She did not seek revenge immediately.
She was too weak.
The Azure Summit Sect still had an Immortal Elder in seclusion—a being who could crush her like a falling petal. Charging in would not be vengeance. It would be suicide.
So she cultivated.
Relentlessly.
Day bled into night. Night dissolved into day. Years folded into decades.
She did not eat. She did not sleep. She did not speak.
She only cultivated.
Her mother's face.
Her brother's screams.
The fat young master's hands reaching for her—
Those memories became her fuel. Her poison. Her path.
She trained with a focus that bordered on madness… and then surpassed it.
Time lost meaning.
Seasons turned. Mountains weathered. Generations were born and buried.
Five hundred years passed.
She did not know.
To her, it felt like five days.
When she finally stepped out of seclusion, the world itself seemed smaller.
Her power had long since transcended mortality.
She was no longer Hua Xiaolian—the helpless girl pinned beneath a sealing talisman.
She was something else.
Something unfinished.
Something that had not yet chosen a name.
She went to find the Azure Summit Sect.
But the past she carried… no longer existed.
The mountain remained.
The buildings stood.
Yet the sect she remembered—the arrogant, "righteous" giant that loomed over her nightmares—was gone.
In its place stood something… lesser.
Smaller.
Humbler.
Strangers walked its paths. They wore the robes, but not the pride. Not the cruelty.
They did not know her.
They did not know the Fallen Petal Sect.
They did not know anything.
She descended the mountain and seized a villager from the nearby town—an old man whose hands trembled like dry leaves.
"Where is Wei Tianpeng?" she demanded, her voice cold enough to still the wind.
The old man blinked, confused.
"Young Master Wei? He died. Long ago… must be… four hundred years now?"
The world tilted.
Just slightly.
"How did he die?"
The old man smiled—a gentle, ignorant smile.
"Peacefully. In his bed. With a smile on his face. He was 109 years old. They say… the God of Death blessed him. For all his good deeds. He built temples, you know. Donated to orphans. A truly righteous man in the end."
Something inside her cracked.
Not broke.
Cracked.
There is a difference.
Breaking is loud.
Cracking is silent.
She stood there, unmoving, as the old man continued speaking—praising Wei Tianpeng, recounting his kindness, his generosity, and his peaceful passing.
She heard none of it.
Only four fragments echoed in the hollow space within her:
"Good deeds."
"Peaceful death."
"Smiling face."
The same hands that had reached for her.
It was the same mouth that had lied without hesitation.
The same man who had sent demons to defile her mother—
And he died smiling?
In bed?
At 109?
Surrounded by praise?
"And the God of Death gave him that peace."
She returned to the Azure Summit Sect.
And she erased it.
Not just the cultivators.
Not just the elders.
Everything.
Children. Women. Men. Servants. Animals.
Dogs. Cats. Chickens.
Every blade of grass rooted in that soil.
Every stone that remembered their footsteps.
She painted the mountain red—from its peak to its base.
Then she went to the Blood Thorn Clan.
And she did the same.
No one remained.
Not a single voice.
Not a single breath.
Not even a memory untouched.
When it was over, she stood alone.
A field of blood and drifting petals stretched endlessly around her.
The world was silent.
But the silence did not heal her.
Those four words still lingered.
Like poison that refused to fade.
"The God of Death gave him a peaceful death."
She lifted her gaze to the heavens—
To the realm where Death Gods sat in judgment.
"You gave him peace," she whispered.
A single petal rose from her palm, trembling in the still air.
"You gave the man who defiled my mother a peaceful death."
The petal darkened.
"You called his sins 'good deeds.'"
The sky itself seemed to hold its breath.
"Then I will take your peace away."
Her fingers curled.
The petal shattered into countless fragments of light.
"Every Death God."
"Every realm."
"Every single one of you."
"You will never collect another soul."
"You will never grant another 'peaceful death' to scum."
"You will sit within my petals—forever—and feel nothing whatsoever."
She turned away.
Behind her lay ruins and ashes.
Ahead of her lay a war against the divine.
She still had not chosen her immortal name.
But one truth had already taken root—
The Flower That Never Withers would never stop blooming.
Not until every Death God was sealed.
————————————————————————————————
Loki, Raga, and Arlo sat in silence.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
The weight of her story lingered in the air like an unhealed wound.
"She reminds me of her," Arlo muttered, his voice low, edged with something close to regret.
Loki leaned back, arms crossed, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips.
"Yeah… just throwing tantrums."
Raga snorted.
"Yeah. Just like her."
Arlo didn't laugh.
His fingers rose unconsciously to his mouth, teeth biting lightly at his nail.
"She's not just venting," he said quietly. "She's targeting the Gods of Death."
His gaze shifted—sharp, searching.
"Why?"
Raga frowned, glancing sideways.
"Yeah… why? Why do Death Gods give horrible deaths to the innocent… and peaceful ones to scum?"
All eyes turned.
To one man.
Yama wiped the faint sheen of sweat from his forehead, forcing a casual shrug.
"It's fate," he replied. "That's what the Enlightenment of Death teaches, at least."
He gave a dry chuckle.
"Ask your boss. He used to be a Death God too."
Arlo scoffed, waving a hand dismissively.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't drag me into your mess."
But his eyes darkened.
His thoughts churned.
This isn't just anger, he realized.
She's too precise… too deliberate.
This isn't about revenge anymore.
His gaze sharpened.
Is it demonic influence?
Or… is someone else behind this?
A pause.
Then—
"Anyway," Arlo said, rising to his feet. "I'm going to meet her."
He snapped his fingers.
Reality rippled.
And in the next instant—
He was gone.