The Fox Who Shattered the Sky

The moon that night was especially radiant.
I wandered to the great gate of the Heavenly Barrier. They said this barrier had been personally created by the Celestial Emperor himself in ancient times—an unbreakable wall of copper and iron. Years ago, my aunt once found a treasured sword and tried to tear the barrier open, only for the blade to shatter into powder the moment it struck. The barrier, naturally, remained untouched.

Bored, I picked up a twig, muttered a few incantations, mimicked the gestures I’d seen in old operas, and, with an exaggerated “hiya!”, stabbed at it.

Huh—did I just… pierce through?

I stared, dumbfounded, at the humble twig now half inside the barrier and half still in my hand.

Could it be… that this was a low-key divine weapon?

The thought delighted me. Yet, because I was too excited, I squeezed the so-called divine sword a little too hard—crack!—and it broke into splinters.
I stood before the barrier for quite some time, blinking at it, before finally gathering my courage and reaching out a hand.

And just like that—I passed through.

Half of my body was outside the barrier; the other half was still inside. It was uncomfortable—neither here nor there.
I took a deep breath, stamped my foot, and leapt outward.

Though I’d never mastered any spells of flight or transformation, my physical coordination was truly excellent. I had calculated this leap perfectly—it would take me straight into open air, under the stars.

But of course, there’s always a but in this world.

A rock, apparently oblivious to its surroundings, happened to lie exactly where I intended to land. My momentum carried me forward, and I tripped, flying headlong—right into a man who’d been peacefully napping on a flat slab of bluestone.

That collision… was catastrophic.

The man, sleeping soundly, didn’t even have time to react. With a muffled thud, his head lolled to the side, the stone beneath him cracked into powder, and a stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, staining his dark robes.

And as for me—I had landed squarely on his chest and stomach, which were now deeply sunken.

This man, I thought grimly, probably wouldn’t live.

I reached out a hand—no breath, no pulse. I sighed softly. Truly, what an unlucky fellow. Of all the places to nap, he chose exactly where I was about to fall!

I knew nothing of healing arts, so there was no saving him. I consoled both him and myself: life and death are destined; it was Heaven who claimed his life, not me. Amitabha. Please don’t come back to haunt me.

After a moment of thought, I decided to do a good deed and bury him.

Standing up, I noticed the man had deep-set brows and a noble face—handsome, really. Such a pity—beauty rarely lives long.

Looking around, I spotted a patch of soft earth nearby, perfect for digging. I began clawing at the ground.

We foxes are born diggers, so before long, I had made a deep pit. By the time I dragged the man into it, I was panting from exhaustion. Who would’ve thought someone so lean could weigh so much? Out of breath, I didn’t feel like covering him with dirt. My eyes landed on a nearby stone slab—about my height—and I figured it would do perfectly as a lid.

Lifting it with both arms, I took slow, heavy steps toward the pit.

But just as I neared, I saw a pair of sharp, glowing eyes open in the darkness below. The “dead” man sat up in the grave, staring at me coldly, sword raised.

“Impudent creature,” he growled, “you dare attempt murder—”

THUD!

The stone slab dropped, neatly cutting off the rest of his sentence.

Excellent. Perfect.

I really should’ve realized it sooner. If he hadn’t died from my midair collision, nor from being crushed by a giant rock, then he was no mortal—perhaps a god, perhaps a spirit.
And I? A useless fox who hadn’t managed a single spell in five hundred years—what chance had I against such beings?

If I’d had even half a brain, I would have run immediately.

But alas, I stood there stupidly as the boulder crumbled into dust, and from the wreckage the man emerged—completely unharmed.

His sunken chest was now perfectly restored, though his gait was still unsteady, supported by the long sword in his hand.
He coughed twice, spat blood, and wiped his mouth casually before pointing his blade at me again.

“Brazen little demon,” he declared, “to dare murder a Celestial God!”

After saying so, he conveniently spat a bit more blood, all while discreetly rubbing his ribs.

Instinctively, I bolted toward the forest. But the man, taller and far stronger than me, caught my neck with one hand and lifted me clean off the ground. For beasts like us, being grabbed by the scruff means total defeat—no struggle possible.

I twisted and kicked, managing to shove him off balance. He was badly hurt, and as he fell, his back struck a jagged rock. With a grunt, his grip loosened, and I seized the chance to clamp my hands around his throat. His face turned redder and redder, breath wheezing out in short gasps.

I was just about to finish the job when a sharp pain shot through my skull, and I crumpled to the ground.

Just before my head hit the earth, I heard a voice—smooth and mocking—like water dripping on jade.
“Well, well, Qin An, when did you become so weak?”

It took Qin An a long time to sit up. He coughed lightly, wiped the blood from his mouth with studied calm, then winced as he pressed a hand to his broken ribs.
“Took you long enough to enjoy the show?” he rasped.

