Immortal Paladin

The past few days had been fun in a way I had almost forgotten was possible. The silver lining to Nongmin and Zai Ai taking their sweet time building the transportation vessel was that I could afford to linger a little longer in New Willow. I had urged them to work as quickly as possible, of course, but I could not demand haste when what we needed was something capable of crossing unknown expanses of the Greater Universe. A rushed vessel would only get us killed faster. So patience, for once, had been forced upon me.

Because of that delay, I visited my parents. They had noticeably aged, fine lines deepening around their eyes, movements slower than I remembered. My younger brother remained painfully ordinary, and I found a strange comfort in that. His normalcy grounded me in a way cultivation and divinity never could. My nephews and nieces swarmed me the moment I arrived, tugging at my sleeves, demanding stories about heroes, monsters, and shining swords. Being surrounded by family made me feel less like an immortal paladin and more like an older cousin who happened to exaggerate his adventures. The children, especially, had a way of stripping away the myth. They did not care about my Divine Spark or my Empire. They just wanted cool stories and dramatic sound effects.

I spent nearly a month like that, drifting between family dinners, training sessions with curious teenagers, and awkward attempts at pretending I did not command an empire. It was almost peaceful.

Then an unexpected face found me.

Karen appeared in her player avatar, hands on her hips, scowling so fiercely I almost felt the heat through the screen of reality. She did not bother with pleasantries. “Why weren’t you replying to my e-mails? I’m going crazy. My boss suddenly disappeared on me. Do you think that makes sense?”

I raised both hands defensively and laughed awkwardly. “Calm down. Why don’t you talk to Ren Xun?”

“And what use is that?” she snapped. “He’s a buffoon. I asked him whether we should add more cosmetics or maybe micro-transactions to improve funding because I’m telling you, we are not making enough money. Do you know what he said? He sent me to NPCs selling literal cosmetics. Skincare products. What is wrong with him?”

In hindsight, I probably should have sent her to Jue Bu instead. He shared my memories and could at least improvise better. The real problem, though, was not Ren Xun’s misunderstanding of modern monetization strategies. The problem was me.

The moment I lost the Source, I lost my backdoor access. I could no longer communicate with the people behind the avatars by tapping into that omnipresent system. I could not intercept emails. I could not tweak the in-game economy with a thought. I could not quietly redirect funds when things got tight. The safety net was gone. If I was careless, players might literally vanish without explanation, and I would have no way to intervene.

“I’m sorry,” I said, more sincerely than she probably realized. “I don’t think we can get more funding the usual way. How about you take money from this?”

I knelt and wrote down a string of numbers and locations where she could withdraw funds. They were tied to shell companies I had established long ago, contingencies for a future I never fully trusted. I would only release the money piecemeal. Even in another world, caution remained my instinct.

“This should be enough to keep the game running for now,” I added.

She stared at the information, likely capturing screenshots. When she looked back up, suspicion replaced some of the anger. “This is really weird. You can act this fluidly inside the game world. Are you using VR or something? LPO doesn’t even support VR yet.”

I laughed again, this time more nervously. Because she came as a developer, she was not fully immersed like the others. Most players accepted the world instinctively. They adapted, moved, fought, and spoke as if they were truly here. The system did the rest. It was almost like VR, except far beyond it. More seamless. More dangerous.

“Yeah, not VR,” I said lightly. “Maybe you’ll get to experience it someday.”

Or maybe not? Yeah, that joke was made in poor taste. 

After Karen had finally exhausted herself yelling at me and stormed off to “handle things properly,” I took the chance to stroll around New Willow. The city had changed so much from the chaotic days of war. The floating islands drifted in steady formations, bridges of light connecting them, and cultivators trained openly in plazas that once housed refugees. There was laughter now, merchants arguing over prices, children chasing each other between spirit lanterns.

