Immortal Paladin

The night had long fallen over the Imperial Capital, draping the palace in moonlight and velvet stillness. The kind of quiet that only came when all the servants were dismissed and the world itself agreed to pause.

Xin Yune gently closed the lacquered door to the inner chamber, the soft click echoing like a whisper. Da Wei had excused himself with a grin and a respectful nod, saying something about “not wanting to interrupt the bedtime ritual of royalty.”

She knew what he meant. Knew that it was his way of giving her space. She appreciated it.

Now, it was just her and her son.

Nongmin had already curled under the thick quilt of embroidered clouds and mountain motifs. His head rested against the pillow, silver strands of his long hair splayed over the silk, his breathing steady. Still too regal, too still. But for once… just for once, he had let her lead him into bed. Like he used to.

She sat at the edge of the bed and reached for the old, worn book she had pulled from her personal shelf. The leather cover was cracked, the title faint from decades of use: The Heroic Farmer and the Snake.

“This one again?” she asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from his cheek.

He didn’t open his eyes. “It’s the most mathematically inconsistent.”

And it was the story she’d read most to him.

She chuckled. “Is that so?”

Opening the book, her voice took on the same gentle rhythm she had used centuries ago, back when his hair was shorter and his legs dangled off the bed.

“Once, there was a farmer, brave and plain. He lived with his daughter near the edge of the Whispering Forest. One day, a venomous snake bit the daughter while she picked herbs. The farmer had no medicine, no power, and no hope.”

Nongmin opened one eye. “Why would they live by the forest if it was known for snakes?”

It was strange, hearing him ask such a question for the first time… when normally, he always have an answer.

“Shh. He’s a farmer, not a strategist,” she said with a teasing smile.

He closed his eye again.

She continued reading, her voice threading through the room like warm wind:

“But the farmer did not despair. He went into the forest, found the snake, and captured it alive. Instead of killing it, he struck a deal—he offered food and warmth if the snake spared his child. The snake, surprised by mercy, wept. It produced from its fangs a single drop of crystal venom—the antidote. The girl was saved.”

She glanced down. Nongmin’s breathing hadn’t changed, but his lips were faintly parted, and his hands, so often poised in mudras or commanding gestures, were now just hands, resting still beneath the covers.

Nongmin no longer had use for sleep, given his cultivation… but there was no stopping him from falling into one anyway…

This was the closest she’d ever get him back. Not the Emperor. Not the Divine Sovereign. Not the wielder of the Heavenly Eye. But her child. Her little boy.

A soft smile tugged at her lips, unbidden and gentle.

“The farmer and the snake became friends,” she finished, “and from then on, no beast in the forest ever harmed another soul. Not because of fear, but because of gratitude.”

She closed the book quietly and set it aside.

“You always hated that ending,” she murmured.

“…It’s not realistic,” came Nongmin’s half-mumbled voice, barely audible. “Snakes don’t… cry.”

“I know,” she whispered, brushing his forehead with her hand. “But maybe some do.”

There was no answer after that. Only silence.

She stayed there a while longer, watching him. Not because she thought he’d disappear. But because she wanted to remember this, truly remember this.

If this were a reenactment of the past, then so be it. It wasn’t perfect. But it was enough.

Enough for a mother who had spent lifetimes waiting for this one simple moment:

To tuck in her son.

To tell him a bedtime story.

And to know, even just briefly, that he listened.

Nongmin lay there with his eyes closed, his breath deep and regular, but Xin Yune knew better. He had likely forced himself into sleep using cultivation, an unnatural quiet meant to simulate something peaceful. But even that choice was telling. He wanted her to believe he could still sleep beside her. Like before.

She didn’t disturb him.

Quietly, she rose from the bedside and walked toward the door. Every step felt heavier than the last.

Her fingers wrapped around the cold brass handle.

She didn’t need to test her pulse or sense her own life force. She knew. She had always known. Her time was close. She could already feel herself beginning to drift, like embers that refused to catch flame no matter how much breath was blown into them.

She was ready. Or at least, she thought she was.

And then…

A gentle tug.

The sensation was faint at first, barely noticeable. But it stopped her dead in her tracks.

Her eyes shifted to her sleeve. A hand. His hand.

