《Path of the Thunderbird: Darkening Skies》


 Prologue: Raijin

    22 years ago


    Purple-white tongues of lighting forked through a midnight sky, revealing for an instant the roiling black clouds over the Shangyang Mountains. A crack of thunder followed, shaking the walls of a tea house nestled in Kokuji, the fishing village at the foot of the highest peak. Rain poured down all at once as if the lightning had broken open the sky. Storm waves pounded the beach in the village¡¯s little cove, and fat, heavy drops battered the tea house¡¯s roof, partially muffling a scream of agony from within.


    ¡°Shhh!¡± A young woman whispered, squeezing the hand of the laboring soon-to-be mother. As one of the few sensha, or entertaining girls, not engaged this night when no travelers would venture out into the rain to traverse the mountain pass, Daitai was standing in as midwife for her friend. With her free hand, she wiped the sweat-soaked black hair from the young mother¡¯s bright jade eyes. ¡°You have to stay quiet, Lanfen. If you disturb the guests, Madam will send you out into the streets!¡±


    Lanfen fell back onto the bed mat as the contraction ended, limp with relief. She saw the truth in Daitai¡¯s admonishment. Madam was already furious that her most admired sensha had been unable to work these last three months, when it was no longer possible to hide her blossoming stomach. Lanfen would be years in paying back all the silver links Madam believed the tea house had lost because of her pregnancy. It was enough that her child was coming into the world stained by a house of ill repute. Lanfen wouldn¡¯t further dishonor its first breaths by giving birth in the streets like a stray dog.


    As the next contraction ripped through her delicate body, Lanfen bit down on the knuckle of her first finger until she drew blood. Sweet singing drifted through the wall, accompanied by the sharp notes of a double-necked lute. One song after another, interspersed with the clinking of fine cups set down too hard by callous, slightly drunk hands and the occasional peal of raucous laughter. Through it all the angry clatter of rain on the roof and rolling thunder overhead.


    The next cry that went up was reedy and small, brought forth by a throat just learning to make sound. Daitai forgot to admonish the infant or the mother in her wonder at seeing life¡¯s first moments. It was much smaller than she¡¯d ever imagined, much bloodier. Gently, she bathed the boy with the pile of fabric scraps and the small pot of boiled water Madam had allowed them. Tiny fists, with long, graceful fingers, tipped with scratchy little nails. Scrawny, kicking legs. A head of thick, black hair. In the brief flashes that his eyes were open, Daitai saw jade starburst irises brighter than even his mother¡¯s.


    As she washed the delicate shell of the boy¡¯s right ear, Daitai found a moon-mark nestled in the hollow behind his jaw. She wiped the spot clean, then pulled a jasmine-scented oil lamp closer, and leaned in to inspect it. Pale white against his ruddy skin, the mark was like a painter¡¯s hint at a distant caul of rain.


    The more she looked at it, the more the mark reminded her of one of those ancient glyphs from Deep Root, the Old Language, with its multitude of intricate lines layering together to make the words. Babies born marked by those old letters were said to have be children of prophecy, their destinies written on their skin. The glyph for white celery predicting a beauty who would topple kingdoms, cicada foretelling the first of an immortal dynasty, phoenix for one who would end a great plague. Or was that cause a great plague? There were so many prophecies that Daitai could never keep them all straight. Lanfen would know¡ªshe had such a sharp memory¡ªbut the exhausted young mother was dozing so peacefully that Daitai didn¡¯t have the heart to bother her over it.


    ¡°Who are you, little one? What does your glyph say you¡¯ll do for us?¡± Daitai grinned as she chucked the baby¡¯s nose.


    He blinked, startled, then opened his mouth.


    Daitai giggled. ¡°Are you so hungry? Let¡¯s wake mama.¡±


    Daitai took the infant back to Lanfen¡¯s mat and knelt at her friend¡¯s side.


    ¡°Mama Lanfen,¡± Daitai whispered, nudging her friend softly. ¡°Your son is desperate for his first meal.¡±


    Groggily, Lanfen pushed herself up and took the child to her breast, whispering soothing nonsense as she helped him find his first meal.


    Daitai played with a strand of her hair while she watched the mother and child together. She couldn¡¯t recall a destiny for a baby marked by rain caul. Could she have been misreading it? She¡¯d never really mastered reading Deep Root. Who needed it these days when the simpler, more civilized characters of the New Script were so much easier to read and write?


    ¡°Does Lanfen remember the destinies prophesied by moon-marks from the Old Language?¡± Daitai asked, twisting her hair around her finger.


    ¡°Mm,¡± Lanfen said, nodding without looking up from her son. ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Oh, silly Daitai!¡± She pulled a face that never failed to charm the tea house¡¯s patrons, then gestured to the infant. ¡°He has one behind his right ear.¡±


    The new mother lurched upright on the mat and pulled the baby from her breast. He let out a cry of protest as she folded his tiny ear out of the way and studied the pale mark.


    ¡°Is it rain caul?¡± Daitai asked. ¡°I thought it might be rain caul.¡±


    But Lanfen didn¡¯t answer. Her bright green eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and she caressed the mark with her thumb.


    A tingle of fear crept up Datai¡¯s spine. ¡°What¡¯s wrong? Is his prophecy bad?¡±


    ¡°It says thunder,¡± Lanfen whispered in a ragged voice.


    Daitai¡¯s brows furrowed, then soared for her hairline.


    ¡°The chosen one? Daitai held the chosen one?¡± Her voice was rising steadily, both in pitch and volume. Madam would scold her or worse, but she couldn¡¯t contain her ecstasy. She leapt to her feet and shouted at the rafters, ¡°This filthy sensha bathed the chosen one with these hands! These hands!¡±


    While Daitai rejoiced over her blessed fortune, Lanfen sat silently on her mat, breathing deeply into the soft, soft hair of her newborn son. The chosen one, the thunderbird. A tear dripped off Lanfen¡¯s long eyelashes and onto her baby¡¯s cheek, sparkling in the golden lantern light.


    *


    Months later, a small form trekked up the mountainside of the highest peak of the Shangyangs, an even smaller bundle slung across her chest. Darkness had long since fallen, making Lanfen glad Daitai had insisted she take a lantern along. Eyes shined in the undergrowth when her meagre light passed by¡ªnot only the greens and yellows of natural beasts, but flashes of demonic magenta, teal, and ever shifting rainbows. Fearsome guai, demon beasts, roamed these mountain forests, hungry for hunters and lost travelers.


    Lanfen carried nothing more than the child in the sling, the lantern in her hand, and a small pouch tucked into her robes for after her errand was done. When her slender, shaking hand was not comforting her infant son, it frequently returned to the pouch in her robes, as if to reassure itself that the contents had not spilled out. She was more frightened of losing it than her life.


    She felt no fear for her son¡¯s safety. Raijin was the chosen one, after all, and the chosen one could not be eaten by guai before he fulfilled his destiny.


    Lanfen had no martial skill or training with weapons, had never even cultivated her Ro beyond what she needed to manifest a pick for her moon zither. In the tea house, she sang and played and danced and giggled delicately when the patrons said something they felt was clever. Entertaining was her skill, not fighting, and so all she could do as she journeyed through the eye-filled forest was sing. Raijin at least seemed to enjoy the music, and through the night, no wild beasts or guai attacked, so perhaps they enjoyed it as well.


    The sun was rising when Lanfen finally stepped out of the tree line and into the light. She had only a few minutes¡¯ walk under the caress of its warm rays before she ascended into the smoky cloud layer surrounding the peak. Chilly mist wet her face and beaded on Raijin¡¯s eyelashes and hair like diamonds, but the baby only laughed.


    Lanfen¡¯s hands shook endlessly now, and in spite of the chill, she was sweating. With no need for the lantern any longer, she dropped it beside the path and kept one hand on her son and the other on the pouch. Its contents were for later, not now, not before the errand was complete, but touching it, reminding herself it was there, made her feel safe.


    Near midmorning Raijin began to complain for his meal. He¡¯d been a good boy, gone the night through without eating, and Lanfen¡¯s legs were unaccustomed to such strenuous use, so she stopped gratefully and sat on a flat rock in the shelter of an outcropping to rest and breastfeed him. Usually these days, Raijin ate rice pudding or soft bits of boiled vegetables, but Lanfen had left too suddenly the day before to think about bringing solid food. Now that she was feeding him, however, she was glad she hadn¡¯t brought anything, glad for the closeness. She bent down and kissed his forehead. This would be his last meal with her.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Her shaking intensified at the thought, the nagging ache in her bones turning into an unbearable need. She couldn¡¯t wait until the trip back down the mountain. She reached for the pouch.


    The deep call of a great rainbird rumbled overhead.


    Startled, Lanfen looked up, searching for signs of the creature. A trio of trailing plume feathers as wide as a grown man and twice as long cut through the pale gray mist. Each one shimmered with greens, indigos, purples, and blacks.


    Just before the tailfeathers disappeared, a soft indigo barbule drifted down through the swirling fog to land on Raijin¡¯s cheek.


    Lanfen¡¯s fingers trembled so badly that she had to try three times before she successfully plucked the fuzzy barbule from his skin. It was no more than a wisp, so downy she could hardly feel it. She popped it in her mouth.


    The barbule tasted of plum blossoms and dissolved on her tongue like a sugar sweet.


    Immediately, strength returned to her exhausted limbs, and her blearing vision sharpened. The shaking vanished, her hands becoming as stable and strong as when they were wrapped around the neck of her moon lute or pouring a drink for a wealthy patron. The nagging, aching need battling to take control of her mind dissipated. The pouch remained unopened.


    As soon as Raijin finished his meal, Lanfen pushed away from the boulder and returned to her climb. Her delicate feet seemed to fly over the rocky path as if her silken shoes, which had been nearly destroyed by the journey so far, no longer touched the earth. It was as if she had become a storm cloud drifting through the sky. Before she knew it, a dark shape began to emerge from the mist.


    Lanfen had been told all her life that the structure at the top of the Shangyang¡¯s highest peak was a monastery filled with monks watching over Kokuji and the mountain pass to the east. These holy men were said to be the reason the village had never been overrun by guai.


    As she drew closer to the structure, her jade eyes followed the line of the building¡¯s ancient wood porch around each corner. The wooden shakes of the roof had been painted a deep forest green, and its eaves were upturned at the corners in a foreign or forgotten architecture. She counted three sets of sliding doors along this wall, all closed against the pervasive chill. Each panel depicted in golden paint an ornate Deep Root glyph¡ªwisdom, self-control, improvement.


    Still floating on the essence of the rainbird¡¯s barbule, she glided up the steps and let herself into the center door¡ªself-control, something she¡¯d had precious little of in her life¡ªsliding the panel shut behind her.


    Lanfen found herself standing in a corridor that ran the length of the building. Doorways stood open on the interior wall, and at each end, she could see the hallway turned the corner. A pervasive warmth burned away the cold, wet of the mountain¡¯s atmosphere. She could hear the muted din of many voices, but she couldn¡¯t tell from which direction they were coming.


    She chose one end of the corridor and began walking.


    Just before she reached the end, a young man of an age with her came around the corner wearing the loose gray pants and jacket of warrior artists, held closed by a blue-gray sash tied about his waist. The young man stopped suddenly when he saw her, surprise lighting his face. Before his reaction could be considered rude, however, he recovered his manners.


    He pressed his fists together and bowed deeply to Lanfen, keeping his eyes locked on hers. It was the first time in years Lanfen had been bowed to as one equal greets another, and she thought it unlikely he would do the same if he knew her occupation. The New Tongue had dozens of speech tones for varying levels of familiarity and respect, and Lanfen was surprised once more when the young man spoke to her in a tone of kind reverence.


    ¡°You have traveled a great distance to our school, honored guest,¡± the young man said. ¡°How may I make you comfortable?¡±


    Lanfen returned his greeting bow, one hand holding her baby¡¯s head stable against her breast as she bent.


    ¡°Gratitude, brother, but I¡¯m confused. Is this establishment not a monastery?¡±


    He smiled at her familiar address. Most men did.


    ¡°This is the school of the Path of Darkening Skies, sister,¡± he said, matching her tone. ¡°Are you lost?¡±


    ¡°I am beginning to wonder,¡± she admitted. ¡°In Kokuji, your sister was told of a monastery on the highest peak of the Shangyang Mountains, peopled by an ancient order awaiting the thunderbird of prophecy.¡± She raised Raijin in his sling so that the young man could see the baby inside. ¡°You see, brother, I have him. The chosen one is here.¡±


    Rather than burst into throes of ecstasy as Daitai had, the young man just nodded.


    ¡°You are looking for Grandmaster Feng. Follow me, little sister. I will bring you to him.¡±


    *


    The young man led Lanfen down the corridor and into one of the doorways on the interior wall.


    Lanterns hung from the ceiling and a hearth stood in the corner, saturating the room with light and warmth. Elaborately woven silk tapestries lined the walls, wafting in a draft too faint to feel, each one valuable enough to set Lanfen up comfortably as the madam of her own tea house in a much nicer city than Kokuji. A low desk on a thick, colorful rug faced the doorway. Sitting behind it was a man with long, white hair as fine as spider¡¯s silk, ageless skin, and ancient sapphire eyes. As they entered, he looked up from the scroll he was studying.


    The young man with the blue-gray sash dropped to his knees before the desk and pressed his forehead to the rattan mat on the floor, just inches shy of the colorful rug.


    ¡°Apologies, Grandmaster, but I met with an honored guest in the hallway who needed to speak with you.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes,¡± the Grandmaster said, waving a hand heavy with rings.


    The young man rose up to his knees and backed to the doorway before bowing his face to the floor once more, then standing and leaving.


    Bored sapphire eyes turned to inspect Lanfen.


    ¡°Which mud-farm village are you from?¡± the Grandmaster asked in a rude tone she was much more accustomed to hearing. She opened her mouth to answer, but was stopped by another dismissive wave of his hand. Firelight glinted off the precious metals and stones in his many rings. ¡°Never mind, I don¡¯t care. I can hardly keep track of them anymore, anyway. Tell me about the latest chosen one. The child is the reason you¡¯ve come here, is he not?¡±


    Lanfen thought it likely that when faced with this grandmaster¡¯s rudeness, most people cowered and faltered, uncertain of how to proceed, but his discourtesy didn¡¯t upset her composure. She had dealt with many a merchant and noble so rich they could no longer feel anything but superiority.


    She bowed deeply, exposing the back of her neck as if the grandmaster were no more than a fragile elderly man.


    ¡°My apologies for interrupting your evening rest, grandfather,¡± she said, her voice a patronizing coo. ¡°Your granddaughter will be quick so you can make your way to bed. This child is the thunderbird. He has a moon-mark of the Deep Root for thunder behind his right ear. I will bring him close so your tired eyes can see.¡±


    She knelt on the edge of the lavish rug and held Raijin out across the desk. With one finger, she folded her son¡¯s tiny ear flat to better expose the pale mark.


    The Grandmaster snorted. ¡°Have you any idea how many ancient symbols that supposedly say ¡®thunder¡¯ and ¡®rain¡¯ and ¡®rainbird¡¯ and ¡®storm¡¯ I see every year, woman? Never mind that most of you rural bumpkins are too ignorant to tell a moon-mark from a smear of white sauce, let alone read the ancestor¡¯s language. How many of them do you think can actually be the chosen one?¡±


    ¡°One, grandfather. This one.¡±


    ¡°Get that bastard whelp out of my face and go back to your tea brothel or whatever they''re calling it these days, granddaughter,¡± he sneered. ¡°I¡¯m sure you have customers waiting.¡±


    With that dismissal, the Grandmaster spread his scroll across his desk once more and returned to his reading as if she were no longer there.