Da Ji and Chen Wei were nowhere to be found, which likely meant they were at the Sacred World Tree, or whatever overly grand name they had decided to brand it with this week. Those two practically lived there now, managing growth patterns, spirit flow, and whatever divine bureaucracy came with cultivating a world tree. Wu Chen was the same. I did not envy them.

I spotted Jia Yun seated at an outdoor pavilion, a stack of documents conspicuously absent from her hands. Fan Shi sat across from her, the two deep in conversation. When they noticed me, Fan Shi waved enthusiastically. I returned the gesture and walked over.

“Good work,” I said casually. “Also, your cultivation has improved.”

Jia Yun stretched as if she had just escaped prison. “I am just glad no one is tossing paperwork at me again.”

I could not help but smirk. Da Ji must have worked her mercilessly. Fan Shi tilted her head slightly and asked, “Will you be attending the Yellow Dragon Festival, Lord Wei?”

I grimaced. The Yellow Dragon Festival was not exactly a small affair anymore. It had turned into a political spectacle, a cultural celebration, and a religious event all at once. “How about half and half?” I replied.

She looked confused, which was fair. I made a mental note to send Jue Bu in my place for at least part of it. He could smile regally and wave while I handled other matters. That seemed efficient.

After wandering a bit more, greeting cultivators and exchanging nods with elders, I finally found Alice.

She stood at the edge of one of the floating islands, gazing down at the landscape below. The wind tugged at her hair, and for a moment I simply watched her. She was human again, her vampiric nature mostly gone, though a certain sharpness still lingered in her eyes. The Origin Qi had rewritten her existence, but it had not dulled her beauty. If anything, the quiet melancholy in her faint smile made her seem more fragile, more real.

I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her from behind. “Did I miss anything?” I asked lightly.

She laughed softly. “No.”

When she turned to face me, there was a shyness in her expression that I rarely saw. It made my chest tighten. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

My mind went blank.

“W-wait,” I stammered. “We just did it last night. One time.”

That was technically inaccurate. It had been one night, but certainly not one round. Still, the timing felt absurd. I had been careful. Very careful. We both knew this was not exactly the ideal moment to start a family with the Greater Universe looming over us.

Her eyes grew watery. “I’m scared.”

That sobered me immediately. My own panic tried to claw its way up, but I forced it down. If she was scared, I could not afford to be.

“It will be fine,” I said, though my voice was not as steady as I would have liked. “How are you certain?”

“I know my body,” she replied quietly. “Even if I’m no longer a vampire, the instincts and knowledge remain. I can feel it, David. It’s getting real.”

Be careful of the heart.

The words echoed in my mind, sharp and sudden.

I frowned and glanced at the sky, half-expecting some cosmic eye to be staring back at me. There was nothing there but drifting clouds and distant spirit birds.

Be careful of the heart.

“David?” Alice asked, concern replacing her earlier shyness.

I blinked and forced myself back to the present. Whatever that warning was, it could wait. I cupped her face gently and attempted a grin.

“If it’s a boy, can we name him Son Goku? If it’s a girl, Erza. If somehow it’s both, Ranma.”

She stared at me for a full second.

“No.”

The following nine months passed far more quickly than I expected. For someone who had lived through wars, ascensions, and cosmic revelations, waiting for the birth of my child should have felt slow and torturous. Instead, the days slipped by in a strange haze of anticipation. Every sunrise felt like one step closer to something terrifying and miraculous.

We tried to keep the pregnancy a secret at first. That lasted perhaps a week.

News in the peaceful Hollowed World traveled faster than I thought. Before long, everyone knew. The Holy Emperor was going to have a child. It became less of a family matter and more of a world event. Offerings appeared at temples. Prayers were whispered. I even heard someone composed a ballad about the “Heaven-Blessed Heir,” which was far too dramatic for a fetus that had not even kicked yet.

Peng Ru visited personally to check on the progress of the transportation vessel. The delay clearly irritated her, but the moment she saw Alice, her expression softened into a bright grin. “Ding Cai would love to treat someone like a little brother,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement.

I did not have the heart to tell her we did not even know the gender yet.

