Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Household God Hidden for a Hundred Years Appears

Arrows kept coming. Fire roared.

The Xie family watched the flames and went cold inside. One by one, they surged into the shrine, faces set like stone—ready to die, ready to be buried with their ancestors if that was the price.

Inside Tu Hua’s head, another notice dropped with cheerful efficiency.

“Outer wall temperature exceeds safe threshold. Auto-firefighting will begin.”

“Countdown: three… two… one…”

Tu Hua tipped her head back, staring at the burning beams. “And how exactly does a phone app put out an ancient building on fire?”

The answer arrived immediately.

The sky darkened.

Clouds rolled over Protector Duke Manor like a lid sliding shut. Thunder snarled once—and then rain exploded from the heavens.

A downpour hammered the roof tiles, a violent drumming that drowned out screams and crackle alike. In moments, the fire went from roaring beast to hissing ash.

Tu Hua stared upward, rain mist blowing in through the doors. “Okay. That’s… actually impressive.”

Outside, the raiding soldiers were instantly drenched. Mud splattered their robes. Hair plastered to their cheeks. No more murderous swagger—just wet, furious men blinking rain out of their eyes.

Qiu Suan crawled out of the mud and, in a fit of stubborn stupidity, ordered them to light it again.

Less than ten seconds later, another torrential rain dumped itself directly over the manor like the sky had a personal grudge.

He tried again.

Same result.

By the third attempt, the entire place was soaked so thoroughly it couldn’t have caught fire if you begged it.

Qiu Suan’s face finally cracked.

Fear slid in under the rage.

He stumbled, then outright fled—scrambling out of Protector Duke Manor, diving into his carriage, and whipping the horses toward the palace as if the rain itself might chase him.

The remaining soldiers backed off, none daring to make the first move.

The imperial guards commander stood in the curtain of rain, staring at the Xie ancestral shrine with a tight, troubled frown.

Inside, the air was thick with steam and shock.

“Mother-in-law… this…” First Madam Zhou’s voice trembled, as if she wasn’t sure the world still followed rules.

Old Madam Xie was shaking too—but her eyes were bright, fixed on the divine seat in the main hall like she was trying to see through wood and lacquer.

She couldn’t explain what she’d felt when that warm force lifted her—only that it had felt like an answer.

A possibility struck her so hard her breath caught. Her eyes reddened. Her knees nearly buckled.

“Could it really be…” she whispered, voice breaking. “Could our Xie family household god have manifested?”

“Grandmother!”

“Old Madam!”

Hands steadied her. She swallowed, straightened her sleeves, adjusted her collar with trembling fingers, and forced herself into composure.

Then she turned, solemn, and addressed the younger generation.

“Come. Together. Light incense for the Household God and thank the deity for protecting us.”

The room erupted.

“Was that really the Household God?”

“We actually have a Household God?!”

“The ancestral teachings were true—true!”

Someone sobbed. Someone laughed, shaky with relief. It spilled out of them like water from cracked jars.

Tu Hua stayed on the stairs.

The system had been very clear about the “no touching living people” rule, and she wasn’t interested in finding out what a “system crash” looked like in a murder courtyard.

So she sat there, half-hidden, watching Old Madam Xie lead the family through incense and kowtows.

To them, the shimmering shield and the rain weren’t an app.

They were a miracle.

Tu Hua counted quickly. Twenty-three people total—men and women, old and young.

Then she pulled out her phone, recorded a short video of the family bowing and praying, and sent it to Xie Yu Chuan.

Once the system confirmed the Xie family was safe for the moment, Tu Hua went upstairs to check the rest of her house.

Upstairs was still modern.

Electricity. Running water. Internet. Appliances. Bedrooms. Study. The little bar.

She could’ve cried from gratitude. Half her life had survived the apocalypse.

As long as she ignored the voices downstairs, she could almost pretend this was normal.

Almost.

She cracked open an ice-cold beer, took a long swallow, and muttered, “It’s too early in the morning to be living inside a fever dream.”

Her phone immediately started chiming like it was trying to keep up with her blood pressure.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

She opened WeChat.

Her chat window was being assaulted by punctuation.

“Xie Yu Chuan: !!!!!!!!”

“Xie Yu Chuan: !!!!!!!!”

“Xie Yu Chuan: !!!!!!!!”

Tu Hua set the beer down before she dropped it and typed, “Calm down.”

One second later: “Xie Yu Chuan: !”

Silence.

In the cold, empty imperial prison, Xie Yu Chuan pressed himself against the wall and listened—hard.

A woman’s voice had scolded him.

Not in his memory. Not in a dream.

He scanned the cell. No guards. No prisoners. Nothing but damp stone and darkness.

Where had the voice come from?

He swallowed, throat raw, and whispered into the air, “Who is speaking?”

Tu Hua stared at his message, deadpan.

Brother, she thought.

Wasn’t he the one who had added her on WeChat at dawn and dragged her—house included—into the past like she was a delivery package?

She kept her reply simple and tested the waters. “Xie Yu Chuan?”

In the imperial prison, his name sounded again—clear, close, echoing softly off the stone.

Xie Yu Chuan’s breath hitched.

It wasn’t hallucination. It wasn’t madness.

It was real.

He exploded back into the chat.

“Xie Yu Chuan: !!!!!!!!”

Tu Hua pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re going to have to ration your exclamation marks.”

Then she typed, “Didn’t you sincerely beg me to protect your family?”

The words hit him like a slap.

Had the Xie family’s household god—hidden for a hundred years—truly shown herself?

In his dream, he had seen his grandmother and mother kneeling before the divine seat, clothes torn, blood on their sleeves, begging for protection.

He had woken up terrified it meant they were already dead.

Now…

Now a voice was answering him.

He forced his hands steady and typed carefully, “The dream… was it shown to me on purpose?”

Tu Hua blinked. Dream?

Then she remembered the video.

“So you’re watching it like some kind of sleep livestream,” she murmured, equal parts horrified and intrigued.

She typed back, “You saw they’re safe for now. Feel better?”

In the imperial prison, her voice brushed his ear again.

Xie Yu Chuan’s heartbeat turned thunderous.

It wasn’t a delusion.

It wasn’t a story to comfort children.

The Xie Clan’s household god was answering him.

For most of his life, he had believed in grit, not gods. Heaven moved with strength; a gentleman should strive without rest. He’d never been the type to beg at a shrine.

But the northwest battle had shattered everything. The Xie family’s army was crushed. His father and brothers died. His clan was framed, cornered, and now facing extermination. He himself was gravely wounded and thrown into prison to rot.

He had prayed out of desperation—anger and guilt choking him until he had nowhere else to put it.

He had never imagined the legend would answer.

For a long time, he could only stare at the prison ceiling, shaking.

Tu Hua watched her chat window.

Nothing.

She frowned. “Did I scare him into a full system reboot?”

Then a message popped up.

“Xie Yu Chuan: Thank you for your mercy, deity, for saving the Xie Clan from fire and water. Yu Heng has nothing to repay you with, and is willing to serve you for life!”

Tu Hua stared.

Then typed, very carefully, “That is… really not necessary.”