    Lanfen scowled. The weight of the pouch, so reassuring on her journey up the mountain, now hung heavy in her robes. The pipe and sticky ball of brown qajong inside seemed to burn her skin through the layers of fabric. Panic prickled down her arms and into her fingertips, and she saw her son¡¯s life stretch out in two parallel paths: one growing up in the tea house with a mother who entertained men for room, board, and opiate money and the other in this school.


    In her heart, she knew Raijin was the chosen one. Whether the Grandmaster realized the truth didn¡¯t matter. All that mattered was the honorable life her son could lead here.


    Holding Raijin to her heart, Lanfen backed away from the desk off the precious rug and pressed her face to the rattan.


    ¡°Apologies, venerable Grandmaster. Please forgive this lowly sensha¡¯s insolence. She was ignorant and arrogant to assume that her knowledge outweighed the Grandmaster¡¯s infinite wisdom. She begs you, please do not turn away this child. His mother¡¯s sins are not his, and her dishonor should not be his, either.¡± She wasn¡¯t surprised to feel tears wetting the mat beneath her eyelids. ¡°Please, revered Grandmaster, if not as a student, then take this child on as a servant. He is weaned and will soon be old enough to complete simple tasks. He need not be a burden, but a boon to your school.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t a monastery where you can drop off your unwanted bastards,¡± the Grandmaster said without looking up. ¡°Find the door and leave by it.¡±


    His words struck like a fist to Lanfen¡¯s solar plexus. She stifled the sob of desperation that shook her shoulders.


    ¡°Please, Grandmaster,¡± she begged. ¡°Please reconsider.¡±


    The soft grunt of a cleared throat came from behind Lanfen.


    ¡°Apologies for the intrusion,¡± a throaty, elderly voice said.


    Lanfen crawled backward once more and turned to the side so she would not be disrespecting either the Grandmaster or this new arrival by giving them her back.


    In the doorway stood a stooped, balding, wrinkled old man much closer to her imagined monk. Unlike the Grandmaster, the old man¡¯s brown eyes shined from beneath his wild brows with warmth and barely contained humor.


    The Grandmaster sighed. ¡°What is it, Master Chugi?¡±


    ¡°If the Grandmaster would honor Chugi so greatly as to consider his input, the school could greatly use another servant.¡± The old Master smiled at Lanfen, his eyes twinkling. ¡°And if in time this new servant should prove to be the chosen one, then at least we won¡¯t have to go looking for him.¡±


    Hope tightened Lanfen¡¯s throat. Afraid of what she might find there, she turned her gaze to face the Grandmaster¡¯s face.


    ¡°Fine,¡± the Grandmaster said as if he were bored of the subject and prepared to say anything just to be left alone. ¡°The boy may stay. But until he¡¯s old enough to work, he¡¯s your responsibility, Master Chugi.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Grandmaster.¡±


    ¡°Feh.¡± Grandmaster Feng returned to his scroll.


    On her knees, Lanfen crawled to Master Chugi and handed him her son, the tears rolling down her face now.


    In spite of his elderly appearance, Master Chugi took the baby in strong, sure arms. Lanfen swallowed hard as she let her son go. She could already feel his warmth fading from her skin. The cold that replaced it stung like a blade.


    ¡°His name is Raijin, Master,¡± she whispered, unable to raise her voice any louder.


    Master Chugi smiled down at the boy. ¡°It suits him, granddaughter.¡±

 Chapter 1: Koida

    Present


    Koida, second princess of the Shyong San Empire, focused her breathing and stilled her mind. She focused on the meagre amount of amethyst Ro at her heartcenter, circling and swirling like a handful of purple sand tossed into a river. Disordered. Unmanageable. Something that would slip through her fingers the moment she tried to grab it.


    ¡°Are you ready, second princess?¡± Master Lao asked.


    After another moment of intense focus, Koida tried to send the Ro through her shoulder, down the pathway in her arm. Instead, her veins tingled as the energy followed them, seeking out and forcing its way along the easiest routes, traveling down the outside bone of her lower arm and into the heel of her hand. She could feel the Ro manifesting off-balance, but there was nothing she could do to correct it. It was all that she could do to force enough into her hand to manifest a glowing purple bo-shan stick the length of her forearm. By the time she finished, sweat cooled her temples. The stick was barely there, translucent, a ghost of the weapon it should be. The color¡ªstill a perfect match for her eyes¡ªwas a visual reminder that at seventeen years old her Ro was no more advanced than that of six-year-old.


    Koida opened her eyes. ¡°Ready, Master.¡±


    Lao stepped forward and swung his glowing red bo-shan stick¡ªthis one as solid as stone and the proper color for an advanced Ro¡ªoverhanded at her head. Koida sidestepped and countered, then spun and swung a counterattack upward at her master¡¯s thigh. Lao blocked as he evaded, the impact of their sticks ringing in the midmorning air.


    Across the courtyard, Koida¡¯s personal guards looked up long enough to ascertain that she had not been harmed, then returned to their game of Stones and Tiles. It was a ridiculous precaution, being surrounded night and day by guards inside the secure walls of the Sun Palace, but while her father and sister were away, the guards watched over her like a band of mother tigers. Couldn¡¯t leave the helpless Ro-cripple alone.


    Koida bounced backward, evading another strike, and switched her feet. She stepped in and slashed her amethyst stick up from the reverse angle, this time at Master Lao¡¯s ribs. He met her attack, another thwack sounding through the courtyard, then a scrape as he shoved her stick off. He sidestepped and dropped to one knee on the colorful glazed tiles of the courtyard, slapping his stick down at her toes. Koida switched feet again to avoid a broken toe and chopped downward at his collarbone. Still kneeling, Lao raised his arm over his head and knocked her attack aside with a hastily manifested High Shield¡ªa glistening ruby shield the length of his forearm. Without a moment¡¯s pause, he swung his stick at her shin.


    She slid her foot backward, forced to waste valuable attacking opportunities on smacking Master Lao¡¯s attack aside with her own bo-shan. She had never been able to manifest a shield. Or anything but a useless stick.


    Lao spun away from her, spiraling up to standing once more. Koida snapped her wrist backward, whipping the amethyst stick over to rap her master on the head. He raised his arm and blocked with his High Shield again.


    Movement by Lao¡¯s left foot caught Koida¡¯s eye. A fuzzy black and blue wool worm about as long as her pinkie crawling across the courtyard. The creature looked frantic, as if it were running for its life from the stomping feet of incomprehensible giants.


    ¡°Your weapon, princess,¡± Master Lao said, stepping over the wool worm without even noticing it. ¡°Focus!¡±


    In Koida¡¯s hand, the bo-shan flickered like a guttering lamp and lost most of the little physical substance she¡¯d been able to give it. Like this, a strike would more likely whistle right through the stick than be stopped by it.


    Koida bit her lips together and forced as much Ro as she could manage down through her arm and into the weapon. If she let her mind wander too far, the stick would disappear, the Ro returning to her heartcenter, and there was no telling how long it would take her to remanifest the weapon¡ªor if she even could. She could usually only manage one or two manifestations strong enough to train with per day, and never more than one at a time.


    She still wasn¡¯t able to force the Ro through the correct pathway to manifest the stick in a perfect fighting grip, but slowly, the weapon regained the lost sturdiness and color.


    Koida nodded at Master Lao.


    He pressed forward, feet following the zigzagging step pattern common to bo-shan combat, while he slashed the stick at her diagonally from the left and right, left and right. Koida blocked, blocked, blocked, then pulled her body out of line, giving Lao a smaller target, and spun around to his rear. She lashed out with a backfist from her free hand.


    It almost landed on the back of Master Lao¡¯s skull, but his High Shield arm swooped over his shoulder. Her bare knuckles struck the hard, glowing surface instead of his head. It felt as if they splintered on contact, like she had backfisted a ruby wall.


    ¡°Ah!¡± Koida cried out as much from surprise as the pain. Her bo-shan stick disappeared as she lost concentration completely. A small amount of her Ro prickled back up through her arm and shoulder into her heartcenter, but the majority formed a small cloud that filtered into Master Lao¡¯s chest.


    ¡°Wait,¡± she said. ¡°I haven¡¯t conceded. This match isn¡¯t over.¡±


    With a terse downward snap of his fist, Master Lao dismissed his own bo-shan and grabbed Koida¡¯s hand.


    ¡°You are incapacitated,¡± he said, studying the angry red skin along the ridge of her knuckles. They throbbed in time with her heart. ¡°The match is over.¡±


    ¡°But I can continue fighting, Master,¡± she protested, forcing her voice to return to the polite student-speaking-to-master tone. In truth, it felt like her hand bones were jagged shards of glass, but she didn¡¯t want to quit training for the day. She¡¯d almost had him this time.


    Within the Path of the Living Blade, Ro was absorbed through combat. A little through these training matches when one participant was incapacitated or yielded, and a lot through dueling, battle, and war when an enemy or opponent was killed. Though Koida always lost these training matches with Master Lao, she didn¡¯t think she had lost this particular match, and she didn¡¯t know why her Ro had behaved as if she¡¯d been defeated. She hadn¡¯t admitted defeat or been incapacitated; her weapon had just been broken. She could have finished the fight bare-handed¡ªindeed, she would¡¯ve had to if this had been a fight for her life, as it so often was in the world outside the palace.


    ¡°Apologies, second princess, but you cannot continue fighting.¡± Master Lao probed the red mark, eliciting a wince from her. ¡°You may have a broken hand.¡±


    ¡°I would like to continue training, Master.¡± She couldn¡¯t order him to continue their fight outright¡ªeven the second princess must respect the rules of the student-master dynamic¡ªbut she did infuse her voice with royal authority. She might not be able to remanifest her stick, but there were always hand and foot techniques. Perhaps she would never absorb enough Ro to use the weapon techniques as intended, but to learn them could only do her good.


    Master Lao waved at the guards. ¡°Please escort the second princess to the court alchemists. See if they can mix her a salve to repair the damage.¡±


    Batsai, the captain of her personal guard, joined them.


    ¡°But, Master, I could practice kicks,¡± Koida said. ¡°My legs aren¡¯t injured.¡±


    ¡°This discussion is closed,¡± Lao said, his voice a stone wall. He covered his closed fist with a flat palm and bowed. ¡°Good training today, second princess.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Master.¡± Koida mirrored his motion, trying not to grimace with the frustration of being dismissed or the pain in her knuckles when she covered them.


    Batsai waited for her to precede him, then fell into step beside her. The other three guards in her escort fanned out behind them.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ¡°That spinning backfist looked good,¡± Batsai said as they stepped into the cool shade of the courtyard portico.


    Koida frowned. ¡°For a cripple.¡±


    Batsai stopped and turned to face her.


    ¡°Do I grovel and fawn over you, second princess?¡± he asked. ¡°Am I known to wheedle your favor through empty compliments?¡±


    Personally responsible for her protection since she was a baby, Batsai was one of the few people in the Empire who wasn¡¯t afraid to speak to her that way. His honesty was a rare treasure in a sea of courtiers and nobles all frightened of losing their heads to the royal executioner¡¯s Falling Blade Wall technique.


    ¡°Apologies, Batsai,¡± Koida said. ¡°My anger took control and shamed me. Can you forgive your princess?¡±


    The captain let out a grunt and nodded. ¡°Better learn to differentiate between the honesty of a friend and the sweet lies of a foe, little dragon, before you burn us all.¡±


    Before he turned back and began walking again, his hand shot out, and he tweaked her nose as he had when she was still a child. Koida grinned and caught up to him, the rest of her guard following behind.


    They climbed the steps from the training courtyard into the cool, shadowed halls of the Sun Palace. As they wound through the mazelike corridors, courtiers, officials, and her father¡¯s concubines backed against the walls and bowed to the second princess.


    Proper conduct didn¡¯t require that Koida return their obeisance with acknowledgement¡ªnone of them ranked highly enough or were her blood relations or master¡ªso she ignored them. A nod of her head would only serve as permission to speak with her, and she knew they were all dying to ingratiate themselves so she would plead their causes to her father, Emperor Hao. Over the seventeen years of her life, Koida had become adept at avoiding these smiling traps.


    The Eastern tower was the only remaining section of the original castle, a stout stone fortification that the luxurious new palace had consumed long before Koida¡¯s birth. These days it housed the court alchemists and eunuchs, far removed from where an explosion could harm one of the royal family.


    Outside the door of the Eastern tower, Batsai stopped.


    ¡°Wait here,¡± he ordered the other three soldiers. ¡°Guard the tower until we¡¯ve returned.¡±


    ¡°Yes, captain.¡± They took up spots on either side of the doorway


    Alone now, Koida and Batsai climbed the spiraling stairs.


    ¡°Why leave them behind?¡± she asked him.


    The captain smirked. ¡°Jun has been desperate to master the Serpentine Spear ever since his brother did. I wouldn¡¯t put it past that idiot to try making off with something.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡±


    Koida could understand the young guard¡¯s temptation. Though most of her visits to the Eastern tower now were for powders to ease her monthly pain, as a child watching her sister Shingti advance from student to mastery of the Path of the Living Blade with seeming ease, Koida had dreamed of a potion or pill that would advance her Ro and make her as strong and capable as anyone else in the empire. Unfortunately, even with all their knowledge and experimentation, the court alchemists had yet to find a concoction that would cure a Ro-cripple like her.


    The higher they climbed, the more overwhelming the stink of strange metallic vapors and chemical salts became. Floorboards overhead creaked with activity, and muffled voices drifted down from above.


    At the entrance to the laboratory¡ªlittle more than a hatch in the ceiling¡ªBatsai went in and inspected the room for any hidden threats to Koida, then returned and stood aside, allowing her to enter alone.


    Inside, the smell was even more intense. Busy alchemists and apprentices leaned over bubbling cauldrons, dusting multicolored powders from grindstones into phials, and dipping precious gems in smoking solutions.


    ¡°Second princess?¡± An aging alchemist with black dye smudging her hairline and charcoal darkening her eyebrows bowed over. She rose gracefully and asked, ¡°You wish for your monthly medicine?¡±


    ¡°Gratitude, Sulyeon, but Master Lao sent me.¡± Koida pulled her arms from her sleeves and showed Sulyeon her hand. ¡°He believed it to be broken and requested that you mix a salve to repair the damage.¡±


    In vexation, Sulyeon¡¯s false eyebrows attempted to touch in the center of her forehead.


    ¡°May a thousand suns burn Lao and his ignorance,¡± she said, prodding Koida¡¯s throbbing knuckles. ¡°We have no salve that can repair broken bones in a day. We practice science here. If the fool wants magic, he should send the second princess to the eunuchs.¡± Sulyeon finished her rant and inspection of Koida¡¯s knuckles at the same time. ¡°Bruised, not broken. A tincture of distilled green haze will soothe the tenderness and prevent discoloration.¡±


    While the alchemist went to a long workbench covered with jars and stone boxes and flasks, Koida¡¯s attention was drawn to the rough wall of wooden shelves dividing the laboratory into a halfmoon. This wall of shelving had not existed on her last visit. She could see movement in the crack between two shelves but couldn¡¯t discern what was being done on the other side or who was doing it.


    Sulyeon returned with a gritty green ointment that smelled like sharp herbs and salts. She rubbed the concoction onto Koida¡¯s knuckles, and within moments, the throbbing subsided.


    ¡°That is much better. I think I will tell Master Lao that your science is not far from magic,¡± Koida said, dipping her head to the reluctantly pleased alchemist. ¡°Gratitude, gifted healer.¡±


    Koida slipped her hands back inside her sleeves and was about to ask Sulyeon about the shelves dividing the room when a slender, white-haired form ducked out from behind the barrier into the laboratory.