She turned slowly.

Nongmin was no longer asleep. His eyes, open and uncertain, stared at her with something rawer than calculation. Vulnerable. Trembling.

”…I don’t want to see you go,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper.

Her heart twisted. There was no grandeur in those words. No imperial edge or philosophical acceptance. Just a simple, childlike truth.

”But I have to go,” Xin Yune answered gently. She turned her full body toward him, her face soft, even if her soul weighed heavy.

His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t let go either. He searched her face as if some different answer might be written there, hidden in the wrinkles that had come from time, not technique.

”You’re not coming back,” he said.

”No,” she replied, the word firm but quiet. “I’m not.”

The silence between them grew like vines, reaching, curling, unsure whether to strangle or protect.

Nongmin looked away for a heartbeat. She could see him wrestling with something.

Then he looked back, and with a tremor in his voice, he said, “I want to be there… even if you go… forever… I want to be there.”

Xin Yune felt something splinter inside her.

There it was again. That small spark of her son she thought she had lost forever. Not the one who commanded armies or read the timelines of endless possibilities, but the boy who once cried when she was gone too long buying food in the market or just roaming around. The boy who stayed awake until she came home from healing others, just to know she was still alive.

That boy was still here.

Her hand reached out and touched his cheek, her fingers trembling slightly. She smiled, small and pained, but deeply grateful.

“You’ll be there,” she said. “And knowing that… it heals me more than any technique ever could.”

She didn’t need the Heavenly Eye to know this was the truth.

Her son wouldn’t try to stop her. He wouldn’t beg, or bargain, or twist fate to trap her here.

He would just be there.

And that, in the end, was all she had ever needed.

Xin Yune stood in the quiet stillness of the room, her son’s hand still gently wrapped around her sleeve, his eyes reflecting flickers of things she could never quite read. Her heart was heavy, but not with dread anymore, just with time. Time that had run its course.

Then, an idea sparked within her like a sudden gust of spring wind through old leaves.

She snapped her fingers. “I have an idea,” she declared, with that same mischievous glint she used to have when Nongmin was still small enough to carry on her back.

Nongmin’s head jerked up instantly. ”Da Wei…” she began.

But her son was already moving. Before she could say another word, he darted forward and clasped her wrist with urgency, almost desperation.

His gaze sharpened, not with anger, but understanding. As if he had already seen it.

“He already knows what I’m thinking,” Xin Yune realized, heart warm with bittersweet amusement.

Without a word, they flew.

They took to the skies like streaks of wind-touched silk, moving above the roofs of the Imperial Capital. The city was hushed at this hour, the lanterns dimmed to gentle glows, and the stars bloomed bright above.

They found him not long after.

Da Wei sat alone on a rooftop, legs crossed, back straight, eyes tilted up toward the heavens. He was staring at the stars, one hand resting atop his knee while the other nursed a skewer of half-eaten roasted mushrooms.

He didn’t startle when they arrived. Instead, he tilted his head lazily toward them.

“What’s the occasion for the imperial mother and son to grace me with their presence?” he asked with a smirk.

Xin Yune stepped forward, her voice soft but certain. “I have a request.”

Da Wei gave a mock bow, still seated. “Then I shall oblige. What is it?”

Xin Yune turned to look at her son, who now stood at her side again, cloak fluttering gently in the night wind.

“Can you paint us?” she asked.

There was a pause.

Then Nongmin added with an unusual lightness to his tone, “Let’s go to the courtyard. I’ll fetch the canvas, easel, brushes, and paint.”

Da Wei blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Nongmin replied.

The three of them descended to the courtyard shortly after. Nongmin vanished for a moment and returned just as swiftly, arms loaded with a lacquered wooden easel, a folded canvas, a case of thick-haired brushes, and ceramic jars filled with rich pigment.

As the easel was set up under the open sky, and the canvas stretched across its frame, Xin Yune took a deep breath.

This was a moment carved out of reality.

A painting not of power, not of immortality.

Just of a mother. And her son.

The canvas was enormous.. It was taller than any man and wider than a banquet hall door, its pristine surface fluttering slightly in the courtyard’s early spring breeze.

Da Wei stood before it in silence. He stared at the sheer size of what he’d agreed to paint, lips parting slightly as though to question his own life choices.

