It is when the sunset lights the clouds and treetops aflame that I think of home, of Méi’zi and Ma.
The Immortality Trials began with the invitation we received two days ago. The First Trial listed on it is deceptively simple: arrive at the Temple of Dawn by sundown on the third day.
Thanks to Yù’chén’s healing talismans, my ankle has mended. The Way of the Ghosts has been eerily peaceful. The cathaya forest seems to extend endlessly, yet I know that, far off to the northeast, our realm ends and the immortal one begins. The legends say the border is marked by a great waterfall that pours into the Four Seas, and overhead, beyond a wall of clouds, is the Kingdom of Sky…and the Temple of Dawn.
The red-cloaked practitioner—Yù’chén—and I have formed a routine. We travel by day and sleep by night, alternating watch shifts. Sometimes I hear screams pierce the night or wake certain that a red-lipped shadow watches me from thedarkness between the trees. But we have yet to run into danger. It is as if the forest holds its breath. The calm before the storm.
Sunsets are the only time I have to myself. As I slip away from Yù’chén to bathe, the tension falls from my body in the certainty that he won’t follow me. The practitioner is disarmingly charming, and more and more, I find myself lowering my guard around him against my better judgment.
I slip out of my silk dress and carefully set it, along with my crescent blades, on the outcropping of rocks on the banks. I’m still in my shift as I lower myself into the burbling stream. I mislike being completely naked and defenseless, so I do not go far. My blades have never been more than an arm’s length away since my father handed them to me.
I close my eyes as the rush of water envelops me, and I think of home. Méi’zi must be cooking at this hour—she’ll be making congee, her best dish, with a neat sprinkle of scallions. It is as though I am there with them: I see her stirring the pot over the clay stove, hear the clatter of wooden spoon and bowls. She’ll sit next to Ma and feed her. Ma has always taken better to Méi’zi, like an animal sensing gentleness and innate goodness.
An ache grips my chest so hard that my throat locks and I cannot breathe. I am glad to sink beneath the water, where my tears leave no trace.
When I surface, I know something is wrong. The chatter of golden pheasants and brown-tailed sparrows has fallen silent. Between the cathaya trees, where the sun’s golden beams had been filtering through, a shadow grows.
Something within it moves.
I measure the distance. I’m about twenty paces fromwhatever is materializing, and I’m well hidden behind the rocks on the banks. Any sounds I make are swallowed by the rush of the stream. There is a chance I can wait this thing out—but if not…
I need my blades.
I slice through the water, careful not to make a sound, slow enough that my movements won’t be seen. When I reach the rocks and the cranny where I’ve hidden my things, I peer over.
Out of the darkness steps a thing that sends fear ratcheting through my body like lightning. This beast is massive: hair draping its bulky human body with distorted, abnormally long arms; an unhinged, gaping maw dangling from the gleaming-white bone of an ox’s skull with four great horns.
Like every practitioner back in the day, my father had owned a copy of theClassic of Mountains and Seas: a record of all mythical beings and legendary monsters known to exist across the realms. I’d flipped through it as a child, in turns fascinated and frightened by the illustrations of beasts both beautiful and terrifying. After Bà died, I’d studied the book because my life depended on it.
I recognize the beast that fits this description: Áo’yin, an ancient being that the mortal practitioners classified as one of the Ten Fearsome Beasts from the Kingdom of Night. It loves the flesh of mortals more than anything.
The hellbeast huffs as it scents the air. It turns its head toward me, its eyes mere pricks of demonic red in those hollow sockets, and I flatten myself behind the outcropping of rock and pray the water carries my scent away.
Slowly, I reach for my crescent blades, taking one in each hand. I watch the creature’s great shadow darken the rocks,its reflection appearing in the stream, dappled by the water, the currents breaking around its body.
It lets out a low, chittering sound, and I ready my blades. Just as I’m prepared to lash out, a clump of bushes several paces away rattles.
A large huff of air as the beast shifts its head in the direction of the sound. The putrid smell of rotting flesh hits me and I resist the urge to gag. Then its shadow and its scent vanish.
I draw a swift, silent breath.
Thank the skies.
That’s when I hear the whimper. It locks me in place, crawls down my chest, and twists my heart, rooting out a memory I have buried deep. Méi’zi, shaking and eyes wide, nails digging into my arms as she listens to the sounds of the Higher One drinking my father’s life from him, then tearing his heart from his body.
Trying to steady my breathing and the tremor in my hands, I peer around my hiding place.
Áo’yin has lumbered over to a crop of cathayas. Where it goes, an unnatural darkness follows, as though the Kingdom of Night itself spills from its essence.
Mere steps from the beast, crouched in a bush of camellias, is a girl. She is small—shorter than me, her frame made scrawnier by the oversized white shift she wears. Her hair is done up in two buns, and from what I can see, her face is childlike in proportion, wide-set eyes fearful even as she bares her teeth at the beast.
What is a child doing in the Way of Ghosts?
Áo’yin’s teeth flash. Faster than I can fathom, it pounces at her, a skeletal claw seizing her legs.
The girl gives another muffled cry. She scrambles forward and trips, her ankle held by the beast. As she turns onto her back, her skinshifts.It seems to morph with her dress, the silk and skin fusing into white fur, her feet and hands replaced by claws. By the time the beast drags her back to it, she’s no longer a girl but a small white fox.
Realization clicks in. Not a girl, not a fox…but ayao’jing.The term comes to me from the tales of old: malicious spirits and monsters that roam the mortal lands, haunting human villages and stealing newborns. Some will lure mortals into traps, creating halfling offspring who inherit a mix of human and monstrous characteristics, yet fall into the same classification as their yao’jing parents. They are rejected by human society and, if not killed, are left to prowl the wilds with the monsters.