    ¡°Cousin Yoichi?¡±


    The young man stopped midstride, clearly surprised, then bowed to her. ¡°Cousin Koida.¡±


    She returned his bow. Though Yoichi was not truly her cousin, he was a blood relation. Shyong Liu Yoichi was her father¡¯s only known son, a bastard from a harem girl. The version of his story Koida had heard was that, twenty-three years before, Shingti¡¯s mother, the late First Empress, had been told by the eunuchs she could never have a child. Distraught, the First Empress asked the Emperor¡¯s most beautiful harem girl to stop taking precautions and sent Emperor Hao to her. Two months later, both the First Empress and the harem girl were pregnant. The eunuchs who¡¯d pronounced the First Empress infertile were put to death for their blunder. Not wanting her child to have competition for the throne but unwilling to kill a pregnant woman, the First Empress sent the harem girl away. Shingti was born the heir, and the First Empress died in childbirth. Her death seemed only a tragic accident until Koida was born to her father¡¯s fourth wife, the Fourth Empress, who also died giving birth. One at a time over the following years, the remaining Empresses died of illnesses and accidents. Behind closed doors, citizens claimed the deaths were the result of a curse put on the Emperor¡¯s wives by the wronged harem girl.


    Rumors continued to fly until five summers previous when Yoichi had appeared at court to petition the Emperor for his right to the throne. Though his hair was snowy white, Yoichi¡¯s high cheekbones, slanting jaw, and purple eyes left no doubt as to who had sired him. He was a looking glass image of Emperor Hao as a young man, but handsomer, nearly beautiful, as if an artist had refined the father¡¯s characteristics in the son. His mother, Yoichi explained, had died in childbirth like Shingti¡¯s and Koida¡¯s, a complication the midwife had speculated came from their shared father. He then revealed his Heroic Record¡ªthe tattoos covering his arms and chest which recorded his greatest feats of battle. He had waited to come to the palace until he had advanced himself and mastered the Path of the Living Blade so that he would be worthy of his place in the Shyong San dynasty.


    Though Emperor Hao had refused to take away Shingti¡¯s birthright and give it to Yoichi, he had accepted his illegitimate son into the royal household, going so far as to give him the Shyong clan name and legalizing his rank as noble above any other being in the empire excepting the Emperor and his daughters. This had suited Yoichi, and to spare his half-sisters the shame of addressing a bastard as an equal, he had suggested they simply call one another cousin.


    ¡°What are you doing up here?¡± Koida asked.


    ¡°Ah¡­¡± A slight discomfort twisted Yoichi¡¯s beautiful features. ¡°That might be a conversation for a more¡­worldly woman than yourself, little cousin.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m worldly.¡± As she said it, she realized that the declaration made her sound even more childish than if she¡¯d kept her mouth shut. But Cousin Yoichi was in his early twenties and always seemed to be up to something interesting. Whenever he was around, she wanted to impress him so that he would let her in on the secret.


    Yoichi faltered. ¡°Don¡¯t tell your father that you saw me here or that I told you why I came. He¡¯ll hang me for corrupting your innocence.¡±


    ¡°I swear,¡± Koida promised. ¡°Not a word.¡±


    ¡°Sometimes men¡ª¡± He cast around for the words. ¡°¡ªvisit with women¡­alone¡­¡±


    ¡°Cousin, I am not a child. I know what intercourse is.¡± There were plenty of scrolls in the royal library explaining how it was done and giving tips on making the experience more enjoyable.


    Yoichi¡¯s pale eyebrows arched toward his shaggy white hair. Then a grin broke out on his face.


    ¡°Little cousin is already planning her harem,¡± he teased. They both knew that unless Shingti abdicated the throne, Koida would never be the empress and have no right to a harem. ¡°Fine, if you know so much, then you know the consequences a careless night can have?¡±


    Koida nodded. ¡°Pregnancy.¡±


    ¡°But there are ways to prevent that.¡± He produced a stone phial from his sleeve. ¡°I¡¯m taking precautions to assure there will be no more bastards born into our family line. Not by me, in any case.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Koida¡¯s face colored as she realized the significance this precaution would have for one such as Yoichi. She pressed a closed fist to her heart and gave a remorseful bow. ¡°Apologies, elder cousin. Your little cousin should not have pried.¡±


    ¡°It is nothing,¡± Yoichi returned easily. The phial disappeared back into his robes. ¡°What force caused you to brave the stink of the Eastern tower today?¡±


    ¡°I bruised my knuckles training,¡± Koida explained, pushing back her sleeve to reveal the pungent green salve soaking into the back of her hand.


    ¡°Training?¡± Yoichi glanced down at her martial attire as if just only now seeing it. ¡°I would have expected you to spend this morning dressing for court.¡±


    ¡°Court?¡± Koida canted her head. ¡°Today? But Father and Shingti are still on campaign.¡±


    ¡°No one told you? A messenger came in during the night. The Wungs surrendered. The Emperor and first princess will return home this evening.¡±

 Chapter 2: Koida

    Present


    The last cascade of tiny bells were pinned to Koida¡¯s elaborate hair dressing just as the war horns became audible. The sound meant her father and his entourage were passing through Boking Iri, the empire¡¯s capital city, just down the Horned Serpent River from the Sun Palace.


    Koida clutched her blood-orange shoulder wrap with one hand and the hem of her blue-green silk robes with the other as she sprinted from her residences. The bell cascades were meant to stay silent, proof of her impeccable poise and grace, but they jangled like a troupe of dancers at her father¡¯s yearly birth celebration as she ran through the corridors.


    In the north gallery of the palace, just inside the doorway to the main courtyard, Koida slid to a halt, stilled the ringing bells in her hair, smoothed her train and sleeves, and slowed her heaving breath. Composed but for a slight flush in her cheeks, she stepped out into the courtyard.


    Most of the nobility already lined the golden stairs and were watching the massive gates that stood open to the north. Their finery painted the courtyard in the bright colors of a lush garden.


    Near the top of the stairs, as befit his bestowed station, Yoichi stood with his hands tucked into plum-colored robes that matched his eyes. He, too, had changed clothing since their meeting in the tower that morning, though it looked as if his change had been much less rushed. He nodded to her, then adjusted the left shoulder of his robe meaningfully.


    Koida hurried to pull the slipping wrap back onto her bare shoulders. Yoichi smiled his wry smile and returned his attention to the gates.


    Outside the palace gates, a raucous cheer went up, and the war horns blasted another growling bass note that echoed through the valley. In the distance, Koida could see a great throng of riders, the blood-orange Shyong San banners fluttering overhead. Though she¡¯d seen the same sight many times since birth, her heart leapt. Somewhere near the front of that churning mass of horses and soldiers were her father and sister. They were finally home again.


    As the entourage approached the palace, Koida raised her arms in the ceremonial return greeting pose¡ªchin high, eyes forward, elbows away from her sides, palms open to receive her Emperor and his armies back into their home.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    The bannermen rode through the gates first, followed by the horn bearers. Mounted soldiers came next and pulled up on either side of the gate, creating an equine tunnel.


    When Koida caught sight of her sister¡¯s personal guard, all wearing Shingti¡¯s Green Dragonfly armor, she had to fight to keep the grin from her lips.


    Shingti galloped in behind them to the deafening cheers of noble, soldier, and servant alike. The first princess was powerful and strong, the youngest master of the Path of the Living Blade in nearly a century, and beloved by all her subjects for the honor she brought to the empire. Her long brown hair whipped over her shoulder, and her purple eyes flashed as she wheeled her half-demon destrier and reared him up onto his back legs. Like the mounted soldiers, Shingti and her Dragonfly Guard lined both sides of the courtyard, completing the tunnel to the palace stairs.


    The Emperor¡¯s guard trotted into the courtyard next, their blood-orange plumage shifting in the breeze. The men dismounted and dropped to their knees. With equal pageantry, their warhorses¡ªtrimmed in blood-orange tack and bearing the Emperor¡¯s crest¡ªeach bent a front leg and lowered their long heads toward the ground.


    Last of all, in the position of greatest honor, Emperor Hao rode in on his aging chestnut destrier, another half-demon hybrid. His blood-orange armor glinted fire in the sunset as he walked his horse up to the steps.


    Koida brought her palms together and bowed to her father, keeping her head motionless to avoid ringing the cascades of bells.


    ¡°Exalted Emperor,¡± she intoned, her voice ringing off the walls, ¡°the Sun Palace welcomes you into its embrace. May your mighty Ro fill its halls with glory once more.¡±


    ¡°Daughter, you have kept the palace alive in my absence.¡±


    With a thrust of his gauntleted fist, Emperor Hao manifested a glistening ruby scepter crowned with wicked spikes and extended it to Koida. She rose from the formal pose at his invitation, her part in the ceremony complete.


    Emperor Hao turned his horse to face the gathered crowd. ¡°After a brave fight on the field of battle, the Wung tribe honorably surrendered! We feast this night in celebration of the enlightenment and peace the Shyong San Empire has brought to a new tribe!¡±


    Nearly everyone in the courtyard cheered. Several of the soldiers threw their helmets into the air, Shingti included.


    As the ceremony ended, palace servants scurried inside to finish preparations for the feast, commoners hurried back to Boking Iri and the surrounding farms to recount the story to their families, and weary soldiers either started their trips home or dismounted and led their horses to the stables. Nobles pressed forward to the Emperor and first princess, all hoping to offer the first congratulations and make certain everyone noticed them paying homage.


    Koida slipped back into palace. She wanted to talk to her sister and father, but she would never get near them in the swarm. She would greet them privately when their attentions were undivided.

 Chapter 3: Koida

    Present


    Before the feast could begin, the customary signing of the Book of the Empire had to be completed. The chieftain and a small group of representatives from the Wungs came before the raised White Jade Dais, where the Emperor¡¯s royal table presided, and carved their seal into a steelwood panel. This minor act officially ended the enmity between all Wung villages and the Empire, recognized all tribal territory as falling within the Empire¡¯s borders, and pledged a tithe of grain and tribute of soldiers from each of their villages. As the commander of the Emperor¡¯s army and the Empire¡¯s greatest known Master of the Living Blades, Shingti accepted the finished panel and added it to the Book, clamping the thick rings that bound it back into place.


    ¡°Brave warriors of the Wung tribe,¡± the first princess said in a proud, clear voice that filled the feasting hall, ¡°be welcomed by your new brothers and sisters.¡±


    Koida sat at her father¡¯s left hand, watching this formality unfold. Like most of the envoys from the peoples her father and sister had subjugated and united, the Wungs seemed a combination of sullen and terrified. Not long ago, Yoichi had confided in Koida that on his travels, he¡¯d heard barbarian tribes claim that the Emperor Hao was a cannibal who ate his enemies¡¯ hearts in arcane ceremonies designed to multiply the strength of his Ro. When she asked Yoichi whether that would work, Yoichi had laughed and said not to try it, for ¡°the human heart carries diseases worse than all other organs combined.¡±


    Once the official business was complete, and the music and feasting and drinking begun, the Wung envoy began to relax. They clumped together around a far table near the corner of the hall, talking sullenly amongst themselves and glaring at any Empire nobility who strayed too close. They didn¡¯t turn down any of the Sun Palace¡¯s famous blood orange wine, however.


    Shingti handed off the Book to an official and began to make her way back to the dais, but group after group of courtiers stopped her. Now that the first princess was back in the castle, everyone wanted her ear, but Shingti brushed them aside easily in favor of drinking with her guard.


    Servants bowed up the dais to fill the plate and cup of the Emperor, then Koida¡¯s. One discreetly removed Shingti¡¯s place setting and bowed back down the stairs to find where the first princess had landed.


    Until the Emperor¡¯s meal was finished, it was forbidden to approach the dais without being summoned, which meant Koida had him to herself for the time being.


    ¡°Your daughter is glad you¡¯re home, Father,¡± Koida said, switching from the formal tones she¡¯d used during the return ceremony to the loving familial speech. She leaned over and pecked his cheek quick as a chickadee.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    This close and without the blood-orange armor covering most of his face and body, her father¡¯s age showed in the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, the thick wine barrel belly, and in his graying beard and warrior¡¯s knot. These signs of passing time caused Koida no distress, however. For as long as she could remember, her father¡¯s hair had been graying, but the gray had never quite been able to overpower the black. The vigor in his purple eyes and the power in his weapon techniques were all one needed to experience to know this man would outlast the Horned Serpent River itself.


    ¡°Your father is glad to rest his old bones and see his youngest child again.¡± Emperor Hao squeezed Koida¡¯s hand, then patted it roughly. ¡°She seems to have grown even more beautiful while I was away.¡±


    Koida suppressed a wince. The linctus the alchemist had spread on her knuckles that morning had worn off, and she hadn¡¯t had time to reapply the gritty green gel in her rush to dress for the return ceremony.


    A boisterous laugh went up from the crowd below. Shingti at the center of her Dragonfly Guard. One hugely muscled man reached over and pounded her on the back while others clutched their stomachs or shouted rude insults. Shingti pointed at one man and said something, then pretended to preen and admire her reflection in a cup of wine. This sent many of them into fits of laughter while the offended party shook his fist at her. He, too, was smiling, however. It was clear these men saw Shingti as one of their own rather than a fragile ward as Koida¡¯s guard saw her.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been keeping up with my training,¡± Koida told her father, wanting him to approve and simultaneously feeling small and stupid for trying to curry his favor. ¡°I nearly landed a backfist on Master Lao this morning.¡±


    The Emperor took a long sip of wine. ¡°That¡¯s good, daughter, but have you given any further consideration to what Eunuch Ba-Qu said? I would rather my child leave off the studies of the Path than have her harmed trying to strain toward an advancement she can never achieve.¡±


    Koida tugged her sleeve down farther over her bruised hand. ¡°But even if I can never advance, learning the techniques¡ª¡±


    ¡°Aha!¡± Emperor Hao clapped his hands together with delight. ¡°The poets are starting!¡±


    Fighting hard not to show the twinge of bitterness at his dismissal of her, Koida fell silent as the lanterns around the room were dimmed and a single bright light shined on a set of opaque shades at the far end of the room. Her father often did this when she disagreed with him, changing the subject and then pretending he couldn¡¯t hear her appeals. Arguing further would accomplish nothing but to make him sullen and spiteful. Resigned, Koida took a deep drink of her wine and watched a performer take his place behind the shade.


    The next hour went to the court¡¯s poets and the shadow actors as they recounted the most harrowing tales from Emperor Hao¡¯s Heroic Record. After this came the Record of Shingti, Dragonfly of the Battlefield, followed by the account of the Wandering Hero, cousin Yoichi.


    Wedged between the sagas of the valiant offspring the Exalted Emperor had produced was a short song called the Beauty of Koida, Lilac of the Valley, a polite attempt at pretending that she had contributed anything useful to the warrior dynasty.


    Koida wished they would have forgotten her altogether.

 Chapter 4: Koida

    Present


    The feast carried on well into the night, as the return celebrations often did. When the hard wine was brought out, the Emperor announced that he would retire, which allowed Koida to slip away as well. Though her father had given little indication through the night that he noticed Koida¡¯s presence, it was still offensive to leave before the Emperor did.


    The moment she arose from her seat, Koida¡¯s personal guard sidled away from the conversations and dances they were engaged in and followed her out of the hall.


    ¡°Had enough celebration?¡± Batsai asked.


    She smiled up at him. ¡°I miss the quiet of an empty palace.¡±


    ¡°You would make a good soldier¡¯s wife,¡± he teased. ¡°Pine for him until he comes home, then wish he would get back to war already.¡±


    Koida let this go. She loved having her family home. It was being forced to spend time around the rest of the royal entourage she could do without.


    They traversed the mazelike corridors to the royal residence wing of the palace. Once there, they fell into a single file to follow the snaking pattern of boards that would not trigger the shrieking of the nightcaller floors. Nightcaller floors were one of the palace¡¯s many precautions against assassins. Should anyone who didn¡¯t know the pattern attempt to sneak into a residence at night, the hinged boards¡¯ high-pitched scraping would alert every guard within hearing distance and likely wake the sleeping target as well. The serpentine patterns were well-guarded secrets which only the most trusted members of palace staff were privy to.


