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2、A blind date ...
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At the very edge of the Ninth Heaven, suspended at the heart of the cosmos, stands the Celestial Palace—known throughout creation as the First Palace of All Realms.
Since the day she emerged from seclusion, she has lived here, alongside the reigning God of Heaven. Built for every sovereign who has ever ruled the divine realms, the palace is forged entirely from Han-gold and white jade, gleaming from afar like a mountain of frozen sunlight—dazzling, sacred, unreachable. Clouds coil around its golden spires, and before its gates, all beings bow. Even the gods lower their heads.
The palace grounds are woven with emerald grass and blooming spirit flowers. The grass looks ordinary, yet breathes the rhythm of heaven; the flowers seem common, yet each petal bears the secret patterns of divine law. When the wind passes, even one’s breath feels in harmony with the cosmos—each step hums with resonance, each inch conceals a mystery.
Most curious of all is the small vegetable garden tucked neatly behind the palace. Legend says that every God of Heaven since the first has tended this garden personally—cultivating vegetables, nurturing peace of mind, preserving a faint trace of mortal warmth amidst divine austerity.
Of course, no one would call it “a vegetable patch.” Not unless they had a death wish.
Inside, however, the palace could not feel more different. Not poor, no—but stark. White jade floors, cold wood seats, not a cushion in sight. The walls are bare, the furniture hard as divine law itself, the air heavy with a single message: “Purity of mind. Rejection of pleasure.”
The worst offender is the God’s bedchamber.
Not a trace of ornamentation—only a single bed, carved from the bones of an ancient dragon, standing alone in the center of the room. No silk sheets, no quilt, only a gossamer veil of cloth, thin as breath. At night, the wind from the starry heavens cuts through like ice, branding the phrase sleepless by divine decree into one’s very bones.
This was not for lack of luxury. It was doctrine.
For in heaven, comfort is sin.
The creed is simple: You are a god. You have no right to ease.
Heaven—so often hailed as the realm of ultimate bliss—was, to her, nothing more than a gilded cage.
Vast. Resplendent. Empty. Cold.
And with no exit.
The Celestial Bureau’s official line went: “Heaven lies at the heart of the universe, source of all creation, axis of worlds, anchor of order.”
But to her eye, it looked more like a converted starship—a monastic prison drifting through the void. All realms may orbit around it, but should this center ever collapse, the whole universe would fold in on itself.
One grand, cosmic implosion.
So when the night wind swept across the stars, she stood at her window, watching galaxies cascade like jeweled curtains—unmoved. What others saw as divine beauty, she saw for what it was: a ceiling. A luminous, unbreakable ceiling to her cell.
The Next Morning
A divine edict arrived.
She was summoned to the Sea of Clouds—to “meet” a certain god.
The official term was “exchange.”
The truth? A blind date, dressed up in ceremonial robes.
Before leaving, she planned to wear something plain and inconspicuous. But the moment she stepped out, she found the current God of Heaven waiting by the doorway—smiling gently, voice soft, words deadly:
“Dress formally. Do not shame the court.”
She paused.
“…,” she said, which was all she cared to say.
Worse still, the edict had been broadcast system-wide.
Every angel, every deity, every celestial gossip-monger now knew: she was going on a date.
So she dressed as commanded: formal robes of radiant silk, platinum hair coiled high, expression colder than moonlight. Her steps cut the air like blades, and even angels made way when she passed. She looked less like a goddess preparing for courtship, and more like a general en route to deliver an execution.
The Sea of Clouds shimmered with divine light.
Mist curled like silk. Angels sang. The entire scene looked like the opening shot of a big-budget fantasy drama—ethereal, luminous, suspiciously staged.
And waiting at the far end stood her “partner” for the day—the Sun God.
Golden-haired, sea-eyed, radiant in every sense of the word. He practically glowed, like sunlight with a human face. Smiling, he stepped forward, voice warm and practiced:
“A beautiful day, isn’t it?”
She gave him a single glance, a minimal nod. Her lips didn’t even twitch.
The Sun God cleared his throat, pressing on gamely:
“I hear you prefer quiet places. In my domain, the Sixth Realm, there’s a forest of cherry blossoms. If you’d like, I could have the angels plant one for you here in heaven.”
Her voice was soft, frost-edged:
“Unnecessary.”
The Sun God froze mid-smile. It was like watching a solar eclipse in real time.
The next two hours were, by all accounts, the longest of his immortal life.
He tried three new topics. Changed his tone four times.
Every attempt met the same icy replies:
“Mm.”
“Yes.”
“Could we not talk?”
When the divine hour struck, ending the meeting, he all but fled—excusing himself with the haste of a man escaping divine punishment.
She remained standing in the drifting clouds, still and composed, watching his retreating figure without so much as a blink.
And yet—somewhere in that mist—a faint shimmer of light flickered, glancing off her eyes.
A glint of something unspoken.
A thread of fate, quietly beginning to unravel.
