It was two quarters before midnight. All the offerings had been neatly arranged atop Guixuan Terrace, and the monks had lit the eternal lamps in eight directions. The flickering flames illuminated the surroundings as brightly as daylight.
Guixuan Terrace stood at a towering height of thirty zhang, with thousands of steps leading from the base to the top. Every ten steps, there stood two bronze incense burners. The mountain breeze carried the warm, lingering fragrance—neither overpowering nor fleeting—that refreshed the soul and filled the chest with tranquility and peace. This was the clan’s most precious incense, used only once every sixty years during the ritual to honor the gods.
It was the first time Yuan Zhong had ever encountered such a fragrance, and he couldn’t help but stretch his neck to catch it. One moment, the mountain breeze brought the scent, and the next, it blew it away, making it hard for him to grasp. A monk named Xinmao gently patted his frail shoulder and whispered, “Yuan Zhong, don’t move around.”
“When will the gods arrive?” Yuan Zhong gazed at the forbidden area in the center of Guixuan Terrace, encircled by divine jade railings, with a look of longing on his youthful face.
According to the age of the Youhu clan, he was only eleven years old, experiencing the sacred ceremony for the first time. Everything was fresh and intriguing to him. Guixuan Terrace was usually sealed off, and even the elder monks weren’t allowed to enter without permission. Ordinary celebrations would never be held here. It was said that in just a while, the gods would descend upon the terrace to visit their mortal children, as Guixuan Terrace was the forbidden ground of the gods.
“Count to a thousand in your heart, and then you’ll see the gods.”
Monk Xinmao chuckled, reluctant to tell the truth and disappoint the child early on. Every young member of the Youhu clan, upon experiencing the ceremony for the first time, was filled with hope and dreams. Their clan had an instinctive closeness and devotion to the gods. What would happen if they knew that the gods hadn’t appeared for nearly ten thousand years? Such a revelation would bring overwhelming despair. Even the older monks, and the elders before them, had once experienced this disillusionment. Some had even questioned whether the gods had ever existed at all.
According to the clan’s historical records, after the legendary war between gods and demons thousands of years ago, the gods had all hidden away. Before that time, the Youhu clan had been a noble tribe, serving the gods. Every clan member knew this history by heart, from the moment they were born. They believed they were noble, set apart, and belonged to the gods. Yet as time passed, this belief began to feel more like a stubborn obsession than reality. Even for the monks, the ritual had become more about fulfilling an old obsession than expecting the gods to actually appear.
Yuan Zhong was unaware of Xinmao’s heavy thoughts. With pure devotion, he closed his eyes and began silently counting. The wind on Guixuan Terrace gusted, sometimes strong, sometimes soft. The elders and venerable members of the clan knelt neatly on the ground, while the vast crowd of ordinary clan members stretched out below the terrace, black as the night. Despite the numbers, there was no sound except for the howling wind.
Perhaps the hour of midnight was drawing near. Someone uncorked the ten jars of “Unmatched Under Heaven,” the most precious of offerings, and the rich aroma of the wine was instantly carried by the breeze. Yuan Zhong nearly sneezed.
He held his breath, afraid to let it out, and continued counting carefully in his heart: “Nine hundred and ninety-five, nine hundred and ninety-six…” Monk Xinmao had left his side, walking toward the forbidden area in the center.
“Nine hundred and ninety-seven, nine hundred and ninety-eight…”
Xinmao’s gentle, yet slightly chilling voice echoed: “Pour the wine. Honor heaven and earth.”
“Nine hundred and ninety-nine…”
Just one more to reach a thousand. Yuan Zhong nervously opened his eyes and watched as Monk Xinmao waved his long sleeve, sending the ten jars of Unmatched Under Heaven spinning through the air. With a splash, the golden wine poured onto the ground, and the rich fragrance grew even stronger.
“Midnight has arrived,” Monk Xinmao solemnly knelt down and began reciting the ancient prayers to honor the gods.
“…One thousand.” Yuan Zhong’s heart pounded wildly in his chest. His eager eyes were fixed on the forbidden area at the center of the terrace, not daring to blink.
Suddenly, the forbidden area erupted with light. But it wasn’t the gentle divine radiance he had imagined; it was blinding, so intense it couldn’t be looked at directly. The light stung Yuan Zhong’s eyes, causing tears to stream down his face, but he couldn’t bear to look away. He squinted, forcing his eyes open just enough to see.
Gasps of disbelief echoed from both the elders and the clan members below the terrace. In thousands of years, nothing like this had ever happened—could this dazzling light be the radiance of the gods?
The light grew brighter, almost like the sun itself. Monk Xinmao trembled, bowing to the ground, tears of joy streaming down his face. Could it be that, after thousands of years, the gods had finally remembered the children they had left behind in the mortal world?
Yuan Zhong covered his eyes with his hands, peeking through his fingers. He could feel the light beginning to fade. From the blazing intensity of the sun, it softened into the cool, silver light of the moon. In the distance, a jade-like moon hung in the sky, and atop Guixuan Terrace, there seemed to be a smaller moon, casting a soft, clear glow—radiant and delicate.
In the moonlight, Yuan Zhong could just make out a figure—faint, ethereal, floating as if weightless, yet he couldn’t see it clearly. Without thinking, he lowered his hands, staring dazedly at the silhouette. No one stopped his disrespectful behavior; when the gods descended, no one was allowed to lift their heads. Even Monk Xinmao was trembling as he pressed his forehead to the ground.
The figure grew clearer, resembling a woman in white, both real and unreal. Yuan Zhong stared at her, feeling as though she was so close, yet impossibly far away. Her hair was long, her hairstyle ancient and unfamiliar to him. She seemed to be both standing and floating, her white garments gently fluttering in the wind, high and distant.
Yuan Zhong desperately wanted to see her face. Slowly, he began to crawl from the ground and moved toward the forbidden area. Monk Xinmao, still kneeling in awe, finally noticed the audacious child and quickly grabbed his robe, hissing angrily, “How dare you! Kneel down at once!”
But Yuan Zhong couldn’t hear him. His soul had already been entirely captivated by the figure before him. He felt he was about to see her eyes, her brows… those eyes—so beautiful that even the clan’s most precious black gemstones paled in comparison. In that moment, when he finally saw them, it was as if every spiritual channel in his body opened at once, and he couldn’t help but tremble.
Bathed in cold, silver moonlight—was it a dream? A vision?
The tug on his robe suddenly grew stronger, and Yuan Zhong, unprepared, was pulled down. Monk Xinmao, his face full of fury, glared at him. The elders had all risen to their feet, and the light from the forbidden area had vanished. The figure… that figure had disappeared too, as if everything had been a dream.
“You’ll be punished properly when we return,” Monk Xinmao pushed him aside, no longer paying him any mind.
It was the early autumn of the year Bingyou, nearly ten thousand years since the gods had last descended upon Guixuan Terrace. Though they left no decree, their brief appearance—no more than a fleeting moment—had become the greatest honor of the Youhu clan.
Three full cycles of sixty years passed after that day, but the gods never appeared again.
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