    At Koida¡¯s residence, her guard spread out and searched each chamber thoroughly for hidden threats, then inspected her furniture for poisoned needles, deadly habu adders, and venomous spiders. As usual, they found nothing.


    ¡°Be sure you stay closeted tonight, little dragon,¡± Batsai warned her as she walked him to her outermost chamber. He and Jun had the watch that night and would stay in the sitting room until daybreak when Hyung-Po and Qing would relieve them. ¡°A countryside full of drunken soldiers and unfamiliar faces is a danger to any man, woman, or child, let alone a princess.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Koida feigned a yawn. ¡°I am exhausted from the wine, anyway. My ladies should come soon to help me undress. Will you let them in?¡±


    Batsai nodded, then took his post at the door. Koida went into her dressing chamber and rang for her waiting ladies, then stood before the looking glass and began attempting to pick bells out of her dark brown, nearly black hair. Her dark hair and purple eyes had come from her father, though her irises were a light violet instead of the plum color Hao, Yoichi, and Shingti all shared. Overall, there was very little of her father in her appearance. Her face was as round as the moon and nearly as pale, marked by a measure of the legendary loveliness of her mother. Perhaps the Fourth Empress had been the silent carrier of the Ro-crippling deficiency that plagued Koida. Her mother had had nearly a full arm¡¯s worth of Heroic Record to prove that she had no trouble controlling her own Ro, but Emperor Hao¡¯s two other extraordinary children were clear proof that he wasn¡¯t to blame for his second daughter¡¯s uselessness.


    Koida was still scowling and picking at the first bell cascade when feminine giggling in the outer chamber announced her ladies¡¯ arrival. Jun was an interminable flirt. Batsai showed the ladies into the inner chamber, then let himself back out. The ladies began taking apart Koida¡¯s ceremonial robes, hair dressing, and jewelry while hinting at their desire to gossip about the celebration. Koida ignored their obvious leading. Even in the best of moods, she hated idle chatter.


    Finally, the chittering monkeys finished helping Koida into her nightdress and left, taking their constant stream of babble with them.


    Koida stuck her head into the outer chamber. Batsai was seated on a cushion, reading a scroll, while Jun practiced Pose of the Mountain, holding himself horizontal to the floor on an extended Spear Hand. His Ro glimmered red in the shape of a serpentine spearhead, the sharp tip lodged in the wooden floorboards. The greatest of artists were said to be capable of holding the Mountain for hours at a time, but Jun¡¯s Ro spear flickered as she watched. He would drop forward soon and have to begin again.


    ¡°Good night, Batsai.¡±


    ¡°Good night, little dragon. Dream vast breaths of endless fire,¡± came his familiar reply.


    She slid closed the door and walked to her bed platform, then slid off her velvet residence slippers and climbed up onto the soft layers of feather ticking and luxurious demon beast furs. She put out the bedside lantern and sat in the darkness, eyes adjusting to the scant silver-blue moonlight filtering in around the wooden sliding door closing off her balcony. In the winter, heavy drapes were hung about the door to seal out the cold, but in this early fall, those were still hidden away somewhere. The stretch of nightcaller floor between the balcony and her bed had no pattern of silent boards to follow.


    In the outer chamber, Koida heard the floor squeal and a heavy bump, followed by Jun¡¯s muffled curse. Batsai murmured something. Jun groaned and resumed the pose.


    As Batsai began to speak again, Koida stood and grabbed the closest of the thick wooden beams crossing her ceiling. Hand over hand, she climbed to the exterior wall, bypassing the unforgiving section of nightcaller floor, then shoved the balcony door with her toe. It rolled open without a sound. She kept the wheels and track heavily greased year-round.


    With a swing of her legs, Koida dropped herself onto the stone floor of the balcony, landing as silently as a moth. She slid the door closed behind herself, then found the loose stone in the waist-high wall surrounding the balcony. Behind it, a set of black silks in the style of peasant clothes, but much finer, were folded around a pair of soft leather boots. Working quickly in the chill fall air, she traded her nightdress for the black pants and shirt, then laced on the boots.


    Now more appropriately outfitted, she swung herself over the edge of the balcony and scaled the stone wall down to the palace gardens, where numerous fountains burbled into the night. Guards patrolled the perimeter and pathways, occasionally rousting drunken couples out of the shrubbery. Koida crouched and watched, wondering whether Yoichi was somewhere out there with one of the worldly women he¡¯d mentioned, then whether Shingti was. Her sister was never one to brag about her non-martial conquests, but Koida knew there had been several.You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Finally, Koida¡¯s chance came. The guards were all facing away from the garden wall, sending off a particularly amorous couple who didn¡¯t want to leave and who declared so loudly. She darted to the garden wall, ran two steps up the side and grabbed onto the top, hauling herself over. She dropped to the other side and slid along the wall like a shadow until she came to the royal stables.


    A reinforced lantern cast yellow light through the open doors at both ends of the long building. Peering in through the nearest window, Koida could see the stable hands and drivers were all gathered around a game of Stones and Tiles, laying bets and passing the time while they waited for the visiting nobles and soldiers to return and demand their carriages or mounts for a tipsy ride home.


    Koida slipped down the stable wall until she came to the right window, then climbed inside.


    An enormous black destrier snorted and stamped his wide hoof in fury.


    ¡°Shh.¡± Koida leaned into the light shining through his stall doors so the monstrous horse could see her face. ¡°It¡¯s only me, you big brute.¡±


    When Pernicious saw it was her, he quieted instantly and began to nuzzle her side. Koida dug into her shirt¡¯s pockets until she found the candied blood oranges she had stashed there for him. His wide eyes flashed bloody red fire, but he nibbled them out of her palm as delicately as a kitten lapping up milk.


    Like her sister¡¯s and father¡¯s warmounts, Pernicious was a half-demon, half-horse, built out of unholy slabs of thick muscle, bred to ride down enemies in the chaos of battle. The bloodthirsty half-demon could never be tamed, but he could be befriended. He¡¯d taken a liking to Koida when she was little more than a toddler who had wandered into the stables with a handful candied blood oranges. At the time, her inadequacy manifesting Ro had yet to be discovered, and it was assumed she and Pernicious would dominate the battlefield together with Shingti and their father. Now that everyone knew better, Pernicious mostly spent his time terrifying the stable hands, escaping when he wanted, spreading his seed to every mare he could scent, and smashing small animals that wandered too close. No one but Koida could get near the half-demon safely, let alone ride him. The last one who¡¯d tried had been decapitated with one kick from his broad brimstone hoof.


    Candied offering consumed, Pernicious folded his legs and knelt. Koida grabbed his shaggy black mane and lifted a leg to climb on, but he lurched back to his feet, throwing her down.


    ¡°Ha ha.¡± Koida scowled up at him. This was a game he found particularly funny. ¡°There¡¯s enough meat on your bones to feed the war hounds for a month, you know.¡±


    He whickered softly, an almost-human chuckle, and lowered himself again. But as soon as Koida moved her leg, he stood back up.


    ¡°That¡¯s the sort of night this is going to be, then?¡± she asked in a low voice.


    Pernicious tossed his head, his mane and tail flying.


    ¡°So be it.¡±


    Koida ran up the stall wall and kicked off lightly, launching herself at the warhorse¡¯s broad back. With a screaming whinny, Pernicious circled away, his hairy fetlocks glowing with fiery tongues of orange, yellow, and red Ro as he activated his Darting Evasion. Koida hit his spinning haunches and bounced off. Just before she slammed into the far wall, she grabbed a hank of his tail and pulled, snapping her body perpendicular to his and letting her feet land against the wall like a floor. She flipped backward, arms thrown wide, and dropped into place on his back.


    Pernicious howled, his scream split into nine minor harmonics, and reared. It was his Petrifying Shriek of Legions, intended to paralyze anyone within hearing distance with fear.


    Koida just laughed in victory and grabbed his mane. The beast¡¯s demonic scream had never worked against her. Most likely because she knew that all it took was a handful of candied fruit to reduce him to an oversized lapdog.


    With a kick of one enormous hoof, Pernicious smashed the stall door open and stormed down the center of the stables. He made straight for the stable hands and carriage drivers.


    ¡°No,¡± Koida snapped, yanking sharply with both hands and pulling his head to the left. ¡°We¡¯ll find you something bigger to kill.¡±


    Mollified by the promise of deadlier prey, Pernicious wove around the terrified servants and galloped out into the moonlit night.


    Together, they raced across the countryside, the cold fall wind tearing at their hair. They followed the Horned Serpent River to Boking Iri, then turned sharply into the city, Pernicious¡¯s brimstone hooves striking sparks on the paving stones. He let loose another Petrifying Shriek of Legions, rattling the air and ensuring that no late-night busybody would look out their window and see the second princess riding through the city.


    They whirled down several streets and switchbacks and a few alleyways almost too narrow for Pernicious¡¯s broad body before coming to the beggar¡¯s row. Here the Ro-crippled, the addicts, and the insane huddled together around smoldering rag fires and crouched inside poorly constructed shelters of stolen or scavenged boards. These were the Empire¡¯s untouchables, forced into the dark corners where no one from polite society had to look at¡ªor smell¡ªthem. And, Koida knew, this was where she would be if she had been born anything but the daughter of the Emperor. Forgotten and homeless. Cast away.


    She didn¡¯t slow Pernicious, just threw the bagful of silver she¡¯d brought along at the foot of the largest group of them as she rode through. Behind her, she heard the mad scramble to collect the shiny links but didn¡¯t look back.


    After the city, the princess and the destrier crossed the river, Pernicious taking them straight through the deepest part and soaking Koida to the bone. They rode through the forest, searching out the promised prey. Animals were getting harder and harder to come by this close to Boking Iri, and the demon beasts were almost nonexistent in the area, hunted off by fur traders dealing in the most tender and resilient of pelts and students of the Path of the Living Blade hoping to advance themselves to masters by absorbing a demon¡¯s Ro and consuming the precious stone at the demon¡¯s core. After an hour¡¯s hunt, however, Pernicious tracked down a mountain lion to fight. Their competing screams echoed off the trees and frightened sleeping birds from the branches as they circled and brawled. The mountain lion tried to leap onto Pernicious¡¯s back, but the warhorse activated his Darting Evasion, kicking at the same time. The mountain lion yowled. The flaming brimstone hooves struck its skull with a splintering crack. The big cat fell dead. Pernicious stomped on the back of its neck for good measure.


    A white-gold cloud of Ro filtered up from the mountain lion¡¯s chest, lighting up the trampled undergrowth and the clawed and torn trees as it flowed into Pernicious¡¯s broad chest. The half-demon¡¯s eyes glowed fiery orange as he absorbed the Ro into his heartcenter.


    Koida had seen the process many times, both when Pernicious killed another beast and when Master Lao defeated her in sparring, but still she watched with wide-eyed fascination. It was brutal and beautiful all at once, the essence of the Path of the Living Blade. The strong survived, the victor went on to more victories, until the day they met an opponent stronger than themselves and became the defeated.


    With the warhorse¡¯s desire for battle satisfied, they followed the river north, out of the forest and into the mountains, climbing higher and higher until they came to a cliff beside the Horns, the twin waterfalls that gave the Horned Serpent its name.


    Pernicious folded his legs and rolled in the dewy grass, trying to crush Koida, but she leapt off before she was caught under him. Making a rude gesture at the enormous warhorse, she went to the cliff and dangled her legs off the edge. Stretching out below was the valley, its forest a dark shadow along the silvery strand that was the river. Lights glowed yellow like neighboring stars in the windows of the Sun Palace, and farther downstream, smaller stars marked Boking Iri, the jagged teeth of the Shangyang Mountains hemming them in from the south.


    It was the entire world to Koida, everything she had ever known. She¡¯d never been outside the valley. She sat up on the cliff¡¯s edge and stared down at it, wondering what it was like anywhere else. Uncountable ages later, an inferno of muscle and fur scooted up behind her, head down and eyes closed so he couldn¡¯t see over the edge. She leaned back against Pernicious and fell asleep.

 Darkening Skies Live

    Hey guys,


    As you can see, this isn''t a chapter. Some of you might know that I make my living writing books and selling them on Amazon. Unfortunately that means that I can''t leave the last 90% of the story posted anywhere else once it''s published on Amazon. This morning Darkening Skies went live on Amazon, so I had to take down everything from Chapter 5 and up. I hope you got the chance to finish reading it. If not, I''m sorry, but you can pick it up all edited and fancy on Amazon to find out what happens. And it''s free with Kindle Unlimited, so if you read a ton every month, that''s a pretty great way to go.


    Thanks for reading, guys. Your suggestions and error-catching are top-notch, and I appreciate every one of your comments, ratings, and especially reviews. You all rule! I have some exciting stuff coming down the RRL pipe soon, including starting to post Path of the Thunderbird 2 and a short story featuring one of the Darkening Skies characters.


    Whoops, almost forgot to put in the link. Here''s Darkening Skies on Amazon.</a>If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Thanks again for being awesome,


    elfshanx/eden


    <h2>A boy abandoned at an ancient school of warrior arts. A princess bartered away as a treaty bride. A lurking evil with the power to topple the world.</h2>


    Ji Yu Raijin is happy to live out his life serving his school, cultivating his life force, and learning the Path of Darkening Skies, an ancient and noble warrior art¡ªuntil the day comes when he has to choose: remain true to the teachings of his path and allow his art to die out or commit an unforgivable sin and save the world.


    Second princess Shyong San Koida was born the only cripple in a dynasty of powerful warriors. With a broken life force, the only way Koida can contribute to her family¡¯s empire is by sealing a strategic alliance to a barbarian leader with her hand in marriage. But hidden forces within the court conspire to stop the union and obliterate the Shyong San dynasty at all costs.


    At the intersection of the servant boy and the princess¡¯s stories lies a secret, malignant art bent on destroying not only them, but the entire world.


    Darkening Skies is the first novel in the Path of the Thunderbird series, for fans of wuxia, xanxia, cultivation novels, demon beasts, and all styles of martial arts. Darkening Skies is written by eden Hudson, enthusiastic but terrible martial arts student and best-selling author of Jubal Van Zandt and the litRPG fantasy Rogue Dungeon.

 The Unnamed Path, Pt. 1

    Old Vu Deng didn¡¯t make it a habit to wake early, but his hip was bothering him again, and he couldn¡¯t sleep any longer. Storm must be coming. Head still muzzy from a night of homemade drink, scratching here and there and limping a bit, he stumbled out of his hut at the edge of the rocky peninsula to relieve himself on the burnt-out ruins of the cursed lighthouse. It was something of a village tradition back when there had been a village, one that Deng upheld faithfully as the only remaining inhabitant.


    Yep, a storm was on the horizon for sure. Smelled like salty rain out there, and it was muggy as the inside of a soup pot. The first fingers of dawn were stretching up into a sky of angry-looking clouds, giving the light an odd peach-green cast.


    In fact, he might be in for it a lot sooner than he¡¯d thought. A billow of the denser clouds seemed to be moving awfully fast. This rate, they would make landfall in a thin minute.


    The prospect of a storm didn¡¯t scare Vu Deng. He liked a good noise-maker when he could get one, and storms always blew in good scavenging along his stretch of coast. The last one had washed up a miraculously unbroken bottle with a scrap of cloth inside covered in writing. Not being much of a reader, Deng had used the scrap as a handkerchief, and the bottle went directly into service holding his homebrews.


    Deng was about to start back toward his hut, but that fast-moving thunderhead held his attention. His eyes weren¡¯t what they used to be, but he thought he could see something dark standing on top.


    For a moment, his mind jumped back to the old legends about warrior artists crossing thousands of miles in a day by riding on manifested clouds of Ro. But this cloud looked unwieldly and heavy, its black belly dragging the water. And the longer he watched, the more certain he was that the dark thing on top was too thin and straight to be a human.