“…This thing is taller than a carriage,” he muttered. “I can’t believe a small-looking easel could hold this much weight.”

But then he gave a small shrug, rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and got to work.

Xin Yune couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t the size of the canvas that amused her… it was him.

Da Wei darted back and forth in front of the painting like a man possessed, each step exaggerated, each retreat a long stride as though the ten paces back gave him mystical insight. He leaned in to dab a bit of color on one edge, then practically dashed back across the yard to squint, tilt his head, and nod like a scholar contemplating divine scripture.

“You know,” she said, smiling, “with your cultivation, I’m fairly certain you don’t need to move like that just to paint.”

Da Wei, brush in mouth, shot her a mock glare. “Art… requires drama.”

“You’re such a child,” she teased.

“Flattery,” he mumbled through the brush as he peeked back and forth from behind the canvas.

As for Nongmin, he stood at her side under the broad leaves of the bodhi tree, silent but attentive. His hand rested gently in hers, small fingers curling around hers with a grip that tried to hide its nervousness.

He wasn’t trying to act like the Grand Emperor. Not tonight.

He was simply her son.

She told him a few jokes to fill the time. Some of them were old and corny, ones she’d told him when he was no older than five. Others were more biting, teasing the way he always sat too straight or how he once tried to fight a goose and lost.

To her surprise, he laughed.

Not a lot. Not loudly.

But it was real.

And as Da Wei painted, brushing in the shadows of leaves above them, dabbing amber light into the corner where the lanterns hung, lining the gentle slope of their shoulders together, Xin Yune felt something long buried in her heart rise to the surface.

Not regret.

Not sadness.

But peace.

She leaned gently into her son. Nongmin shifted just slightly to lean back.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Under the bodhi tree, with Da Wei’s hurried brushwork dancing like fireflies across the canvas, a quiet moment was etched, not just into paint, but into memory.

The brush whispered across the canvas, a soft, wet rhythm beneath the rustling of the courtyard’s leaves. Lantern light glowed amber and gold, casting soft halos around Da Wei’s flitting silhouette. He was painting furiously now, strokes quick but deliberate, his brow furrowed as if chasing a fleeting dream he could only capture with each sweep of color.

Xin Yune stood beneath the bodhi tree, her hand still clasped in Nongmin’s. His palm was warm, but the quiet pressure of his grip betrayed an inner tremble. She glanced sideways at her son, whose expression betrayed little. The mask of the Emperor still lingered, even now.

And then, a voice entered her mind. Clear, solemn, and spoken in the ethereal tones of Qi Speech… that rare, intimate language of soul to soul.

”Theoretically,” Da Wei said as he painted, ”I can ensure you live just a bit longer, you know? The spell I used, Divine Word: Life, it could maintain your existence, as long as I cast it… every day.”

Xin Yune didn’t look away from the tree’s leaves above. She watched the way the branches swayed and let the silence stretch before responding in kind.

”No need, Da Wei.” Her tone was gentle but firm, like a mother refusing a child’s last-minute plea. ”I’m tired. I just want to have fun… and go happy. Don’t give me false hope.”

From his place before the canvas, Da Wei’s brush halted mid-stroke. He didn’t face her, but his reply came sharp and quietly frustrated.

”That’s a bit selfish, no? And how do you know the hope’s false… when you haven’t even tried?”

Xin Yune closed her eyes briefly and exhaled.

”Thing is…” she responded slowly, ”I can be selfish. It’s called free will.” She gave a faint chuckle, not bitter but worn. ”And if your methods really worked, my son would’ve tried them already. Told me otherwise. Begged you to do it, regardless of what I think. There would be tears and then drama. Then surprise, I get to live after all. But. Truth is. That was never I the cards for me. I am done.”

A pause. The wind caught the canvas and fluttered its edge like a turning page.

She continued, softly now. ”Knowing Nongmin… If your idea had even a sliver of a chance, he would’ve seen it already. The same way you summoned him in that abandoned warehouse,  you probably asked him to look into the future. Asked him if your spells would work. In fear of ruining the rather nice mood right now, you decided to conspire with my little Nongmin as you tried to make a desperate bid to see a way out. But guess what, it’s a dead end.”

