When the Mist Breaks
830 Words
Dawn broke over the Imperial Palace with a chill that clung stubbornly to the air, as if forewarning something grim.
Inside the grand court, the Emperor’s gaze sharpened. His mind raced, trying to piece together the unsettling puzzle from the murmurs and scrolls delivered overnight. He rose from his throne, his presence so powerful it silenced the entire hall.
“What are these poems saying?” the Emperor demanded, his voice colder than the winter air.
The minister swallowed hard. “Your Majesty, the poems... they speak of death and rebirth, of a storm sweeping across the heavens, leaving only despair in its wake. The words are strange, like ancient curses.”
“A Storm Will Rise”
In the heart of Yìchūn, where the rivers cease,
The old gods waken, the earth will weep.
Xié Suì stirs, with whispers that bleed,
When the sky cracks open, the heavens shall plead.
Death walks in shadows, rebirth in the dark,
The fire of the stars now leaves its mark.
The Emperor’s crown shall fall to the ground,
When the storm calls forth the lost and the found.
Hear the wind, feel the roar,
The skies will burn—forevermore.
The Emperor’s fists clenched. The name Xié Suì ignited a flame of fury within him. This was no coincidence.
“Where did you hear these poems?” he growled, eyes flashing dangerously. “Who dares spread such blasphemy?”
The minister hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. “From the villages near Yìchūn. They say the words are whispered in fear—no one speaks openly. The storm... it draws near.”
“Where is Xueyin?” the Emperor demanded, his voice echoing like thunder.
A guard stepped forward, then froze. A chill ran down his spine as memories flooded him—memories of narrowly escaping the garden sealed by Xueyin’s intricate elemental traps. Only a handful had ever survived entering that place. the Emperor himself, his late mother, his younger sister, and Master Liang, are those who have acess to his abode in the palace
“No one else dares enter,” the guard stammered, sweat pooling at his temple. “It is a fortress of solitude…a reflection of his detachment.”
The Emperor’s eyes darkened. Without another word, he released a sharp pulse of qi — a spiritual summons.
“Your presence is required in the official court. Now.”
The message sliced through wards and barriers, reaching Xueyin, whose cultivation and focus made him almost unreachable — yet he heard.
A cold hush fell over the court. The air grew thick with dread as Xueyin entered, his robes billowing like storm clouds. His presence sucked the warmth from the room.
“What’s the problem?” he asked calmly, voice low and cutting.
The ministers dared not answer.
The Emperor exploded, “Explain what happened in the village!”
Xueyin’s gaze remained indifferent. “Yin Er... do the necessary...”
“You have no right to call me that name,” Xueyin interrupted, his voice sharper than a blade. “You lost the privilege the moment you remarried that vile woman.”
The Emperor stiffened, humiliated by the private broadcast of Xueyin’s words through spiritual qi.
Tension twisted tighter in the hall.
The Emperor repeated, “Yin Er... I hope you heard me.”
Without a word, Xueyin turned and headed for the exit, dismissing the court and his father alike.
But before disappearing, his voice rang out with cold authority:
“Xueyin! You are to go to Yìchūn Village. Bring the heads of every Xié Suì Sect member. They dared spill innocent blood and curse the throne.”
A pause.
“You know what to do.”
With that, Xueyin vanished, robes trailing shadows behind him like a storm approaching.
*********************************
Dew still clung to the forest leaves as a soft mist rose between the trees. A pale sunlight filtered through the gray skies, as if the heavens themselves were hesitant to rise.
High above the world, Xueyin soared on his sword, his sword tore through the mist—fast, silent, precise it vanished in a blur of robes and wind, the wind slicing past him. Yìchūn Village was near the Snake Tribe — perfect for gathering information on the Xié Suì Sect.
He approached the village inn, senses alert. Two cultivators prepared to fight, their hostility charging the air.
“Innkeeper,” Xueyin said sharply, “Give me the room on the left, facing the forest.”
His aura pressed down on the innkeeper, who hesitated, then handed over the key.
Xueyin’s eyes narrowed, scanning the growing conflict. The cultivators’ swords gleamed, ready to clash.
“I’m not here for your nonsense,” he warned, stepping inside.
Suddenly, a sharp scream echoed through the inn.
The fight erupted, but Xueyin’s attention snapped to the doorway, where a figure cloaked in shadow slipped inside.
A chill ran down his spine.
This was no ordinary visitor.
The storm had begun.
- Writer