    With one hand on the crumbling wall of the cursed lighthouse ruins, Deng limped toward the rocky spit of land stretching out into the sea. As it came nearer, the belly of the cloud took shape. Wide hull, square sails, thin masts. It was a ship. Not like the sleek, colorful junks that used to pass by on their way to harbor upcoast, but bulky and dark. An eerie creature with too many teeth and bulging eyes sliced through the water as the ship plowed toward the rocks.


    ¡°They¡¯re going to break up,¡± Deng said to no one in particular.


    There hadn¡¯t been a functioning beacon on this point to warn ships of the rocks just off the peninsula in nigh fifty years. Shortly after the cursed one had burned, the shipping lanes along this stretch of coast had emptied. The odd vessel passed by, but their crews had all seemed to know where the danger had been and kept well away from the shallows.


    Foreigners. That was the only explanation. Deng took a few more limping steps and waved his wiry arms over his head.


    ¡°Ho, there!¡± he called. His lungs weren¡¯t used to such exertion, and a coughing fit overtook him. He hacked up a wad of mucus and spat toward the lighthouse ruins, then limped out onto the point, still waving his arms. ¡°Ho, ship! Rocks! Danger! Look out!¡±


    He went on shouting and coughing and waving to no avail. If anything, it seemed the ship gained speed.


    Deng cringed a moment before it happened, his thin shoulders rising nearly to his ears and his balding head crumpling down onto his neck like a turtle¡¯s.


    The crunch and crack of splintering wood tore through the stormy morning air. The eerie wooden monster leading from the ship¡¯s nose disintegrated into a million pieces, and the hull shattered as it the jagged maw of underwater rocks bit into it.


    ¡°Piss on the lighthouse,¡± cursed Deng under his breath, his shoulders dropping. ¡°Now they¡¯ve done it.¡±


    He leaned back against a flat rock and waited for the crew to start throwing out their cargo and swimming for shore.


    And waited.


    And waited.


    None came.


    The ship rocked and screeched as the waves washed it and the rocks below the waterline chewed it, but the deck remained lifeless. Deng didn¡¯t see a single thing moving out there besides the sails snapping in the wind.


    A cold shiver ran down the back of his neck.


    He crossed his arms against the feeling and scowled, telling himself that whoever was aboard must not have much common sense. Any idiot could feel that a real gut-wallop of a storm was blowing in. The air was almost crackling with electricity, and the sky fair boiled with clouds. They better get shaking if they were going to salvage any of their goods.


    Still nothing moved.


    Could the blamed thing be empty? Maybe long since abandoned and left afloat on the seas?


    The meager hair on the back of Deng¡¯s neck stood up. He¡¯d never seen such a make of ship, but perhaps that was due to when the ship had been made rather than where. Maybe the thing was hundreds of years old and lost to time itself, its crew dead and moldering aboard.


    Now that he was looking for it, Deng thought he could see the age and disrepair. Worn and fading pitch. Ragged holes in the sails. Wormy wood. Overgrown clusters of barnacles. A general sliminess.


    The wind picked up, blowing in the smell of a lightning strike out on the open ocean. At first, Deng thought some sea glass and metal bits had already washed inland from the wreck and were clinking together along the rocky shore. But when he limped over to the edge of the point and looked down, he saw nothing but kelp and the fish which lived in the crevices when the tide was in.


    The sound came again, and Deng finally placed it. He hadn¡¯t heard such a sound in the village since the night the lighthouse burnt. If he¡¯d never heard the sound again, it would still have been far too soon.


    Somewhere in that wreck, music was playing.


    *


    Deng wrestled with himself over rowing out for a good long while. On the one hand, no good had ever come of music in the cursed village. The night the lighthouse burned, its insane keeper had played on and on in the flames until finally his hands and lute strings had burnt away. On the other, Vu Deng was a scavenger at heart. The cargo on a ship like that might be a true treasure.


    In the end, his practical side won out, just as it had when everyone else picked up and left the cursed village. The strains of ghostly music were probably just broken glass and metal. And if he didn¡¯t row out now and gather up what he could, the storm blowing it would scatter it halfway around the world. It wasn¡¯t every day a man had a chance to scavenge a full ship.


    So he pushed his fishing skiff out onto the choppy waves and fought his way through the surf to the twisting, screeching wreck. As he tied off his little vessel to the bowsprit, Deng¡¯s mind alternated between conjuring up chests overflowing with jewels and silver and terrifying spooks climbing out of moldering skeletons.


    The wreck twisted and creaked against the rocks, shifting but not coming loose. Up close like this, the hull didn¡¯t look as wormy and slime-ridden as it had from shore, and its sails were whole. Deng leaned in and gave the wood a sniff. No rot smell.


    Truth be told, the craft looked as if it might have come off its shipyard not a month past. Wherever that shipyard might have been.


    With a practiced hand, Deng manifested a climbing hook and rope, then tossed it up over the ship¡¯s rail. He gave one last long listen for that eerie, plinking music¡ªnone to be heard¡ªthen pulled himself up the side of the slowly swaying wreck.


    The wind picked up, howling through empty ratlines and snapping the sails. Deng heaved himself up on deck and stood still for a moment, feeling the motion of the ship beneath him, waiting for some sign it was about to break up the rest of the way or be dragged back out to sea. The grounded ship seemed to be safe enough for now.


    Couldn¡¯t hurt to shake a leg either way. He didn¡¯t want to be caught out here when the real wind and waves started up.


    Though the bulky foreign ship seemed vastly different from the beautiful, angular junks Deng was used to seeing, a cursory glance revealed a half-deck aft, in the same position as it would have been on a local ship. A narrow set of stairs led from the main deck up to an enormous ship¡¯s wheel listing idly with the current. Tucked under the stairs into the half-deck was a sturdy door left half-open and swinging this way and that with the motion of the wreck.


    If Deng were valuable, he thought, or a route to something valuable, then he would have stored himself in there.


    As he made his way to the door, a dense gray fog flowed in, enveloping the ship like an enormous fish swallowing a worm. Immediately, the crash of the waves and scraping of the hull against the rocks faded. Cool speckles of mist patted Deng¡¯s bald head and eyelids. He couldn¡¯t see the shore or the horizon any longer. Even the masts and decks more than arm¡¯s length away turned into hulking shadows.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    He pursed his lips and grunted. Well, it was too late to run for his skiff. He could push off right then and row like a guai-shark was on his stern, but without sight, he could just as easily drag himself out to sea as back to shore. It hadn¡¯t started to really howl yet. Might be fortune would smile on him and blow the fog on past, at least enough to find his way back to land.


    And might be the lighthouse would rebuild itself and bring life back to the dying village.


    With a snort, Deng turned back toward the door. He stumbled into a tangle of rope trailing down from the mizzen, nearly hanging himself in the mess.


    Deng batted and kicked at the line, cursing whichever idiot had left such a thing dangling in the way like that. No decent captain would stand for such lax sailing. He turned a rotten eye on the shifting rope, glaring at it as he worked to free himself. He hoped the sailor who¡¯d left it so had been strung up by his thumbs.


    As if in response to his gaze, the fog overhead thinned slightly, giving him a veiled view of the beam the rope had been slung over. Dangling below the beam was a dark figure. The way it twisted and swayed gave Deng a sense of terrible weight. Bits of cloth on the figure fluttered in the gusts, but this was no flag or sheet hung high to signal other ships.


    Poking from the side of the figure¡­ Were those hands?


    Deng¡¯s skin prickled as if he¡¯d been stung all over by a seabristle. The last of the fog blew away from the dark shape. It was a body. Legs and arms dangled limply, feet bloated and as black as boots, fingers sticking out like sausages at the end of swollen hands. Fine clothes in a strange, foreign style flapped in the wind, and long yellow hair blew back from its distended face.


    Strains of that slow, plinking music drifted through the air.


    ¡°Piss on the lighthouse,¡± Deng whispered, his throat going dry. If he hadn¡¯t done just that earlier, he might have let go of his water right then.


    Hands shaking, eyes locked on the swollen, swinging body, Deng threw off the last coil of rope and stumbled through the door into the half-deck.


    The cabin within was handsomely outfitted, fine enough for even the wealthiest lush of a captain. A wide table had been bolted to the center of the floor beneath a hanging chandelier of beeswax candles. Benches lined with velvet cushions covered one wall, and a large bunk with gilded rails had been built against the opposite one. The far end of the room was no wall at all, but a bank of windows taller than Deng that looked out onto the fog and whitecaps below.


    With a groan, the ship rolled lazily, and an array of silver goblets, platters, eating utensils, rotting food, and wine bottles rolled across the wooden floor to bump against the cabinets below the bed.


    The skin down the back of Deng¡¯s neck crawled. It was as if they¡¯d hung the captain, set the table in merry celebration, then vanished.


    The door behind Deng slammed shut, and he let out a yelp.


    Something screamed.


    Deng¡¯s legs went weak with fear, and he clutched at his pounding heart, afraid it was close to giving out.


    The unknown creature shrieked again. With a start, Deng realized he¡¯d heard that sound before, many, many years ago. But that couldn¡¯t be possible, not aboard this ship of death.


    Could it?


    His eyes roved the cabin, wide with terror, as he searched for the source of that unholy keening.


    There, between a desk tacked with maps and the end of the longest bench. A lidless cage of wooden bars woven with brightly colored silks and warmed with soft demon beast furs.


    On trembling legs, Deng limped toward it, grabbing the table as he went to stabilize himself. The ship rolled again in the opposite direction, and he nearly tripped over the sliding remains of the unholy feast that had been abandoned untouched.


    The shrieking kept up until Deng caught the rails in his gnarled hands and leaned his face over the crib.


    The wailing infant inside fell silent when it saw him.


    *


    Though Deng would have given away his one good hip to be back in his little shack, he rode out the storm in the cabin of the strange death ship. Wind and rain and hail battered the huge windows, but didn¡¯t break them. The yellow-haired infant stared at Deng. Deng stared back. Neither made a sound.


    Eventually, when his aching legs would hold him up no longer, Deng sat on the bench facing the crib.


    No week-old infant could survive for so long at sea alone. No captain in his right mind would bring a babe aboard a ship. And no crew would leave behind a helpless child to die, no matter how dire the circumstances. That left only one explanation.


    This baby wasn¡¯t a baby at all, but an accursed hellfiend. It had coaxed the crew into hanging the captain, then slaughtered the crew and taken up residence in this baby bed to await its next prey. Why it hadn¡¯t changed back and attacked him yet, Deng couldn¡¯t say.


    He hauled himself back to his feet and looked down at the fiend. Wrapped around one skinny ankle was a strip of cloth covered in unfamiliar script.


    Foreign. Maybe a spell to keep the hellfiend trapped in its infant form? Deng scratched at his stubbled jaw while he considered this. Yes, that explanation made sense. One of the sailors had trapped the hellfiend in this harmless form with a sealing, then the crew had bailed out for safety in dinghies.


    Should¡¯ve just thrown the thing into the sea and let it drown. Though the water might have washed away the script and set it free again.


    In time, the storm battering the ship quieted to a low roar, then tapered off. Fingers of pink crept into the sky out the bank of windows, and Deng realized with mild shock that an entire night had passed. It had felt simultaneously much longer and much shorter to him.


    What to do now? There was plenty here to scavenge, more than enough to get him by for a good long time. But the hellfiend¡­ Deng didn¡¯t want to let the creature out of his sight. Suppose the ship broke free from the rocks and sank and the hellfiend escaped? Then there would be no telling where it would go. It had seen his face, probably knew he couldn¡¯t live far away. All alone in a village filled with empty homes, no one would hear Vu Deng¡¯s last screams.


    There was the prefect. Even before the lighthouse burned, the man was a child-eater and rumored to be as ancient as the coast itself, but he¡¯d always protected and managed the prefecture well enough. And if he truly was as old as everyone said, he might have dealt with hellfiends before.


    Deng nodded to himself. The prefect was the evil he knew.


    Gingerly, Deng manifested a net from his Ro and scooped the tiny hellfiend into it. The creature kicked and batted tiny fists at him, but did no damage. The sealing on the strip of cloth must be holding strong.


    Back out on deck, Deng kept his eyes down and hurried to the bowsprit where he¡¯d tied up his skiff. When he found it still attached to the wreck, he let out a rush of breath. A bit of loose debris had fallen into the bow, and he would have to bail out the water sitting in the bottom if he wanted to make it back to shore, but that was the work of a few minutes at most.


    The hellfiend infant began to scream again as Deng climbed over the ship¡¯s rail and turned to let himself down into his vessel. The creature¡¯s little fists seemed to be reaching for the masts. Unable to help himself, Deng glanced up at the dark shadow which swung there. For a moment, he wondered whether the yellowed-haired captain had fathered the yellow-haired child. Then Deng saw the thought for the hellfiend trickery it was¡ªan attempt to take over his mind¡ªand returned doggedly to his climb.


    *


    The sea was choppy on his return trip, and the muscles in his arms and back burned with exertion, but the wind blew in his favor. Deng managed to row his skiff to land without incident, his eyes locked on the red-faced, screaming hellfiend lying in his bow.


    When he had pulled his vessel above the tide mark on the rocky shore, Deng wanted nothing more than to take down another bottle of brew and drink himself to sleep in his nice, warm hut. But he couldn¡¯t rest while the matter of the trapped hellfiend was unsettled. Who knew if it might find a way out while he slept? That was a chance he wasn¡¯t willing to take.


    So Deng put on his walking sandals and began the journey up the overgrown road to the evil prefect.


    The prefect¡¯s castle stood at the edge of a mile-high cliff overlooking a rockier stretch of sea than even the ruined lighthouse had once guarded. Deng had never before had cause to venture there, but he¡¯d passed it many times on the way to market when the village was still bustling with fishers and scavengers like himself. The sight of the place filled him with a creeping dread he couldn¡¯t explain. It seemed steeped in oppressive gloom, even when the sun shone down from a cloudless sky.


    Probably the lost and lingering souls of the children the prefect had eaten.


    But if anyone would know what to do with a hellfiend disguised as an infant, Deng reasoned, it would be that man. And if he didn¡¯t, perhaps the hellfiend and the evil prefect would rid the world of one another.


    A stooped and wrinkled servant met Deng at the gates, bowing to him.


    ¡°May I help you, honored guest?¡± she asked in a tone of polite welcome.


    ¡°I come to see the prefect,¡± Deng said, returning her bow with a rusty version of his own. He held up the false child for her to see. ¡°You see, I dragged this hellfiend out of a wreck on the rocks beyond the lighthouse ruins. Didn¡¯t know what else to do with it, but I figured the prefect would.¡±


    The withered old servant eyed the baby. ¡°A hellfiend?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t fear, auntie.¡± Deng pointed to the cloth tied round its ankle. ¡°That¡¯s a foreign sealing, keeping it in this harmless form.¡±


    She nodded slowly. ¡°Well, I will take it up to Prefect Ghing Hus for you.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t do it,¡± Deng said, pulling the hellfiend back. ¡°It¡¯s too great a danger to put on you, auntie. I¡¯ll carry it up myself.¡±


    ¡°As the honored guest wishes.¡±


    The old scavenger followed the elderly servant up to the castle and inside the gloomy structure. He shivered as he crossed the threshold. How many children had walked into this place never to be seen alive again? Deng had been just a boy himself when the first body had washed up on the shore by the lighthouse, bloodless and clearly chewed over. The image had never left his mind.


    Their steps rang off the stone floors and high ceilings, echoing through the dark halls as they wandered deeper into the castle. Here and there, sconces burned with an oily light, hardly fighting back the darkness. Not a soul met them on their way.


    ¡°This way.¡± The stooped servant opened a door many times taller than either of them, straining a bit as she did.


    Deng stepped into the chamber first, his footfalls muffled by a worn and faded rug that had obviously once been bright and luxurious. Cushioned seats and couches were scattered about the room. Tapestries dangled along the walls to dampen drafts and hide the fortified stone walls from view.


