eyes distant.

The memory of Da Wei’s speech returned once more, uninvited yet persistent.

Sundering of the Summit, they called it now.

“We repent, Holy One,” she said again, louder this time, letting the wind carry her voice.

Since that day, her cultivation had changed. Before, her path had been one of compensation. She lacked innate talent, so she compensated with elixirs, ancient scrolls, and experimental arts. Among them, her most potent tool had been dual cultivation. She specialized in it, not just as a pleasure, but as a means of survival. A woman pairing with women was seen by many as perverse, unnatural even, but she had long stopped caring. A ruler did what she must to preserve her reign.

But lately, something had shifted. Her body responded better to meditation. Her qi flowed cleaner. Her soul felt... lighter. And it terrified her.

Because for the first time in decades, she found herself reluctant to reach for another’s skin. Not out of shame or exhaustion, but because she feared disrupting the fragile stillness within her.

“Da Wei…” she whispered, the name tasting unfamiliar on her tongue. “It makes me wonder how is it possible for one to possess such pure unfiltered thinking… I envy him…”

Liu Yana sat alone in her study, bathed in the soft orange glow of glass lanterns strung along carved alcoves. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood, and the silence carried a dignified tension. Her brush moved slowly over fine parchment, ink flowing in elegant, deliberate strokes. Tonight, she did not pen decrees, war plans, or diplomatic letters. These scrolls were for herself alone.

She paused to dip her brush again, the quill whispering across the inkstone. Then she continued:

“He is called the Unholy Taint. That is how the world remembers him. Yet on that day, when the sky was red with judgment and the Summit Hall still rang with cries, I saw something different. I saw a man who refused to flinch, even while soaked in the blood of heroes and villains alike. He stood firm, not in arrogance, but in burden. He carried more than power… he carried meaning.

“Da Wei’s words were not cloaked in philosophy. They were raw, vulgar truths no sect dares to speak aloud: that our inheritance is rot, our pride is poison, and our strength too often serves cruelty. When he said, “If your strength comes from making others kneel, then you’ve already lost the heavens,” I felt the marrow in my bones shift. That was no heresy. That was an exorcism of everything I had once thought sacred.

“He is not unholy. He is not a taint. He is a mirror, and most cannot bear to look.”

Before she could write another word, a soft knock interrupted her thoughts. She didn’t flinch and only turned her head slightly and spoke with practiced calm. “Come in.”

The door opened and Han Lun stepped through. His jaw was tight, and his brow shadowed with restrained concern.

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“You look nervous, Captain,” Liu Yana said without rising. “Is there a problem?”

Han Lun shut the door gently behind him, then bowed with stiff precision. “We must make our positions clear, Your Majesty. This can’t go on.”

She set down her brush, her gaze level and unreadable. “The Grand Ascension Empire, is it?”

Han Lun nodded once. “The Empire’s fall is inevitable. We must cut ties with them now, before the storm breaks over us.”

Liu Yana leaned back against the lacquered chair, her fingers folding over one another. “If we wish to save ourselves, we won’t do it by abandoning a friend.”

“They are not a friend!” Han Lun’s voice sharpened, then faltered as he quickly bowed his head again. “Forgive me, my queen, but they are a political ally at best. And even that is cutting it close.”

She did not reply right away. Her eyes wandered back to the scrolls still unrolled across the table. She had written so many these past months from reflections, insights, and revelations. Half of them were transcriptions of strange cultivation phenomena she had begun to experience since hearing Da Wei speak. The other half were… prayers in disguise.

Han Lun followed her gaze and gestured to the scrolls. “Your Majesty, I understand your faith in him. But Da Wei’s presence here had been part of the Empire’s deal, nothing more. Engineering for pharmaceuticals. Practical minds striking practical bargains. But your worship of him is turning the court’s stomach.”

Liu Yana narrowed her eyes. “How dare a subject question her queen?”

