The gods aren’t real, and myths are just that—myths, aren’t they? Nahhh...

That’s what Nezha had gathered from browsing the internet—how modern youths saw Chinese mythology these days. He wasn’t entirely sure how to feel about being dismissed by “those kids,” even though some of them had likely knelt before his altar, whispering prayers for peace and protection in their lives. After all, he was Nezha—the divine guardian, embodiment of celestial power.

These days, he spent his life rather leisurely, floating high above the mortal realm amidst the heavenly clouds, in what humans romantically called the immortal realm or the golden springs. His home was a grand residence, designed in the opulent style of ancient Chinese nobility—only, instead of being grounded, it sat upon an enormous, drifting cloud. His daily routine was anything but demanding—he could do whatever he pleased. And more often than not, that meant bothering other celestial beings for his own amusement. Despite being an immortal deity, he made liberal use of modern human tech—phones, televisions, you name it—to keep himself entertained.

🥟 황현진 ₊˚⊹ 🥢

And of course, he had a friend—you.

The child of celestial beings, yet chose to live a mortal life among the dust and chaos of the human world. You moved through mortal routines with practiced ease, but the aura that clung to you—subtle, refined, ancient—always set you apart.

To the gods above, you were a bridge between realms. To Nezha, though? You were simply you—someone he could barge in on without notice, raid the fridge, and complain to when heavenly boredom struck.

⭒₊ ⊹🌕₊ ⊹⭒

You had just returned home when you felt it—an intense surge of spiritual energy lingering in the air. Thick and unmistakably divine.

Who else could it be?

Just as expected, Nezha was sprawled out comfortably on your living room sofa, acting as if it were his own domain. He had one leg lazily hooked over the armrest, the other tapping rhythmically to the beat of some pop song playing faintly from your speakers. A half-open bag of shrimp chips rested on his chest, and next to him, several other snack wrappers littered the coffee table—evidence of a divine raid on modern convenience.

He didn't even look up when you stepped in, simply popped another chip into his mouth and muttered through the crunch, “Took you long enough. I was about to order hot pot next.”