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1、Pavilion ...
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High above the Ninth Heaven stands the Cloudpeak Archive Pavilion—three thousand steps carved into the firmament, spiraling ever upward.
Around it, clouds coil like silk ribbons, and golden light pours like a waterfall. Palatial halls rise from jade foundations, their bells and chimes whispering through eternity.
It is one of the oldest sanctuaries in all the heavens—keeper of knowledge from the dawn of creation to the present age. Even gods tread lightly near its gates.
And today, after six hundred years of silence, those gates would open once more.
Before the pavilion stood the Heavenly Emperor, hands clasped behind his back. His robe fluttered in the divine breeze; his gaze was calm, unreadable, like a painting of mountains and rivers left unfinished. Behind him, rows upon rows of divine generals and ministers waited—solemn, reverent, or faintly uneasy—each eye fixed upon the sealed door.
Six hundred years.
For the gods, a fleeting moment.
For her—an eternity spent in solitude, against the relentless flow of time.
At the stroke of noon, a single bell resounded.
Its tone rolled across heaven and earth like thunder from the Ninth Sky. The ancient seals dissolved soundlessly; the wooden doors groaned open, releasing a breath of forgotten divinity.
And she stepped out.
Not the radiant goddess of legend, crowned in phoenix gold and blazing with celestial light.
She wore plain white robes, her face pale as frost, her beauty cold and distant—so ethereal it seemed unreal beneath the golden sun.
Her gaze swept across the assembled gods—indifferent, detached, untouched by awe or curiosity. Even when her eyes met the Heavenly Emperor’s, not a flicker of emotion crossed her face.
Without a word, she began to descend the three thousand jade steps.
Her steps were light, yet each one fell with the stillness of a mountain.
Her eyes were calm, but in that calm the gods felt themselves laid bare.
No one spoke; even the wind forgot its direction.
The Heavenly Emperor’s expression did not change. A faint smile touched his lips as he said, softly yet with authority:
“My daughter has secluded herself within the Archive Pavilion for six centuries. Today, she emerges—not for reunion or sentiment—but to fulfill her destiny, and guard the heavens in my stead.”
A murmur rippled through the ranks of gods.
Then came his next words—words that struck like thunder.
“Tomorrow at noon, she shall enter the Divine Arena—to face the greatest war god of this age, and prove the fruits of her seclusion.”
Silence shattered.
The celestial court trembled as divine whispers spread like wildfire:
“Six hundred years behind closed doors, and now she’s to face the first War God? Has she gone mad?”
“Mad—or fearless.”
“Perhaps the Emperor’s favor blinds him…”
Through it all, she said nothing.
Her eyes merely drifted toward the War God’s place—no challenge, no pride.
Just acknowledgment. A quiet marking of a target.
The Next Day
At high noon, the Divine Arena blazed under a sky split with tension.
The gods gathered by the thousands.
The War God stood at the center—golden armor gleaming, his presence towering like a mountain. This was the being who had once shattered the Thirty-Six Demon Halls with a single blow, who crushed a million rebel soldiers beneath his heel. And yet his brow was furrowed; there was no arrogance in his gaze, only solemn respect.
When she entered the arena, she was changed.
The paper-pale skin was gone—now bronzed by training and tempered by battle. The delicate frame was replaced by honed muscle and poise; she stood eye to eye with the War God himself.
She tied her hair back, looped a plain cord around her wrist, and said quietly:
“Let’s begin.”
Their eyes met.
For an instant, the world fell silent.
Then the air split—war intent surging like a storm tide.
The War God struck first. His fist roared through the air, the arena floor cracking in webs beneath the force. But she—she moved like mist, neither advancing nor retreating, each step fluid, deliberate, impossible to read.
No divine techniques.
No illusions.
Only raw power, speed, and the rhythm of combat itself.
Fist met palm, foot met earth, and heaven itself seemed to echo their blows.
Half an hour later, a dull thud broke the silence.
The War God staggered back three paces, then dropped to one knee.
She stood unmoved—hair unruffled, gaze tranquil.
“You have my thanks,” she said simply.
The War God bowed low, voice heavy but unashamed.
“I yield.”
She inclined her head, turned, and walked away.
Not a god dared to speak.
In the Months That Followed
She won every battle.
In the Arena of the Gods, none could stand against her.
Respect replaced curiosity; awe replaced doubt.
But just when all heaven believed she would become the next pillar of the divine realm, the Heavenly Emperor spoke again—during a grand celestial assembly.
“The Divine Maiden has fulfilled her seclusion and proven her might. It is time,” he said, smiling faintly, “to choose a worthy husband for her.”
The hall froze.
She did not move.
Only her gaze, dark and fathomless, turned to the Emperor—quiet, knowing, edged with a hint of scorn.
No anger. No protest.
Only that calm, disbelieving stillness—
as if she were watching a play whose ending she had already read.
The gods whispered, the air grew heavy.
Though the heavens were still, everyone knew—
a storm was rising.
And at its center, she stood alone—
unshaken, unyielding,
as if born to defy the winds themselves.