Han Lun dropped to one knee, both hands pressed to the floor. “I do not question your rule, only your path. Forgive me, but we can’t survive the aftermath if we continue to associate ourselves with the Empire. The sanctions imposed by the Heavenly Temple, the Martial Alliance, and the Union grow heavier by the week. Trade is thinning. Trust is vanishing. Our fleets are inspected, our messengers delayed, and even our cultivators are being turned away at sacred sites.”

She sighed, the sound drawn from somewhere deep, where duty clashed with loyalty. The Promised Dunes had always walked the fine edge between pride and pragmatism. Her alliance with the Empire had been useful, but cold. Da Wei’s entrance into her lands was negotiated, weighed, and signed in golden ink. There had been no emotion in it, until he opened his mouth and shattered her understanding of righteousness.

Still, she knew what had to be done.

“Fine,” she said at last, voice low. “Call for a scribe. We will draft our official stance regarding the Grand Ascension Empire.”

Just as her scribe was summoned and the ink had barely dried on the declaration severing ties with the Grand Ascension Empire, Liu Yana’s breath caught. The air shifted not with wind or temperature, but with qi itself. It was no longer flowing. Instead, it was pulled taut like the final thread of a fraying tapestry.

She whispered without thinking, “Did you feel that?”

Han Lun, who stood to her right, tensed at once. “What is it, Your Majesty?”

But she didn’t answer. Words would not suffice. Her instincts urged her feet into motion. She stepped out of the study, her long robes brushing the marble as she walked quickly down the corridor, past the still-burning lamps and flickering shadows. Han Lun followed at once, silent but alert, hand resting on the hilt of his curved blade.

By the time they reached the courtyard, both had stopped speaking entirely.

The stars were gone.

Not dimmed. Not hidden behind haze. Just… gone.

And with them, the moon.

The sky above was a vast sheet of ink, a black so complete it felt like standing beneath a tombstone. The only light came from the trembling torches posted along the edges of the courtyard, their flames dancing too fast, as if panicking.

Han Lun looked up, wide-eyed. “What in heavens’ name is happening…?”

Dark clouds could steal the stars, yes, but not the moon. Not entirely. And yet it was nowhere to be seen. No crescent. No outline. No glow. Only emptiness.

Liu Yana stood frozen for a moment, then turned. “To the throne room.”

Within minutes, the inner court officials had gathered, sleep still on their breath and confusion lining their faces. They whispered, then argued, their voices rising in pitch with every unanswered question. Liu Yana sat upon her throne, upright and composed, but her thoughts churned beneath the stillness. She heard their words, but none brought clarity.

“It’s just a passing storm. An unnatural one, perhaps, but not unprecedented…”

“No! This is the heavens warning us, because we delayed our allegiance. The Empire is collapsing and the Promised Dunes did nothing!”

“Utter superstition. The skies darken often during solar cycles. It could be volcanic soot from the east.”

“Our falcons are behaving erratically,” one reported. “Four caretakers were injured tonight. One bird flew itself into a wall until its beak shattered.”

“You’re all overreacting! Nothing has happened yet!”

Han Lun’s voice boomed through the chaos, cutting through panic like a blade. “ENOUGH! YOU ARE IN THE PRESENCE OF HER RADIANT MAJESTY. KNOW THAT RAISING YOUR VOICES SO USELESSLY WILL NOT SOLVE ANYTHING!”

The court fell into silence. But the dread remained, thick in the air. No one dared sit. No one moved.

Then, a screech from above.

A falcon dove through the open balcony window and a rider dropped off its back in midair. The young Falconeer stumbled, caught his footing, and sprinted toward the dais, saluting Han Lun before kneeling.

“Report,” Han Lun ordered, his voice still sharp.

The Falconeer stammered. “U-uh… Sir… I was sent to inform the northern military outpost as ordered. But I was turned away.”

Han Lun furrowed his brow. “Turned away? We’ve rehearsed emergency protocols repeatedly. When there is a state of emergency—”

“There is no time to bicker, Falconeer Han,” Liu Yana cut in, rising slightly from her throne. Her voice was calm, but every word carried steel. “Scold the soldier after he explains himself. Speak, Falconeer.”

