The battlefield was a gray moor in Ireland. Rain fell sideways.
On a standing stone perched a trio of crows. They merged into a woman in a cloak of black feathers. The Morrígan.
"I see your death, child," she cawed, her voice scraping like iron on bone. "It lies in the mud."
Nezha floated a few feet off the ground, standing on wheels of spinning fire. He looked twelve years old, bored, and dangerous.
"I died once already," Nezha said, tossing his Universal Ring, the Qiankun, into the air and catching it. "I got better."
The Prophecy
Morrígan shrieked—the Triune Crow-Scream. It was a sound that stopped hearts. A wave of magical despair washed over the moor.
Nezha yawned. "Loud."
He kicked his Wind-Fire Wheels into gear. He shot forward like a missile, a blur of red and gold against the gray rain.
Morrígan vanished into mist, using Shroud of the Morrígan. She appeared behind him, dragging a spectral blade across his back. Blood-Name Wound.
Nezha flinched. The cut burned. "Okay," he grinned. "Tag."
The Binding
Morrígan dissolved into a flock of a thousand ravens, swirling around the boy-god, pecking at his eyes, whispering doom. "Your bones will feed the earth. Your name will be forgotten."
Nezha closed his eyes. He didn't need to see the birds; he needed to catch the wind.
He unspooled the Huntian Ling—the Red Armillary Sash.
"Wrap!" Nezha commanded.
The red silk flew out, expanding like a living cloud. It wasn't aimless; it hunted. It ignored the illusionary birds and sought the core of the magic.
The sash tightened around empty air—and pulled.
The Morrígan was dragged out of the mist, the red silk bound tight around her arms and wings. She struggled, turning into a wolf, then a heifer, then a Hag. The sash held.
Nezha flew up, hovering over her. He spun his Fire-tipped Spear.
"You talk too much about fate," Nezha said, leveling the weapon. "I write my own."
He struck. The spear pierced the ground next to her head, a warning shot that boiled the bog water.
Morrígan, bound and outmatched by a speed she couldn't predict, transformed into a single black feather and slipped through the weave of the sash, fleeing into the earth.
Nezha retrieved his sash. "Cheater," he muttered, flying off to find a drier fight.