Then came the prophecies.

Shouquan cleared his throat with theatrical flair and declared, “A brilliant star shall fall from the horizon, marking the arrival of the Meteor Child, harbinger of calamity and prosperity. The Hollowed World is blessed, truly.”

I stared at him. “You do know you suck at prophecy, right?”

He grit his teeth. “That is only when compared to Nongmin. I am good at what I do.”

Anyway, Nongmin had a different prophecy. He told me with absolute confidence, “It’s going to be a girl. She will grow into an incredible beauty adored by many, and she will be exceptionally intelligent.”

He was half naked, dark circles under his eyes, hammering away at a component of the vessel like a mad artisan possessed. I patted him on the back dramatically. “You really get me, Nongmin.”

Teaching him the art of small talk had clearly paid off.

Without missing a beat, he added, “She will also suffer greatly from her overbearing and doting father, who will sabotage all her marriage prospects.”

I froze.

Zai Ai, who was inscribing something onto a talisman nearby, visibly struggled not to laugh. The newest addition to build-the-boat project, Sikao Biaoji, did not even try to restrain himself.

“Ha ha ha ha ha! Nice one, Your Majesty!”

I decided Nongmin could live. He was clearly overworked and sleep-deprived. Sikao Biaoji, on the other hand, required immediate correction. “Consider it a welcome ceremony or something.”

“Hey, not the beard! Not the beard!” he shrieked as he ran.

I chased him across the worksite, pelting him with very small, very controlled Searing Smites. They stung just enough to remind him of hierarchy. The laughter that followed did more for morale than any speech I could have given.

Alice handled the pregnancy astonishingly well. She took advice from the women around her, especially Da Ji, who approached the matter with the seriousness of a military campaign.

“My pregnancy was easy,” Da Ji said calmly. “I am a cultivator with the origin of an Immortal Beast. We have more grit. I do not suggest medicine. For someone at your level of strength, acupuncture or calming incense during labor would be better. We cannot have the infant being squeezed too hard and crushed.”

I grimaced. “Is that even possible?”

She simply looked at me.

With cultivators, “impossible” was rarely the correct word.

Despite our expectations of something overtly supernatural, Alice’s pregnancy remained surprisingly normal. No glowing womb. No divine hymns in the sky. Just cravings, fatigue, and the occasional complaint about back pain. We did not speak of the Supreme Void’s involvement in Da Ji’s own pregnancy. Some topics were better left undisturbed.

Tian En visited as well, bringing gifts and advice. “The safest method to ensure smooth labor from a high existence,” she explained, “is to nurture the life in the womb with a cultivation method. During my pregnancy, I did the same. Before that, I underwent modifications, since my circumstances were… severe.”

The next day, Shouquan arrived with scrolls upon scrolls of cultivation methods. We sifted through them carefully, searching for something compatible with both my affinities and Alice’s. It was an odd experience, selecting a cultivation manual for an unborn child as if choosing a school.

Alice cultivated diligently, cocooning the life within her with steady streams of qi. Her control was exquisite, wrapping the fetus in warmth and stability.

I, unfortunately, contributed almost nothing. Mana was too volatile in my hands, and Divine Qi was even less predictable around something so fragile. I tried once and immediately imagined accidentally overcharging my own child into some kind of miniature sun… and exploding.

So I did what I could. I stayed close. I listened. I placed my hand over her stomach at night and felt faint movements that made my chest tighten in ways no battlefield ever had.

Be careful of the heart.

The warning still lingered in the back of my mind, but as the months passed and the child grew stronger, that fear slowly transformed into something else.

Hope.

Finally, the nine months passed.

I stood at the sidelines of the room, feeling more useless than I had on any battlefield. Shouquan presided over the labor with the composure of a seasoned general. His experience in medicine was not theoretical. After the tragedy of his stillborn daughter, Tian Mei, he had drowned himself in research, experimentation, and observation. The grief had forged him into something terrifyingly competent and allowed him to revive Tian Mei. It was from him that Xin Yune had earned the foundation for the title of Divine Physician. If Shouquan lacked that title, it was only because he had spent most of his life fighting Outsiders instead of polishing his reputation.