    A cleared throat pulled Deng¡¯s attention from the furnishings. A man who looked to be no more than forty stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back.


    After a moment, Deng remembered his manners and bowed.


    ¡°Esteemed prefect,¡± he said, holding up the hellfiend in his Ro net. ¡°I found this in the wreckage of a foreign vessel. For now it¡¯s bound in this form, but the thing killed or drove off the lot of the crew.¡±


    The prefect wrinkled his nose. ¡°What am I supposed to do with it?¡±


    Deng faltered. ¡°Well, kill it, I figured. You can, can¡¯t you?¡±


    For several heartbeats, the prefect said nothing.


    Then, ¡°More than likely. Leave it on the lounge there and step back to the doorway.¡±


    Relief immediately replaced the tension in Deng¡¯s old bones. He put the creature on the indicated couch and limped back to the door, happy to put some distance between himself and the fiend. It was beginning to stink a fair bit.


    When Deng was standing in the doorway, the prefect crossed the room to the lounge. He leaned over the hellfiend and inspected it, then lifted one thin black brow. With two fingers, he pinched the strip of cloth and pulled it taut.


    ¡°Lysander?¡± the prefect read in a low voice.


    ¡°Is that the sealing they used to trap it?¡± Deng asked. It certainly sounded foreign to him.


    ¡°No,¡± the prefect said, flipping the strip over to look for more of that weird script. ¡°I believe that¡¯s his name.¡±

 The Unnamed Path, Pt. 2

    As it turned out, the prefect did not eat children, though he did sometimes kill them. Never intentionally, but only the strongest were able to survive the rigorous and often brutal training he put them through. And when they died, his servants disposed of their bodies by tossing them over the cliff into the sea. Sharks and other carnivorous fish nibbled on the remains, taking as much of the soft tissue as they could and leaving behind much-gnawed carcasses for the villagers to find and spread rumors over.


    At first it seemed as if the cursed infant would join the ranks of the discarded dead. By the prefect¡¯s guess, he had been adrift for days without food or care. Not being a hellfiend as the superstitious old peasant had assumed, the babe was in dire straits, starving and dehydrated. But over the next several weeks, the prefect¡¯s elderly housekeep nursed the child back from the brink of death.


    While this went on, the prefect scoured his formidable library for information on foreign lands, continents and islands beyond the known where strangers with yellow hair like dry summer hay thrived. His texts and scrolls reinforced only that which was already known¡ªthe Reviled Islands of the far west, the land bridge to the Deep Continent. None mentioned yellow hair or fat, slow ships like the one that had run aground past the ruins of the lighthouse.


    The prefect sent word to his vast network of eyes and ears, then turned his attention to the child. He¡¯d never trained one from an infant before. He could, in theory, begin the practical training as soon as the child could walk.


    But what was stopping him from beginning the philosophical training now?


    He leaned over the basinet the servants had purchased. The cursed child, Lysander, looked up at him with icy blue eyes, cheeks much fattened from the skeletal and starving thing the villager had dragged out of the sea.


    ¡°You¡¯re nothing,¡± the prefect told him. ¡°You come from nowhere. You aren¡¯t here now, and you never will be.¡±


    If the prefect could just instill in him this simple idea, the boy might survive the Path ahead.


    *


    Lysander scaled the high stone wall, the Ro spikes in each hand digging into the mortar, then pulled himself to his feet on the top.


    ¡°Snap garotte,¡± the prefect¡¯s voice ordered.


    Barely into his fifth year of life, Lysander¡¯s Ro had already advanced once along the unnamed path. He spun and manifested a thin strand of ruby wire, shooting it at the guard who¡¯d spotted him. The cord wrapped flawlessly around the man¡¯s throat and jerked tight. The crunch of a breaking neck signaled the guard¡¯s death.


    But already three more rushed the boy, Ro weapons glowing red in the darkness.


    ¡°Intent of attack, then disappear.¡±


    Lysander willed his Ro to send out a feeling of deadly will, a certainty that he would attack and kill them. But as they charged him, Lysander shifted his technique, willing himself not to be seen as he dropped into a low crouch. Immediately, his Ro darkened and obscured him in shadow. He slipped behind them on silent feet, slashing their hamstrings and planting darkened Ro daggers in their kidneys.


    ¡°On to your target.¡±


    Lysander climbed over the far side of the wall and dropped to the ground. He landed silently, cushioning the blow with bent knees. His target would be found in the darkened window there, a bedroom.


    He darted across the courtyard toward the manse, his short legs eating up the distance. A wide moat surrounded the structure, smaller twin to the one he¡¯d already crossed outside. As he reached it, he sent his still-darkened Ro down through his body¡¯s lower pathways and manifested them into wide, flat panels.


    The stinking water splashed as he stepped out onto it.


    ¡°Too loud.¡± Pain lashed across the back of Lysander¡¯s calves.


    He slowed, trying to silence his motion, but he began to sink.


    More strikes from the cane followed. ¡°Too slow.¡±


    Lysander let the Ro panels dissipate and ducked under, cutting through the water like a fish.


    A crocodilian maw clamped down over his arm and shoulder. His heart leapt into his throat and his lungs bucked in panic as the creature began to roll, but he squeezed his eyes shut.


    You are nothing. You come from nowhere. You¡¯re not even here now, and you never will be.


    The familiar creed stilled his fear and focused his mind. He couldn¡¯t die here tonight if he¡¯d never been there in the first place. Pain couldn¡¯t touch what didn¡¯t exist.


    Lysander sent out a wave of Nothingness from his heartcenter. The technique couldn¡¯t be seen, but he knew it could be felt. The prefect had used it on him more than once during his training convincing Lysander that he wasn¡¯t there even as Lysander looked him in the eyes.


    Confused, the crocodilian opened its mouth and thrashed its head, trying to find the prey it thought it had lost. Still hung up on its teeth, Lysander manifested a long, thin awl in his free hand and jammed it through the beast¡¯s eye into its brain.


    When the death throes finally calmed, Lysander surfaced. He felt no burning desire to breathe¡ªnothing needed nothing¡ªbut he forced himself to take a silent breath. Immediately, his vision sharpened. He must have been under for far longer than it seemed waiting for that crocodile to die.


    Another lash from the cane sent pain searing across his shoulders. Fairly easy to ignore while he was nothing. Using the Ro-cycling technique the prefect had taught him, the wounds left behind would heal over and disappear by morning as well, leaving no evidence that they¡¯d ever existed, either.


    ¡°Your failure¡¯s cost you the element of surprise,¡± the prefect said from somewhere nearby. ¡°You¡¯re forbidden from using Ro for the rest of the night.¡±


    Shouts sounded as a patrol came running to investigate the noises from the moat.


    Dripping wet and bleeding, Lysander crawled up onto the bank and sat hugging his arms around his legs. He threw back his head and wailed, shivering extra hard.


    The heavy bootfalls of the patrol thudded to a stop.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on here?¡± a stern voice shouted.


    Red light shined on the backs of Lysander¡¯s eyes as a Ro weapon approached. He hugged his legs tighter to his chest and sent out a wave of helplessness.


    ¡°It¡¯s a child,¡± a softer voice said. Armor clinked and a gauntleted hand landed on Lysander¡¯s shoulder. ¡°What happened?¡±


    Lysander sniffled and choked and gasped until one of the guards picked him up and carried him inside. Baffled servants bundled him in warm, dry furs and too large clothes. They fed him hot broth and patted his back while asking each other over his head how a village child had gotten locked inside the gates after sundown.


    ¡°We¡¯ll get you home in the morning, little nephew,¡± a dimpled maid promised, kissing his cheek. ¡°Never fear.¡±


    Lysander looked up at her with wide eyes, willing his heartcenter to send off a wave of helpless gratitude. The compound emotions were still hard for him to recreate, but he was getting better. Based on the maid¡¯s charmed smile, he thought he¡¯d managed that one all right.


    After an appropriate length of time, he started yawning. The maid picked him up and carried him to a soft bed off the kitchen. She tucked him in, smoothed his yellow hair from his forehead, then left the poor little thing to sleep.


    When he was certain she¡¯d gone, Lysander slipped out of bed and into a crouch, darkening his Ro once more and creeping through the halls. He was nothing. The few servants and patrols he passed agreed with this, not seeing anything out of place.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    He ghosted into the target¡¯s bedchamber, slit the target¡¯s throat, absorbed the glowing ruby cloud of Ro, then disappeared through the window like he¡¯d never been there.


    *


    Lysander was fourteen when he advanced again. He¡¯d been at a birthday celebration of a local duchess, talking to the woman¡¯s daughter when he felt the Ro in his heartcenter crumple and condense like a star on the verge of implosion.


    He sent off a wave of deep fascination and infatuation to encourage the daughter to keep talking. Not that he had to try very hard. The highborn girls were always interested in the foreign adopted son of the mad prefect. Most even after their parents warned them away from him. The girls could pretend all they liked¡ªthey could afford it¡ªbut an outsider like him would never truly be a part of their society.


    While the duchess¡¯s daughter held most of the conversation by herself, Lysander turned his focus inward. Shadowy, smoky Ro roiled in his heartcenter. Not an hour ago, he had absorbed the Ro of a target he¡¯d slain in one of the upper rooms. That, it seemed, had been the tipping point.


    He caught the eye of the prefect. The man tilted his head ever so slightly. Lysander raised his drink in a toast, then knocked it back in a single gulp. Lysander¡¯s reticent guardian had told him nothing of the path he followed, keeping back all but the techniques themselves, so he had no idea what to expect, but he had a feeling this advancement was going to be messy.


    A moment later, Lysander vomited his drink down the front of the duchess¡¯s daughter¡¯s finest robes.


    ¡°Sincerest apologies,¡± the prefect said, slipping through the crowd to collect Lysander. The prefect bowed gracefully to the disgusted girl and called over servants from the perimeter of the room. ¡°You two get her cleaned up. I¡¯ll send the funds to replace the robes in the morning. You, call around my carriage. My son needs his bed.¡±


    By then, Lysander had doubled over, spilling another gutful onto the floor. He wove drunkenly on his feet and sent out a wave of stupefied intoxication and childishness.


    The prefect led him out of the celebration, sending out his own waves of embarrassment and dignifiedly attempting to save face.


    When they climbed into the carriage together, Lysander groaned and sprawled across his seat. The door clanged shut. With a chirp from the driver, the team broke into a brisk trot away from the duchess¡¯s estate.


    ¡°You¡¯re advancing?¡± the prefect asked.


    ¡°That or catching some deadly illness.¡± Lysander started to sit up.


    ¡°Stay down while we go through the city. I should have made you stay at the celebration. By now, you should be able to advance without drawing attention to yourself.¡±


    ¡°I haven¡¯t had a lot of practice advancing in public, and my master never wants to discuss how our path works.¡±


    ¡°Just shut your mouth and focus,¡± the prefect muttered. ¡°I want this over with by the time we pull in to our prefecture.¡±


    Obediently, Lysander fell silent and focused on the crushing inward pressure in his heartcenter. The Ro gathered there pulsed as if some giant hand were rhythmically squeezing it together. Each time it condensed, his chest felt like it was being crushed.


    You are nothing. You come from nowhere. You¡¯re not even here now, and you never will be.


    With detached fascination, Lysander realized the pain made it easier to believe in the creed of the unnamed path. While the waves of agony expanded and took over everything in the world, he faded easily to the background, nothing and no one.


    His Ro seemed to want to both compact itself and dissolve like a cloud of smoke on a breeze. He could sense a strength and power radiating from it when it condensed, but he also sensed an inflexibility he didn¡¯t like at all. As if to allow that transformation would cement him forever as one thing, unchangeable and rigid. He was nothing, and that allowed him to be everything. He wouldn¡¯t surrender that. Ever.


    Holding tight to the creed of the unnamed path, Lysander willed Nothingness. Not on an outside consciousness this time, but on his own life force. It fought him at first. But he¡¯d spent his whole life being nothing. He disappeared from himself completely.


    If Lysander had been looking at himself from the prefect¡¯s seat at the precise moment he advanced, he would have seen less than nothing. He would not have seen at all.


    With no one to fight, the ownerless Ro conceded and tried to drift away like wafting smoke. It swirled lazily inside the unknown heartcenter, a cloud more nebulous than a living being¡¯s should be.


    Lysander flickered back into view and sat up.


    ¡°Knuckle blade from a straight punch,¡± the prefect said.


    Lysander¡¯s fist shot out, a minor shimmer just past his knuckles the only indication that a lethal Ro blade stuck out over the back of his hand.


    The prefect looked down at the bare shimmer in the air and nodded. With the silver end of his cane, the prefect thumped the carriage ceiling.


    The driver shouted to the horses and reined them to a stop.


    ¡°Plans have changed,¡± the prefect shouted out the window. ¡°Take us north.¡± He turned back to Lysander and lowered his voice. ¡°It¡¯s time the student learns the name of his Path.¡±


    *


    For a day and a half, they traveled north, then west, eventually leaving the major trade routes for nothing more than a pair of wheel ruts. The carriage finally pulled to a stop as twilight fell on the second day.


    Without a word, the prefect climbed out. Lysander followed. As he stepped down from the carriage, his fine leather boots sunk an inch deep into swampy muck. The horses stood at the end of a road that dropped off into stagnant black water. They¡¯d come to a low marshland, peppered with wide pools and towering trees with root systems like many-fingered hands. Out in the shadows, green-white corpse candles danced and disappeared.


    Lysander nudged a bulbous yellow fungal pod with the toe of his boot, and a cloud of glowing pink spores puffed from it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t get them on your bare skin,¡± the prefect said. ¡°There are more disgusting ways to die than fungus bursting from every inch of your flesh, but not by much.¡±


    ¡°Charming.¡± Lysander stepped away from the little growth of pods and wiped the patch of pink on his boot against a stand of marsh grass, his face twisted with revulsion.


    ¡°This way.¡± The prefect headed deeper into the swamp, walking out onto the water without manifesting water-walking panels.


    Lysander watched intently for a moment before his sharp eyes picked out the trick. Just below the surface of the water, posts had been set, forming an invisible walkway. Stepping lightly, he followed his master into the swamp.


    Full darkness crept into the marshland as they walked, but the prefect never slowed or misstepped. Lysander¡¯s calves and feet burned with the effort of stepping only on the balls of his feet on such small posts for so long, but he was old friends with pain. He never faltered or fell behind.


    Finally, they reached a spit of high ground where an abandoned shack sat rotting apart. The prefect turned around and gestured behind them.


    ¡°Only a ghost could walk that road without being led astray,¡± he said.


    Lysander wanted to ask where they were and what this place had to do with their path, but the prefect was sending out a wave of discouragement from speaking. This was a time for silence.


    The prefect walked to the abandoned shack and ducked inside the hanging door. When Lysander stepped inside, the man was already pulling up a section of floor with a heavy wooden ring.


    Without windows or sunlight, it was dark inside the little shack, but the hole beneath the floor was total blackness. A void. True nothingness.


    The prefect stepped down into the blackness, soon disappearing below. No sound escaped. Lysander felt for the wave of Nothingness or will to disappear, but felt neither. That total darkness had swallowed the man.


    It must be a test. Luckily, Lysander had been raised to be as at home in full dark as he was in daylight. He trailed the prefect into the hole, the darkness engulfing him as if he¡¯d dived into a pond full of the stagnant water of the marsh above. The lightless black pressed in on him from all sides given weight and strength by its concentration. There were stairs beneath his feet, walls at his sides. He could have reached out and touched them on either side, but he kept his hands still.  He could sense their presence, and that was enough.


    He took the steps down cautiously, his strange darkness sense on high alert for any obstacle or danger. His ears whined with the silence, and his eyes began to hallucinate colorful whorls and swoops in the blackness like a scrim of lamp oil floating on a puddle.


    Then he felt a pressure in front of him. Too narrow to be a wall, too soft to be a blade. He made it to be his master. Lysander stopped and waited.


