The sky above the cold northern plains was cast in hues of violet and ash, twilight sweeping over the snowy mountain range that guarded the northern edge of the Spirit Realm. A veil of clouds hung low, and the wind wept softly through frozen pine trees. Below, resting in the cradle of a narrow pass, Zhao Longxuan sat cross-legged beside a flickering fire.
His breath misted in the cold. His fingers, long and pale, rested atop the stringed body of his zither—silent for now, yet restless.
It had been weeks since he crossed into this unknown land, led only by faint dreams and distant visions. The group had scattered temporarily to investigate surrounding places. Alone now, Longxuan stared into the dark, a faint ache pressing against his heart.
"Tianzun…" he murmured. "Where did I throw you?"
As if the stars heard his sorrow, a breeze suddenly shifted. Then, faintly, so faintly he nearly dismissed it as his imagination—he heard it.
A single note. Gentle. Elusive. Carried by the wind like a thread of memory.
A flute.
His eyes flew open. That sound—he'd heard it before. Not recently. Not even in the past few years.
But it was his.
Mo Tianzun's.
The next moment, Longxuan's hands flew to the strings of his zither. He closed his eyes and began to play—not a song for war, not one of duty, but a melody from long ago, one they used to hum in passing, in quiet corners of old palaces, by moonlight after battle.
The notes soared into the empty sky, twining with the haunting flute in the distance. Harmony answered him.
The flute paused.
Then played again, more sure this time, like a question answered.
Longxuan's heart began to race.
He ran.
Abandoning the fire, the zither still clutched in his arms, he dashed through the snow-covered trail, music following him like a calling spell. His boots crunched across stone and ice. The wind howled. But the flute guided him forward.
Up a ridge.
Around a bend.
Through a forest glowing faintly from the spiritual aura buried beneath its roots.
And then—
He stopped.
His breath caught.
There, atop a tall stone at the edge of the cliff, framed by the silver-blue glow of the frozen sky, stood a lone figure. Back straight. Hair long and white, cascading behind him like silk unraveling in a storm. A gourd of wine rested at his hip, his robes pale as winter moonlight.
He didn't move.
But Longxuan saw the flute lower from his lips.
And the man turned.
Their eyes met across the cold winds.
Mo Tianzun's sharp brows twitched. For a moment, his cold expression betrayed nothing. But then—
"...Longxuan," he said, his voice raw, almost disbelieving.
Longxuan took one step forward.
Then two.
Then broke into a run.
He didn't care how foolish he looked. He didn't care if he slipped over the frost or dropped his zither into the snow. He only knew that the man he had waited two decades to hold again was standing there—alive.
Tianzun didn't move.
He stood still as Longxuan approached—until the prince collided into him.
Their arms wrapped around one another like they'd never let go again.
"Tianzun…" Longxuan whispered into his shoulder. "You—you dumb. Why didn't you call out to me sooner?"
"I didn't thinkI could," Mo Tianzun murmured. "I didn't think… I deservedto."
Longxuan pulled back just enough to grab his face, to force him to look into his eyes. "Don't you ever say that again."
Mo Tianzun's breath hitched. His pride cracked, just for a moment.
"Your hair… it's back," Longxuan said quietly, fingers brushing a strand of white from Tianzun's cheek.
"And my power," Tianzun admitted, looking away.
"And your heart?" Longxuan asked, almost afraid to say it.
Mo Tianzun's lips parted. "That… never left you."
A pause.
Then Longxuan smiled, weary and wild and full of longing. "Good."
And without another word, he leaned in and kissed him.
The wind surged. The ice crackled. And somewhere, in the depths of the island's heart, the hidden serpent stirred.
But for now, time stood still.
Two souls, separated by life and death, reunited by fate's stubborn hand—and the song of a flute played across eternity.