“You can do it,” Shouquan said steadily as he lit talisman after talisman. “Push! Push! I am burning fortune talismans as well. There will be no accidents.”

He was simultaneously performing divination and monitoring the situation beneath the covers with clinical focus. The room glowed faintly from layered formations meant to stabilize qi, calm the spirit, and ward against interference.

I was dying inside.

Every instinct screamed at me to cast Divine Word: Life, to flood the room with healing light, to end her pain immediately. I had been heavily advised against interfering. Apparently, meddling with divine-level healing during labor could cause more harm than good.

Alice screamed. “Aaaaaaaah!”

“Push!” Shouquan commanded. “One, two, three!”

“Aaaaah! Shit! Childbirth is more painful than dying!”

My Ophanim activated on instinct. I saw destiny gathering around her like a storm. Threads of fate converged, twisting, tightening, weaving into something dense and luminous. It was incredible and terrifying all at once.

She screamed again, and at some point I realized I was yelling too.

Jue Bu smacked me on the back of the head. “Calm down. Man up.”

I shot him a glare but forced myself to breathe. He muttered under his breath, “Man, that felt good,” clearly enjoying the rare opportunity to strike me without consequence.

The reason he was present was practical. His Immortal Art was absurdly useful in stabilizing life and reversing potential catastrophes. If anything went wrong, he could intervene in a way no one else could.

I focused on Alice instead.

We had promised to hold our wedding after retrieving the six disciples.

Be careful of the heart.

We would save Losten first.

Be careful of the heart.

Maybe we would even find a way back to Earth and establish a path between worlds.

Be careful of the heart.

The warning echoed again and again, like a drumbeat beneath the chaos.

Then, suddenly, it was over.

The pressure in the air shifted. The threads of destiny snapped into place.

I grinned like an idiot as Shouquan handed me the baby. I held her carefully, terrified of my own strength, and leaned toward Alice so she could see.

“Our little girl,” I whispered.

There was a red bead-like mark on her forehead. She was tiny. Fragile. Perfect.

Alice’s voice was weak but bright. “What should we name her?”

Definitely not an anime name.

Emotion surged up my throat. “Gu Jie,” I said softly. “You are going to have a little sister.”

The baby opened her eyes.

They were pitch black.

Then the darkness bled into red, forming the unmistakable symbol of a compass within her pupils.

An amused voice resounded directly into our minds through Qi Speech.

“I am sorry, but I cannot be my own sister.”

The baby floated out of my hands.

She hovered midair, aura flaring. I instinctively assessed her cultivation.

Third Realm. Will Reinforcement.

Everyone froze.

A literal newborn was floating in front of us.

“Father, Mother,” she said calmly, voice far too composed for an infant. “Your daughter has returned.”

My mind went blank.

My adopted daughter had become my blood daughter.

Jue Bu, to his credit, recovered first. “So,” he asked dryly, “what’s the name?”

The reborn Gu Jie looked at me expectantly.

My Ophanim whirred to life again, analyzing the threads of causality, the fate signatures, the energy imprints. Everything connected in a way that made absurd sense.

It had been a false pregnancy.

The destiny gathering, the warnings, the strange flow of qi. Gu Jie had not been conceived in the normal sense. She had regenerated through Alice after her destruction. Alice’s womb had served as a cradle for rebirth, not creation.

I almost laughed in relief.

Yeah. I knew my pull-out game was not that bad.

This was a miracle. Twisted. Complicated. Cosmically absurd. But a miracle nonetheless.

I looked at Alice, who was staring at our floating daughter with tearful eyes and an expression that was half shock, half overwhelming love.

“So,” I asked softly, “any ideas?”

She grinned weakly but mischievously.

“Oh,” she said, “I have many.”

Be careful of the heart.