    ¡°A ghost has no need of sight, sound, or touch,¡± the prefect¡¯s voice came from just ahead of Lysander. ¡°Those are concerns of the living.¡±


    At once, corpse candles flared to life around the room. Their green-white lights rested in the palms of hooded men and women in the garbs of various professions and tribes.


    ¡°This one must not be allowed to live,¡± one woman said. ¡°He is foreign to our land and will steal our secrets for his people.¡±


    ¡°He is dead to his people and land,¡± the prefect responded as if by rote. ¡°Born in death yet trained to walk among the living, he can never be a part of them, and thus can carry no secrets to them.¡±


    ¡°Who are you, child?¡± a man from the opposite side of the room intoned. ¡°Where do you hail from?¡±


    Lysander answered easily. ¡°I¡¯m nothing, and I come from nowhere. I¡¯m not even here now, and I never will be.¡±


    The sensation of killing intent behind Lysander caused him to whirl, the knuckle blade manifesting invisibly over the back of his curled fist. He threw the lethal strike without thinking. It clashed against another invisible Ro weapon and scraped off.


    Lysander dropped into a crouch and willed himself to disappear like his Ro while feeling for his attacker. She¡ªhe could feel that it had been a woman with the same certainty that he could see certain robes were made for women¡ªwas hiding herself nearby, but he couldn¡¯t sense her, only her killing intent.


    Acting again out of instinct, Lysander threw up his hand over his throat, palm out. A moment later, the invisible wire of the snap-garotte closed over his palm and bit into his neck. It had come from behind him. Close. Without turning, he manifested an invisible Ro chain sickle and lashed out, slashing the unseen blade where her abdomen would be. The garotte disappeared.


    He felt the slightest pull of resistance against the sickle, then she was gone.


    And so was her killing intent.


    ¡°Who attacked you?¡± the first woman asked.


    Lysander searched the faces behind the flickering corpse candles. Without the killing intent, he couldn¡¯t tell which one she was. It had definitely been a woman, he was certain of that. He watched shoulders, chests, and stomachs, looking for one who was breathing harder than the rest, but found none. Finally his eyes settled on the flaring nostrils of a small, dark woman in handmaid¡¯s robes. A thin strand of hair had come loose from her cap and through the shadows thrown by the corpse candle, Lysander thought he could see a darkened streak on the abdomen of her robes.


    But just before he answered that the small woman had been his attacker, her lips twitched at the corner. A leak of smug satisfaction.


    The question was a trap.


    Lysander turned back to the first woman. ¡°No one. Nothing doesn¡¯t exist and therefore cannot be attacked.¡±


    The corpse candles went out as one.


    ¡°Welcome to the Path of the Restless Ghost,¡± the prefect¡¯s voice said. ¡°Welcome to the ranks of the inji.¡±

 The Unnamed Path, Pt. 3

    A soft rain had begun to fall as Lysander left the abandoned shack with his new mentor, the plump, diminutive woman who had attacked him during his test. In the meager light from the moon, he saw that her black hair was streaked with gray and her skin was deeply tanned, like a servant who spent most of her time outdoors.


    ¡°The word ¡®inji¡¯ comes from the Deep Root for ¡®restless ghost,¡¯¡± she explained. ¡°Ours is not a Path of fancy kicks and pretty hand-waving.¡± She demonstrated contemptuously with a few weak-wristed motions. ¡°Our techniques aren¡¯t for spectators. They¡¯re the death in the sleep. The stopped heart in the street. We don¡¯t exist, and we were never there. You¡¯ve advanced sufficiently to hide your Ro. Now you must learn to hide yourself.¡±


    She stooped to the ground and picked up a rock the size of her fist.


    ¡°Your first lesson,¡± she said, ¡°Is that people tend to pity and believe injured parties.¡±


    Before Lysander even saw her move, the servant woman¡¯s hand shot out and slammed the rock into the bone above his left eye. Pain exploded through his skull. His vision faded to near blackness, and he felt himself waver on his feet. Instinctively, he retreated to the Nothingness to keep from losing consciousness.


    ¡°What was that for?¡± Lysander was used to being punished for failures, but this time he didn¡¯t see what he¡¯d done wrong.


    ¡°Lean over, hold your head. Hiss through your teeth. See if you can¡¯t squeeze out a few tears,¡± she said, tossing the rock over her shoulder. It landed with a splat in the swamp mud behind them. ¡°Not many, though. You¡¯re nearly a man, and men who cry more than a few tears gain contempt, not sympathy.¡±


    Lysander¡¯s brows came together in confusion, blood pouring from the left one.


    ¡°Normal people react to pain,¡± the servant woman explained. ¡°To walk among them, a ghost must look and act like they do. Now, do as I said.¡±


    Obediently, Lysander doubled over and clutched the wound leaking blood into his eye. After a moment¡¯s thought, he sucked air through clenched teeth. The tears proved to be asking a bit much, but he resolved to work on that.


    ¡°Not bad for a first effort.¡± The servant woman started walking again. ¡°We¡¯ll tell my family that you washed downstream and don¡¯t remember who you are or where you¡¯re from. Probably that nasty bump on the head. When it¡¯s time to move on to your next mentor, you¡¯ll miraculously regain your memory and return home.¡±


    For a year, Lysander lived with the servant woman, a washer by trade, as well as a wife and mother. He learned to plant and harvest and feed chickens and wash robes in the river. He played with her children and perfected the accent of the delta and took on the mannerisms of the rough rural people in the home and town and the mannerisms of a servant addressing his betters when he helped his mentor deliver the washing to the local lord. He learned to be a lovable and bumbling outsider who knew nothing but meant well so sincerely that no one could begrudge him a few dead rice plants or poorly rinsed robes.


    And when the clay pot his servant mentor used to water her chickens was overturned, they memorized the name written in the sandy dirt beneath it, scrubbed it out, then killed the target.


    A year later, the servant woman pronounced Lysander proficient in blending in with the rural folk of the delta. The next morning, Lysander ran into a low-hanging branch during a game with the children and fell to the ground unconscious. When he regained his senses, he miraculously remembered that he was the adopted son of a wealthy merchant in Faigong Iri, the city upriver.


    Being so close to the delta, the nuances of the Faigong Iri accent were easy to grasp. It took a bit longer for Lysander to learn the appropriate tones and mannerisms from his merchant mentor, when to be complimentary and solicitous, when to look down in contempt, when to treat as a friend and equal while deriding the proffered merchandise or barter. He learned the markets and the trade routes, when and where to buy and how high he could sell without losing his clientele, and how to sift the quality from the imitations. He learned to be mean and petty and draw the scorn of all while being so weak he drew the suspicion of none. He learned to lose a fight convincingly with everyone watching and take his revenge later when no one could see.


    And when the clay pot the merchant used to dump his hot pipe ashes was overturned, they burned the parchment they found beneath and assassinated the target whose name had been on it.


    In eight months, the merchant mentor decided Lysander had mastered walking among the people of Faigong Iri. On their next trip, bandits attacked his merchant mentor¡¯s caravan, killing the merchant¡¯s foreign apprentice.


    For the next six months, Lysander¡¯s bandit mentor taught him to live off the forest, to hunt and fish and forage for his food, to set traps along the road and herd travelers into ambushes, to attack and intimidate people into handing over their valuables. He learned to gain respect from those who only understood strength and to hide any indications that he was better educated than they. The bandit¡¯s clay pot was used to catch rain for drinking water, and when it was overturned, they ambushed the specified target.


    From the bandit, Lysander moved to a stable hand. From a stable hand to a calligraphy teacher. From the teacher to a homeless drunkard. From the drunkard to an apothecary to a painter to a brothel guard to a tax collector. He moved throughout the continent, picking up accents, mannerisms, occupations, and personalities. He became invisible in each new environment. He was nothing, and so it was easy to become everything.


    By the time he was seventeen, he could walk into an alleyway after his target in broad daylight and come out alone covered in blood without drawing suspicion. By the time he was twenty, he could assassinate a target in a room full of witnesses without being accused.


    On the night of his twenty-first birthday, his final mentor, a monk, returned with him to the abandoned shack in the swamps.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    This time, the prefect who had raised Lysander stood in the circle, corpse candle in hand.


    ¡°Tell me,¡± the prefect asked, ¡°In these seven years, who did you call master?¡±


    ¡°No one,¡± Lysander answered.


    ¡°Tell me,¡± his servant mentor asked, ¡°In these seven years, what was the greatest sum you ever saw paid out for an assassination?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    ¡°Tell me,¡± his merchant mentor asked, ¡°In these seven years, where was your home?¡±


    ¡°Nowhere.¡±


    ¡°Tell me,¡± his tax collector mentor asked, ¡°In these seven years, how much glory and honor did you gain from your art?¡±


    ¡°None,¡± Lysander said.


    ¡°A ghost is unled, unpaid, untethered,¡± his painter mentor said. ¡°Glory, honor, riches mean nothing to the dead. Their only loyalty is to the unnamed path.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t a question, but Lysander could feel every inji in the circle sending out a wave demanding he respond.


    He gave the only response that always rang true with other ghosts:


    ¡°I am nothing. I come from nowhere. I¡¯m not even here now, and I never will be.¡±


    The prefect stepped forward. ¡°Open your robes.¡±


    Lysander did as bade, baring his chest. A shimmer of distortion appeared at the prefect¡¯s knuckles. An invisible Ro blade.


    The prefect touched the point to Lysander¡¯s chest beside his sternum, angling it so it would slide behind the bone and into his heart. ¡°Tell me, in these seven years, what did you learn to fear?¡±


    ¡°Nothing.¡±


    The prefect punched the blade into Lysander¡¯s chest, between the ribs, piercing his heartcenter and stabbing into his heart. The agony was immediate, cold and stifling and sharp all at once. His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees, instinctively retreating into the Nothingness.


    ¡°Rise from your grave, if you can,¡± the prefect said. ¡°If you can¡¯t, stay dead.¡±


    Furiously, Lysander¡¯s Ro churned and circled like blood in a whirlpool. It rushed for the hole in his heartcenter, desperate to drain away and leave him dead. His fists balled at his sides, and he closed his eyes, focusing on the agitated invisible cloud. Years ago, he¡¯d forced it to become smoke on a breeze, malleable and acquiescent. Now, he demanded shape and form from it, resistance and strength. He filled the hole in his heartcenter and stoppered the wound gushing lifeblood from his chest.


    With the immediate threats blocked off, Lysander began cycling the rest of his Ro through the pathways closest to the blade wound, speeding its healing. He had never repaired a mortal wound before. It was going to take more than a few minutes¡¯ concentration, but once the most lethal damage was repaired, he got to his feet.


    The prefect nodded, sending him a wave of approval. As one, the circle pulled back, creating a tunnel of bodies and corpse candles that led to the stairway.


    ¡°Inji, ghost, restless dead,¡± the prefect intoned, ¡°You are free to walk among the living when and where you will.¡±


    Lysander looked from face to face, flickering in the green-white light of the spectral swamp flames. Woodenly, he began to move toward the steps. Numb feet took the stairs one at a time. Weakness radiated through his body from the slow healing wound, threatening to tumble him to the ground at any moment, but he kept moving. He was nothing, he didn¡¯t exist, and what didn¡¯t exist couldn¡¯t fall.


    He climbed out of the hole and left the darkness of the shack. When he stepped outside, bright yellow morning sun sifted through the trees to hit him full in the face.


    *


    The stab wound in Lysander¡¯s heart healed over without a scar, but the damage to his heartcenter could never be repaired. That same portion of Ro he¡¯d used to stopper it on the night he rose from the grave remained in the hole, as solid as a coffin nail.


    Given the freedom to do anything he liked between assassinations, Lysander became a wandering scholar and gained patronage from the Great Library of Ten Thousand Nations. He had lived for years under the prefect with the choicest pieces of information always held out of his reach, and that had given him a desire for knowledge unmatched by anything else he¡¯d found one could pursue.


    Until he met Kwai Un. She¡¯d been raised among the Librarians, trained from birth to read, sort, and keep safe the scrolls, books, tablets, knotwork, and script ribbons procured and stored in the Great Library. Whenever Lysander returned from his travels with knew knowledge or a physical work to add to the ever-growing collection, he searched the stacks upon stacks until he found her haphazard pile of thick brown curls and the specially constructed spectacles worn by every Greater Librarian made up of lenses of every color and magnification perched on her head.


    Over the course of his young life and many travels, he had learned how to speak to women, how to court them, and how to bed them. But Kwai Un was bored by sweet words and disgusted by jewelry.


    ¡°What good is it?¡± she asked, inspecting a white jade bracelet through a thick smoked lens. She overlaid this with a thinner green lens and shook her head. ¡°I can¡¯t learn any more than I can observe from it. Now, a book you can learn a great number of things from.¡±


    ¡°Then throw it away and go read,¡± Lysander said, sending out a wave of indifference. ¡°I don¡¯t care.¡±


    He cared more than should have been possible.


    Lysander tried exotic fragrances and picnics and seats to watch the local masque, but nothing moved Kwai Un more than the new additions he brought to what she considered her library. It became so that on his travels, when he wasn¡¯t taking a life for his Path, his time was split evenly between searching out rare or lost works that would bring a smile to her face and obsessing over how to possibly coax the smallest hint of affection from her. His heartcenter hurt when he was away from her, and it ached even more when he was with her, so close and always at arm¡¯s length.


    One night, in an inn on one of his many trips throughout the continent, after too many cups of rice wine, he pulled out a few scraps of loose parchment and wrote every awful beautiful thing she made him feel. The wonderful pain of knowing her. The endless carving of the blade she¡¯d left in his gut. He was nothing, but to him, she seemed to be everything.


    He intended to toss the parchments into the fire as soon as he was done, but the same rice wine that had loosened his brush also made him pass out before he¡¯d accomplished that last task.


    When the innkeeper shook him awake to rudely shoo him out the next morning, Lysander scooped up the tablets, ink, brush, and few odd bits of parchment that had somehow found their way out of his bag in the night and dropped them back in. The night of furious writing was forgotten.


    Upon his return to the Great Library, Lysander pulled out the tablets he¡¯d purchased and the notes he¡¯d taken while listening to an ancient fisherwoman recount stories of faraway lands where other humans might dwell. Kwai Un¡¯s face lit up as she took them, as always, then she abandoned him to scour them.


    Though he knew it was pathetic, he left holding that look of delight dearly in his mind¡¯s eye. It was the best he thought he could ever hope for from her.


    *


    Weeks later, Lysander came back to the Great Library bearing a variety of new texts and recorded knowledge. This time, however, Kwai Un met him at the entrance. Her pile of curling tresses were even more chaotic than usual, and her multitude of lenses were in scattered in various placements over her eyes, forehead, and hair.


    ¡°This,¡± she said, holding up a handful of parchment covered with drunkenly meandering lines that looked suspiciously like his brushstrokes. ¡°What I can learn from this¡­ It¡¯s endless. I¡¯ve read it a hundred times since you left, and I find new layers to consider every time. I have so much to ask you about the text, but for now I think you¡¯d better kiss me.¡±


    He did. And when that was accomplished to Kwai Un¡¯s satisfaction, they found a rarely visited section high in the stacks where Lysander willed his Ro to hide them both for a while.

 The Unnamed Path, Pt. 4

    Lysander¡¯s trips away grew shorter and shorter, and his stays with Kwai Un grew longer. During assassinations¡ªboth far away and in the city surrounding the Great Library¡ªhe found his mind wandering to his servant mentor, the woman with a husband and children who had no idea an inji lived among them.


    He could wed Kwai Un and happily grow old with her. Their conversations were endlessly fascinating, and when he was with her, he felt as if he were something. He wasn¡¯t certain what exactly, but he knew that it wasn¡¯t Nothing.