“Heh, not bad at all,” said Zhuo Hua, snapping open a folding fan with a crisp snap. He wagged it lazily, smiling. “Who would’ve thought the mighty God of War could be cornered by a skinless little fox demon? If I hadn’t shown up when I did, you’d be off to the Netherworld by now.”

Qin An leaned against a tree, set his ribs back into place with a series of cracking sounds, and—while sweating through the pain—spoke in his usual cool tone:
“Not necessarily. If I went there, it’d only be for a stroll. If you went there, I’d roll you into a ball and toss you into the Beast Realm.”

Zhuo Hua froze mid-fan, pointing at him with trembling fingers. “Y-you wouldn’t—!” Then, realizing he might, he forced a sheepish grin. “Heh, just kidding! Don’t take it so seriously.”

He gave Qin An a once-over. “You were asleep a long time, my friend. Seems you even slept away your divine powers.”

Qin An said nothing, only looked toward the distant Mount Xuhe, where the Heavenly Barrier shimmered faintly.
“It’s fine,” he said at last. “My master sealed it. After slaughtering a hundred thousand souls, being bound by a Sealing Spell of the Celestials is a fair punishment.”

Zhuo Hua’s expression flickered; he opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Qin An rested against an old locust tree, his fingers brushing the length of his black sword. Pink petals drifted down, dotting his dark robes.

Zhuo Hua leaned in, clicking his tongue in admiration. “Master Zhuji’s craftsmanship is still unmatched. This Blacksteel Sword—its tip broke in your battle with Yan Ke, didn’t it? But now it’s sharper than before.”

Qin An said nothing.

Zhuo Hua went on, “Even without divine power, you cleaved through the Celestial Emperor’s barrier with just that blade. In Heaven or on Earth, only you, Qin An, could accomplish such a thing.”

Qin An cast him a sidelong glance. “You usually never think before speaking. Why so cautious today? I was sealed under the Candle-Sky Stone for only a few days, and you’ve turned sentimental.”

Zhuo Hua swallowed hard. “Then… do you remember what you did?”

Qin An replied evenly, “A demonic energy invaded my body. I slaughtered tens of thousands. When I awoke, I remembered everything. Were it not so, my master wouldn’t have used the Candle-Sky Stone to imprison me.”

Zhuo Hua smacked his chest. “You fool! Losing control is one thing, but why slaughter selectively? You killed the innocent and spared the guilty! Did you know Yan Ke had a daughter—Lan Shang? You missed her! Left her alive! She’s been appealing to the Western Buddha for centuries, twisting the story in her favor. Now the Buddha himself is asking questions—your death sentence might be waived, but punishment is certain.”

Qin An listened in silence.

Zhuo Hua sighed. “The Celestial Emperor and the Primordial Lord have already taken the blame for you. By the Heavenly Laws, you should’ve been stripped of your celestial title, your divine bones torn out, and cast into the Beast Realm. But out of mercy, the Emperor chose a lighter sentence—you’ll descend to the mortal world and endure a hundred lifetimes of suffering. Only when you’ve learned the virtue of cherishing life may you return.”

Qin An smiled faintly. “To strip one’s celestial name, to tear out divine bones—how fitting. I wonder how it compares to being flayed alive.”

Zhuo Hua said nothing.

Then, in a blink, Qin An walked toward the unconscious little demon—the fox I was—and lifted her torn clothing with his sword.

Zhuo Hua frowned. “She’s not her.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Zhuo Hua’s tone turned exasperated. “Ever since she was condemned to the Soul Pool, you’ve sought death time and again, yet never managed to die. Maybe this punishment is good for you—live through a hundred mortal lives, learn the pain of longing and loss. Compared to that, this is mercy.”

Qin An smiled faintly again.

“Don’t smile yet,” Zhuo Hua warned. “Fairy Jinxiu heard of your punishment and volunteered to descend with you. Says she’s been too detached from mortal emotions, wants to understand human pain. She’s asked to share your trials—and the Celestial Queen has already approved.”

Qin An’s grip on the sword tightened.

“She’s serious about you,” Zhuo Hua said quietly. “Sun and moon can bear witness to her devotion. Soon enough, she’ll make sure the two of you are bound together.”

After a long silence, Qin An asked, “When do I descend?”

Zhuo Hua counted on his fingers. “The Celestial Emperor said—as soon as possible.”

He summoned a cloud and hoisted Qin An onto it, for without divine power he could no longer fly. The cloud rose, bearing him skyward. Only after Qin An vanished did Zhuo Hua remember—the man had broken the Heavenly Barrier. If the Emperor found out, it would be disastrous. He rushed back—only to find the barrier whole again, as though untouched. And as for the little fox demon who had fainted on the ground—she had vanished without a trace.