She didn’t need confirmation.

Unlike her son, Xin Yune had always possessed imagination, an abundance of it. Her years as a healer, a mother, a woman who survived wars and betrayals, had not dulled that creative spark. Even without the Heavenly Eye, she could see the hidden shape of things.

And right now, the shape of truth stood quietly in the hand she held.

Suddenly, she felt a tug at her sleeve.

She turned and looked down.

Nongmin was crying.

His face hadn’t contorted into a sob. He didn’t wail or shake. But his eyes, those golden, calculating, ancient eyes, now shimmered wetly, tears sliding down his cheeks like raindrops over stone.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“…What is it?” Xin Yune asked, softly, though she already knew.

When their eyes met, the mask of the Emperor fell away completely.

He was just a boy.

Her boy.

“I’m sorry,” he said so quietly it wasn’t clear if he spoke it aloud or with his heart. “I… don’t want to see you go.”

She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him without hesitation, pressing his head gently against her shoulder.

“I know,” she whispered. “And I’m sorry too.”

Behind them, Da Wei said nothing. He only painted, his strokes slower now, more careful, as though he knew the image before him would never come again.

“Done,” Da Wei said, his voice quieter than usual.

He stepped away from the massive canvas, his hands stained in streaks of crimson and gold, flecks of azure and green dried at the edges of his sleeves. With careful strength, he grasped the easel and dragged it in a wide arc, rotating it in place until the painting faced them.

Xin Yune stared.

It took her a moment to breathe.

The painting was towering, easily twice Da Wei’s height, and vibrant, like something born of a dream. Beneath the old bodhi tree, lit by warm lantern glow, she stood beside Nongmin, hand in hand. The details were stunning. The way her head tilted slightly, the gentle laugh caught in the lines of her smile. The calm tension in her son’s shoulders, as if unsure how to act, yet willing to try for her sake.

There were stories woven in the background too. A basket of tanghulu skewers rested at her feet. A few stray petals drifted down from the tree’s crown, glowing with a faint, silvery shimmer. Even the bark of the bodhi tree was textured with dozens of carvings: names, hearts, and phrases long faded, etched faintly into the wood. Life, memory, and love—pressed into canvas.

Xin Yune smiled, bittersweet.

“Thank you, Wei,” she said, her voice steady despite the crack in her chest.

Da Wei opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, he looked at her with something unreadable in his eyes. That of half admiration and half grief.

Xin Yune turned to him, her expression gentle. “In life,” she said, “there are just… people and things you can only let go.”

Da Wei grimaced. “Doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

“No,” she agreed, her voice softer than the wind. “But sometimes… letting go is the only way forward.”

And then she felt it… a sudden weight against her back, a thud of small arms clumsily wrapping around her waist. Her heart clenched.

“Mom…” Nongmin’s voice broke. “Mom…”

She turned, only to see her son crying again, this time no longer hiding it behind imperial stoicism. His grip around her tightened, desperate, trembling.

And then she saw it.

Her left arm, glimmering.

Tiny silver motes of light were unraveling from her skin, drifting up like fireflies to the sky.

It had begun.

“Oh…” she whispered.

Still, she smiled.

With her right arm, the one that remained, she cradled her son close, tucking his head against her shoulder just as she had when he was small.

“My little Emperor,” she said, voice warm and full of pride, “you’ve made your mother so proud. And so very happy.”

Her light was spreading now, up her shoulder, along her collarbone.

“But more than that…” she whispered into his hair, “I want you to be happy too. Let this be my dying will, my little Emperor…”

She kissed the top of his head.

“...find a happy ending for you as well.”

Her body shimmered, light blooming across her form in slow, rhythmic pulses. Her breath, steady and calm, faded with the last syllable.

And then, gently, softly, Xin Yune dispersed into the wind.

Silver lotus petals scattered where she once stood—weightless, delicate, rising into the air like stars returning to the heavens.

Nongmin fell to his knees, arms wrapped around the emptiness she left behind, the scent of her warmth still clinging to the space.

Da Wei stood still beside them, the painting behind him a living echo of what once was.

And above, beneath the quiet sway of the bodhi tree, the petals of the final lotus danced with grace—her last goodbye.