The young man swallowed. “Yes, Your Majesty. My hawk tried to fly north, but… somehow, we found ourselves back here. I thought at first my falcon had lost its sense of direction, the sky’s blindness might’ve confused it. But that wasn’t the case. I trust my hawk. She’s smart.”

He looked around nervously before continuing.

“So I tested again. And again. I realized… it wasn’t a mistake. I cannot leave the boundaries of the city. Any attempt to fly out results in a loop. We’re… trapped.”

The court erupted.

“This is sorcery!”

“Who would dare lay a seal on an entire city?!”

“It’s the Empire… no, the Union… no, it’s divine punishment!”

“Is this what Da Wei brought us?! This curse?!”

“Enough!” Liu Yana shouted, her voice less loud than Han Lun’s but more final. The hall stilled again.

And then… There followed a scream.

One of the ministers, a plump man draped in seven chains of office, clutched his throat and collapsed. His skin disintegrated before their eyes, sloughing off like dried petals in the wind. A gust swept through the hall and blew his ashes away. Only his skeleton remained, kneeling where he had stood.

Another official convulsed, then crumbled.

A third tried to flee but dissolved mid-step.

Panic gripped the room like a vice. Chairs overturned. Scrolls spilled. Some tried to run. Others simply fell to their knees and began chanting prayers.

Han Lun drew his blade. “My Queen, we must flee at once—”

But Liu Yana never heard the rest.

She looked down at her hand.

The skin had begun to turn gray, then powdery. It flaked, cracked, and fell away, exposing the bleached bone beneath. Her fingers were no longer fingers. Instead, they became claws of death, beautiful and cold.

She exhaled softly, the weight of fate pressing down on her like sand in an hourglass.

“Ah… such a terrible fate,” she whispered.

And then, she too, began to fall apart.

Liu Yana had often wondered what came after the end.

When her duties were light and the night winds quiet, she would sit atop her palace tower and gaze at the moonlit dunes, wondering where the soul went once flesh had crumbled. The ancient doctrines spoke of the Six Paths, of the soul being weighed by karma, cast into a new form with its balance of sin and virtue. She didn’t fear punishment, not truly. She feared regret. The kind that followed a soul across lifetimes like a shadow it could never outfly.

In moments of quiet despair, when duty stifled her and the court's flattery rang hollow, she sometimes whispered a childish wish to the night sky.

“I wish… I am a bird in my next life…”

Not a phoenix. Too regal. Not a swan. Too delicate.

Just a bird. Free to soar, to disappear into the clouds without a name or nation. The bliss of ignorance. The joy of unburdened flight.

“I don’t think just any bird would suit you…” came a voice, sudden and amused, soft as laughter carried on the wind. “I think a falcon is perfect…”

The words struck like a pebble skipping across a still lake. She blinked.

And then, her breath returned.

The light above her was golden, not torchlight, but sunlight streaming through the high glass panels of the throne room. She felt the cool of the marble beneath her palms, the scent of incense and fresh oils, the murmuring voices of her ministers. She blinked again, breath shallow. They were stirring. Some were still groggy, rubbing their eyes, others gasping softly in confusion.

She sat up, her fingers trembling. It was no longer bone or ash. It was flesh.

And in front of her stood a… man.

He wasn’t armored or glowing with celestial light. He didn’t stride like a conqueror or kneel like a supplicant. He simply stood there, wearing emerald robes embroidered with wave patterns, dark hair tousled, and a mischievous smile curling at the corners of his mouth. His eyes, sharp yet kind, bore into hers like they had known her for lifetimes.

It wasn’t the first time she had seen him. It was just the first time she’d seen him with the clarity of one who had already died.

“Da Wei…” she whispered, unsure of herself. “Do my eyes deceive me?”

He stepped forward, expression softening. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Your Radiant Majesty.”