"A fine day, a fine day indeed," Hummed Xie Lian to himself, simple white Daoist robes fluttering as he pranced around the doors of Puqi shrine, sweeping the ground. Rouye huddled affectionately to his cheek, and Xie Lian lent a finger to nuzzle it, fingers landing tentatively on the Cursed Shackle branded black around his neck.

No matter.

A raging carriage thundered past, kicking up dust and mud, spraying it upon the very steps he had so ardously spent all morning cleaning. Xie Lian smiled. He did so easily, even when the rice pot cracked or when the roof leaked over his bedroll. He smiled when starving children stole the offerings left at the altar, smiled when his shrine saw a single worshipper throughout the day. Who could smile at such rotten luck but Xie Lian, having been granted not one but two cursed shackles, dubbed a God of misfortune, and been deemed the laughingstock of the three realms?

Once, he had stood at the pinnacle of divinity—crowned in red silk and the adoration of millions, hailed as the beloved Crown Prince of Xianlee, adored for his virtue, his valor, his vow to "save the common people". Twice cast down from that height, he now serviced the dilapidated Puqi Shrine.

This was Xie Lian: deity of misfortune, collector of scraps, cleaner of shrines no one visited. He had fallen farther than any god before him—and somehow, smiled all the more benevolently for it.