I raise my blades, but Yù’chén’s hand catches my wrist.
“Àn’ying, listen to me.” His voice is barely audible. “In our current state, the two of us combined could not defeat that creature.”
I thrust Yù’chén’s arms away from me. “That creature didn’t kill your friend,” I reply, and then I’m staggering forward on the sand, toward the tree line. The Àn’ying who started these trials would call me a fool to risk everything in this moment. Yet I think of Fán’xuan, lying behind me on the beach, alone and hollowed out. I think of the way he carried my golden butterfly to me during the Third Trial; the way he loved soaring on an errant breeze and dipping into the ocean. I think of his easy grin, of the excited glint to his jade-colored eyes and how they will never see again. I think of the short, bitter life he had in the halfling show pen and how he deserved so much more.
Yù’chén’s right. We’re in no state to fight this beast.
But I’m not going to do it alone.
Crescent blades gripped in my hand, I raise my jade pendant to my lips. “Hào’yáng,” I whisper into it. “I know youcan hear me.” I pause. There will be time to explain later, to confess how I know who he is and sort out this confused mess I have made of my pendant and my guardian behind it. “I have the culprit behind the murders. I need help.”
With that, I let the pendant dangle outside my dress as I approach the murderer.
The slurping sounds it makes grow louder as I near. In the shadows of the canopy, I see its hulking silhouette, the way its back is hunched as it bends over another victim. I can just make out the face of the candidate—a man I recognize—his eyes glassy, his expression blank. I think he is dead.
I hope he is.
Fleet and Shadow are in my hands. I’m pressed against the trunk of a great willow, as silent as a wraith. I have the advantage of stealth and surprise; I won’t be fighting it full-on, as I did the mó back in Xi’lín.
The monster shifts its position, and for a moment, a sliver of sunlight through the trees lances across its face.
My blood goes cold.
I recognize it.
It’s Yán’lù.
—
I must have made some noise, or perhaps drawn too swift a breath. Yán’lù—the monster that is Yán’lù—freezes mid-bite. Slowly, he—it—lifts its head and looks in my direction.
It’s him; there’s no mistaking it, except it’s a horribly grotesque, twisted version of Yán’lù. His face is bloated; in his mouth are row upon row of razor-sharp fangs stained with gore. The whites of his eyes have disappeared, replaced byblack that’s tinted a crimson hue. Dark veins spiderweb across his face and down his neck, then encircle his arms—the demon’s ichor that coexists with his mortal blood.
Yán’lù…is part-mó. The realization robs me of breath. Number One, Number Five…that male candidate…Fán’xuan and now another…It was all Yán’lù’s doing. All along.
His eyes lock on me, and his lips widen into that sneer. I step out, but it’s too late; I’ve lost the element of surprise.
Yán’lù’s bloodied mouth curves in triumph. His gaze is cruel and utterly foreign. “I told you,” he rasps, and his voice seems to hold multitudes—sharp and high-pitched while at the same time low and deep—“I never forget. I’m going to ravage your body. I’m going to drink your blood.” His teeth flash. “But I won’t kill you, as I did the others. No, you’re going to suffer until you give me what I want.”
I raise my blades. “I’m going todestroyyou,” I say in a low voice.
He throws his head back and roars with laughter. That’s when a shadow falls by my side.
I see Yù’chén against the trunk of the nearest tree. He winces slightly as he draws his blade. Sweat drips from his chin, and he is still pale, his lips without the flush I’m used to. He lowers into a fighting stance.
Yán’lù’s eyes flash as they settle on Yù’chén. “Going to turn against your own kind?” he crows. “Don’t tell me you’ve truly fallen for one of them.”
Yù’chén’s face is broken by the dappled shadows of the canopy. Disgust is etched in his features, mingled with a deep anger. He steadies his sword and bares his teeth, eyes glinting red.
Yán’lù lunges forward. As he does, strands of his hair shootout, forming sharp bristles aimed at our hearts. I recognize them: it was one of these that numbed my body in the Third Trial.
I dodge one and catch two, but the third swipes against my left shoulder. I feel bursts of excruciating pain where it punctures my skin, followed by the familiar prickling numbness that begins to wind its way down my arm. My blade falls into the grass with a dullthumpas I lose control of the muscles in my hand. The poison on Yán’lù’s bristles must paralyze his victims so he can kill them more easily.
I think of Fán’xuan and wonder whether his last moments were like this: frozen and helpless and alone, unable to move or scream as he was devoured.
I may have lost the use of one arm, but I still have another—and I’ll be damned if I don’t get this bastard.
Yù’chén is fighting, but he’s slower than I’ve ever seen him. The wound in his stomach has torn open again, and fresh blood sprays the grass as he moves. His balance is off, each swing heavy as he fends off blow after blow from Yán’lù. The veins in his skin are pronounced, and when he snarls, I catch a flash of sharpened teeth and red-and-black scales beginning to form on his chin.