    Finally, he told her, ¡°I love you, and I want to be with you always. Do you feel the same way, or is it only me?¡±


    She flicked a few of her lenses back and forth idly in a gesture he¡¯d come to recognize as her thinking fidgets.


    ¡°Based on the texts I¡¯ve studied, I believe I can safely conclude that I feel love for you,¡± she said. ¡°What do you propose we do about it?¡±


    ¡°Marriage,¡± he said, shrugging.


    She nodded. ¡°I accept.¡±


    They were married the following week. Lysander stopped taking trips to the far reaches of the continent, instead seeking that knowledge which he could gather and those kills he could make within a few day¡¯s journey of the Great Library.


    Time passed. When Lysander was with Kwai Un, he walked in the daylight as a living man, married to a living woman. A ghost could never feel such happiness. A restless soul could never find such a home.


    With no desire to travel far from the one he loved, Lysander began training to become a Lesser Librarian, the highest level attainable by an outsider who hadn¡¯t been raised in the Great Library. When they spoke about his transition, however, Kwai Un didn¡¯t sound convinced of its merits.


    ¡°But who will bring me the best texts if you¡¯re stuck here in the stacks?¡±


    Over her shoulder, he caught sight of his clay pot in the window. It was turned upside down.


    ¡°Texts will always come in,¡± he said, crossing to the window and righted the pot. He memorized the name written on the sill beneath before the ink could disappear. ¡°This way, we¡¯ll be able to study them together. Are you hungry? I¡¯m thinking of going to the market.¡±


    Months later, when he finally did become a Lesser Librarian, Kwai Un presented him with a special never-emptying flask. Lysander uncapped the ivory container and tested the drink inside. It smelled of fresh-cut clover and tasted of the most delicate liquor.


    ¡°So your words will never dry up,¡± she explained. ¡°Even when you¡¯re trapped in the Library, far away from the world of inspiration.¡±


    He saw then her flicker of fear that he would grow tired of her if they were always together. She didn¡¯t realize that everything he was only existed through her.


    He reached up and flipped the azure lenses away from her eyes. ¡°When I¡¯m around you, the words are an ocean drowning me.¡±


    In the months to come, Kwai Un¡¯s fears proved unfounded. Lysander¡¯s brush had never laid down more words. At the same time, the Great Library was flooded with new arrivals from around the continent to pore over and catalogue.


    For two years Lysander was something. He belonged somewhere, and he thought he would always be there.


    *


    When political unrest in the oasis surrounding the Great Library threatened to upset their life together, Lysander threw himself into the surge of assassinations, seeking to quell the menace. The calls to the unnamed path became so frequent that he was out away from his post at the Library as much as he had been while traveling¡ªthough it was always in snatches of an hour here or there, when Kwai Un was otherwise engaged and wouldn¡¯t miss him.


    Late one night, after an assassination, Lysander returned to his house to find his wife gone. No surprise there. He¡¯d left her at the Great Library, and that was where she tended to stay unless someone reminded her to go home.


    He slipped through the darkened streets, avoiding the braziers and lanterns and willing himself to disappear out of habit. Suspecting he would find her in their favored reading hole up on the ninth story, Lysander manifested a set of climbing spikes for his hands and boots, then scaled the Library¡¯s exterior to the closest balcony.


    No safety lamp was burning on the ninth floor when he climbed into the stacks, but Lysander didn¡¯t need light to find his way.


    Sensing the solidity of the books, shelves, and piles surrounding him, Lysander ghosted through the story to their secret place.


    As he approached, he sensed a presence. He could smell his wife, that subtle, familiar scent of clover wine mingled with the musty parchment and old ink. He heard her breath¡ªshort gasps rather than the slow waves of sleep¡ªand the close-cropped hair on the back of his neck stood up. She sounded as if she were in pain.


    Then Lysander sensed the second presence. Larger. Male. Holding his breath. Moving.


    Lysander grabbed the safety lamp from the corner of the table where they always sat it when they were up here late into the night. It burned him to the touch, but he welcomed the pain, grabbing the top with the other hand and twisting.


    Flickering yellow light flooded the space, illuminating Kwai Un in the lap of a tall, slender man with a top knot. Lysander recognized him as Tyeng, a scholar and poet who had begun traveling for the Great Library in the last year. Lysander had studied and catalogued a few of the man¡¯s finds, but for the most part, Tyeng tended to bring them to Kwai Un along with rolls and rolls of parchment filled with his poetry.


    Things unfolded so suddenly after light filled the little reading hole, but they seemed to Lysander to move at less than half speed.


    Kwai Un and Tyeng mercifully pulled away from one another. The poet grabbed for his robes, but Kwai Un stood naked, talking to Lysander. He heard her apologies and explanations, but they flowed through him as if he weren¡¯t there.


    Lysander was no stranger to pain, but he¡¯d never felt it this deeply before. Like his marrow was agony and his bones were diseased.


    The Nothingness engulfed him from the inside out. He¡¯d forgotten that he was nothing, had come from nowhere. He could only be thankful that he wasn¡¯t there right then and never would be. Nothing couldn¡¯t love or be loved. It didn¡¯t even exist. If he had only remembered that back when he met Kwai Un, he wouldn¡¯t be in this position.


    With a twitch of his hand, Lysander shot a glowing ruby snap-garotte around the poet¡¯s thin neck and broke it. He could have killed the man in a dozen different ways that Kwai Un never would have seen, but he didn¡¯t.


    She watched the poet crumble, disbelief warring with horror on her face. The body fell across the table, scattering ink and parchment and crushing her multicolored lenses with a crunch.


    When Kwai Un raised her eyes to meet Lysander¡¯s, they were wide with the dreadful knowledge that she was seeing her husband for the first time and realizing that he wasn¡¯t a living creature like she or her lover had been.


    ¡°You killed him,¡± she said, her voice wavering at the edges.


    ¡°Nothing killed him,¡± Lysander said. ¡°I¡¯m nothing. Not to you. I never was.¡±


    A tear streaked down her face.


    ¡°You were everything to me.¡± Kwai Un swiped the wet track away with the back of her hand. ¡°I made a mistake¡ª¡±Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Lysander was an inch from her face before she could flinch. Her wild curls brushed his forehead and nose, trembling with her shaking body.


    ¡°And it cost him everything,¡± he said, pointing to the corpse on the table.


    The tears were pouring down her cheeks now, dripping onto her breasts. He could feel more on his own face, but he ignored them. If he wasn¡¯t there, then they couldn¡¯t be, either.


    Kwai Un backed away from him slowly, as if any sudden motion would cause him to attack. When her thighs pressed against the balcony¡¯s rail, she drew a shuddering breath.


    ¡°I did think I loved you,¡± she said. ¡°But then, I thought I knew you, too.¡±


    She let herself fall backward over the rail.


    Lysander felt the impact in his chest when she hit the ground below.


    *


    He should have stayed in the Great Library. Gone about his work and played the part of the grieving, befuddled husband until no one could imagine suspecting him of the deaths.


    But he disappeared instead. He left behind everything he¡¯d accumulated while pretending to be alive except for the never-emptying flask and her crushed multicolored lenses. The flask he kept in a hidden pocket, and the lenses he threaded on a thin chain tucked inside his robes, close to his punctured heartcenter.


    Days passed. Lysander retreated from them until he was exhausted to the point of collapse, keeping his consciousness as ethereal as his Ro. It was hard work. Nightmarish claws of existence kept trying to drag him back into the world of the living, but there was nothing but madness in a ghost returning to a fantasy of life as if it belonged there. The clover liquor in the ivory flask turned bitter in his mouth and burned in his stomach, but it provided his only protection from existing.


    He didn¡¯t know how long he¡¯d been ghosting through space when it happened, but he was in Seok Iri on the other side of the continent from the Great Library when he felt killing intent fill the air like smoke.


    A man. Lysander didn¡¯t recognize it as belonging to any of the mentors he¡¯d known, though the texture did remind him in a way of the sailor¡¯s. Perhaps this inji had been trained by the same mentor. Or perhaps he had taken up the life of a sailor as well and that had shaped his killing intent.


    Lysander considered letting the other inji triumph. He knew what had happened, after all. He had killed one of the living whose name had not been called. Like every other law in the unnamed path, it was unspoken but unanimously known.


    But from the moment he sensed the other inji¡¯s presence, he began to react on instinct.


    An invisible Ro dart crashed uselessly against the lenses beneath Lysander¡¯s robes. A Ghost Piercer, used to stop the heart in full view of unsuspecting witnesses. He manifested a Phantom Buckler, pretending to scratch between his shoulder blades, but in truth covering his heartcenter from behind as he retreated casually into a nearby alley.


    Lysander and the other inji were both projecting waves of Nothingness so hard as they entered the darkened passage that a drunkard pissing against the wall hurried to finish and stumble away.


    The inji remained hidden. Lysander willed himself to disappear as well. A snap-garotte whined toward his throat. He threw up his hand, catching it around his wrist. The Ro wire bit deep, blood welling up and spilling down his forearm. At the same time, in his free hand, he manifested an Unseen Wraith Chain Sickle and whipped the invisible weapon out in a wide arc. It slammed into a solid body. Lysander dropped his chain sickle at the same moment the hidden inji dissolved his snap-garotte.


    A sense of pressure approached his right side. With a flick of his hand, Lysander scattered invisible Ro caltrops to that side, then pulled a bag of silver links from his robes. He couldn¡¯t maintain two separate types of Ro weaponry without losing their invisibility and showing himself, but he could fight with a physical weapon while maintaining the caltrops.


    The muffled thunk of sharp points punching through leather soles let him know where his opponent was, though the man made no sound of pain. Lysander ducked. A clawed hand tipped in invisible Night Eagle¡¯s Talons raked through the air where his eyes had been. Before the arm could retract, Lysander whipped the bag of links just above the place where his attacker¡¯s shoulder would be.


    The strike landed with a meaty thud and the jingling of metal.


    Already, however, the talons were swinging back, tearing for his face. Lysander ghosted under the strike and rose directly in front of the inji. He felt the change in the breeze as air dove out of the way of a blade. The slice was headed for his throat.


    Lysander let the caltrops dissipate and manifested the chain sickle once more. Just before the blow cut into him, he snapped open the chain and wrapped the inji¡¯s arm in its length. He snapped his knee up and jerked the chain down, shattering the inji¡¯s elbow.


    A trio of invisible Starlight Wheels studded Lysander¡¯s side and bicep, their spines embedding themselves in his flesh, screwing deeper into muscle with every move he made. The only way to get the Ro weapons out without carving into his own body would be to force the thrower to try another method of attack or kill him outright.


    Without releasing the inji¡¯s arm from the chain, Lysander sliced the sickle upward. It caught and resisted, then tore through the flesh. But even this wound could be healed if the inji was skilled enough. The Starlight Wheels dissipated, but Lysander moved before the man could manifest his next weapon. He wound the rest of the chain around the inji¡¯s neck and snapped it.


    The inji became visible as he fell limp into Lysander¡¯s arms. Lysander let his chain sickle dissipate, the invisible Ro retreating back through his pathways and into his heartcenter.


    A cloud of ruby Ro, visible now that its master could no longer hide it, rose from the chest of the still-warm corpse and filtered into Lysander¡¯s heartcenter as well. He set to work integrating it unconsciously as he slipped down the alley and onto another street. There was no time to linger.


    He was one of the fallen now, a murderer where he¡¯d once been an assassin, and his fellow ghosts would descend on him until they had swallowed his sin up.


    *


    They hunted him everywhere, as merciless and untiring as the restless dead they were named for. More than he would ever have guessed existed. Inji he had known. Inji he had never met. Men, women, old, and young. In forests and fields and cities, behind locked doors and on open stretches of road. While he drank, while he ran, while he shat.


    He was nothing, and what had never existed could never tire, but his shoulders grew heavier with every inji he sent back to the grave. He should stop fighting and accept his sentence. He had committed the crime, after all.


    And yet.


    Lysander drank and fought his way north, through the swamps to the abandoned shack, arriving covered in blood and bursting with absorbed Ro His heartcenter strained to contain it while he integrated. Under normal circumstances, he would have long since advanced, but he held the progression brutally at bay. He couldn¡¯t risk being helpless for even a second.


    As he stepped over the threshold, glowing ruby Ro flowed into his heartcenter and the corpse of his latest attacker dropped onto the rotting steps behind him. The thud seemed to resonate in his shoulders. Ghosts, it seemed, were inordinately heavy.


    The section of floor was already open to reveal the lightless hole below. They were waiting for him. Lysander took a deep drink from his flask, grimacing at the taste that had once been so sweet. He trudged down into the darkness, muscles coiled and senses alert in spite of the drink, prepared for a final mass attack to send him to his grave for good.


    Green-white corpse candles flared to life, illuminating the faces of his mentors. The ones who remained. Gaps stood where the dead would have.


    ¡°You murdered one of the living without a call to do so,¡± the servant woman said.


    ¡°No one murdered him,¡± Lysander said, listing slightly with drunken exhaustion.


    ¡°You are no one,¡± the prefect said. ¡°Do you deny this?¡±


    Lysander snorted. ¡°How can what never existed deny anything?¡±


    Motion to his right. The calligrapher was nodding.


    ¡°A ghost that loses its way can never return,¡± she said.


    ¡°I don¡¯t wish to return,¡± Lysander said. His overfull heartcenter throbbed painfully in his chest. ¡°I only wish to stop killing my brothers and sisters. The empty space they leave behind is crowding the world. They¡¯re heavy. Heavier than nothing, every one of them.¡±


    He knew he wasn¡¯t making any sense, but he was too weak and tired to try to understand his own insane babbling.


    ¡°To leave the world of the living would forever rid you of their weight,¡± the monk said, tilting his head speculatively. ¡°And yet you wish to remain?¡±


    Lysander closed his eyes, swaying on his feet. He should feel some measure of shame, but as nothing, he could feel nothing. Time passed in silence. Perhaps he slept. The next voice startled him.


    ¡°A fallen inji can never be cleansed of his sin outside the grave,¡± the prefect said. ¡°He is a slave to it for as long as he walks among the living. We will grant your wish to remain in this world, but not your wish to stop killing your fellow ghosts. From today, you will hunt and kill fallen inji like yourself. The weight you carry and crowding you feel is nothing more than you deserve.¡±


    Lysander¡¯s mind reeled. ¡°How many must I kill?¡±


    ¡°How much more worth did the life you took have than a ghost¡¯s?¡± the merchant asked.


    At the question, Lysander didn¡¯t see the face of the poet who¡¯d cuckolded him, but Kwai Un¡¯s wild curls and ink-stained fingers as she flicked her lenses back and forth in thought.


    ¡°Infinite,¡± he said and knew it was the truth.


    ¡°Then your sentence is infinite,¡± the prefect responded. ¡°From now until you leave this world for good, you will rid the living of those ghosts who have strayed from the unnamed path. Do you accept your punishment?¡±


    ¡°How can what never existed refuse anything?¡± Lysander said.


    As one, the circle of inji surrounding him sent out a condemning wave of agreement.


    The agony in Lysander¡¯s heartcenter burst free like an overburdened dam then, and he dropped to his hands and knees, his advancement punctuated with unstoppable screams. The torment continued, emphasizing his Nothingness with depth of pain. The surplus of Ro condensed until it approached a nearly infinite mass, then imploded with a final shimmer of multicolored light like shards of broken lenses.


    What remained when Lysander opened his eyes an unknowable time later was a black hole where light should have been. He tried to manifest a Ghost Blade, but what came to his hand was a darkness so deep it seemed to absorb the light from the corpse candles. The puncture hole in his heartcenter, finally free of its Ro stopper, sucked at the world around it, trying to drink in vital life force. Around the circle, he felt his mentors closing their Ro pathways as if to protect themselves.


    Lysander raised his head and met the prefect¡¯s severe gaze.


    ¡°Rise, reaper of the fallen,¡± the prefect said. ¡°Disappear into the land of the living, but be prepared to answer our call.¡±