Angels had never been as sacred as people imagined...
Young Qian Renxue did not agree with that view. In her heart, angels were meant to be sacred.
That was what her grandfather had told her.
At the very least, that was what Qian Renxue believed before she turned six.
Though she did not understand why her mother did not seem to like her, or why there was always something in her mother's eyes that she could not comprehend.
Countless times, the little girl had tugged at her mother's luxurious skirt, tilted up her fair, delicate face, and called her Mother Empress in a soft, sweet voice.
Yet what she received was never a tender embrace or an affectionate response.
Bibi Dong's gaze was always faint and detached. When she looked at Qian Renxue's childish face, there was neither maternal love nor warmth—only an impenetrable distance, as though a layer of cold glass stood between mother and daughter, separating them completely.
Occasionally, Qian Renxue would secretly lie by the windowsill late at night, watching the drifting lights that filled the sky.
Her grandfather, Qian Daoliu, would gently stroke her head and tell her that she was a treasure the Angel Clan had not seen in ten thousand years, a child born bathed in divine light and destined to wield holiness.
Her father, Qian Xunji, was gentle with her as well. The Spirit Hall Pope, usually stern and sparing with words, would shed all his chilling severity before his only daughter, patiently teaching her etiquette and telling her of the Angel God's glory.
Throughout Spirit Hall, from elders and deacons to maids and guards, everyone cherished her dearly.
Everyone told her that Qian Renxue had been born noble, carried angel blood in her veins, and would one day illuminate the ages.
Yet