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“No, I insist,” Junyi says, motioning to the door. “Come in, come in.”

“Fate of a kind,” Keran repeats darkly as we follow the former crown prince into his crumbling home. “That’s certainly one way to put it.”

Chapter Seventeen

There goes a story that when he was still a baby, the crown prince had lost his favorite ring. The ring was thin and made of white jade, one of countless precious gifts showered upon him by officials, all eager to leave a good impression before the young prince was even old enough to remember them. The fact that he had misplaced it was in itself not concerning, but without the ring to play with, he would not stop howling. So began the search to find it, involving dozens of maids and ministers. He was said to have left it in one of his rooms, except this hardly narrowed the hunt down, for he had thirty-three chambers dedicated just to him, including a special hall to dine in, a hall to take his morning naps, an indoor garden for viewing, and another garden for playing. Even his room for washing was a magnificent structure of lustrous gold and cloud-carved tiles and white limestone.

When they could not locate the ring, they sought to make a replacement. They collected the finest jade, took the exact measurements of the crown prince’s fingers, and presented ring after ring to him, designed to look identical to the one before. But the crown prince, who had not yet learned to speak, somehow sensed that these rings were different, and continued his shrill crying. During those days, many gods could be seen nervously pacing around the palace, massaging their foreheads and conversing in serious tones about how to appease the prince. The mortals were affected, too, though they did not know it. For a long time, their prayers went unheard, their offerings wasted as the gods were distracted from their regular duties.

In the end, it was an attendant who discovered the ring in the slim gap between two cushions, where the crown prince usually took his morning meals. Only then did the crown prince smile, having gotten exactly what he wanted, no more and no less.

If he were to lose a jade ring now, in his house in the Mortal Realm, I am confident we would be able to recover it within seconds—simply because there is very little else here.

“Please, sit,” Junyi offers, nodding to the only seats available: a rickety chair with books crammed under one of the broken legs and a stone stool that has been used to prop up a single half-melted candle. He quickly takes the candle, casting an apologetic glance our way, and sets it down on the desk he’d been at earlier. There are scrolls sprawled over the scratched surface, alongside a ground-down inkstone, a simple abacus, a plate of millet crumbs, and a brush that has bristled so severely it would function better as a cleaning tool. A layer of yellow dust has formed over everything, save the leftover food.

I take note of all this with growing concern.

“Are we . . . interrupting your studying?” I ask as I settle uncomfortably into the chair. Even with the books there to balance it, it still squeaks and wobbles backward whenever I shift my weight.

Keran flicks back his robes and lowers himself next to me.

“Not at all.” Junyi remains standing. “I am not studying anymore these days. There is no point; I have nothing to study for.”

“What? Why?” My voice sharpens, and I only just remember to adjust my expression before he can see the extent of my distress. Forcing the muscles in my throat to relax, I continue, more gently, “I mean—I thought you dreamed of success in the civil service exams. You said so yourself earlier.”

“I also said that I am not suited for it,” Junyi tells me, his eyes sad. “I’m simply not good enough. I don’t have the talent, or the connections, or the resources, or the discipline, or the belief in myself. There are thousands and thousands of candidates just like me, or better.” He shakes his head. Sighs. “I don’t want to end up like my—” The briefest flicker of something in his expression. “Like Lao Wang and his child.”

The name means nothing to me. “What happened to Lao Wang?”

“He lived farther out in the provinces and used to come to the city every morning to sell his persimmons,” Junyi says. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him—most people would have bought something from his stall. They all say his persimmons are sweeter than what you might find in the realm of gods.”

I keep my face carefully blank as I scramble to weave together an explanation. “We are . . . new to the area,” I say. “We tend to travel around from place to place.”

“Ah, I see. That explains the accent,” Junyi says. “Well, yes, where was I? Lao Wang—his wife had died giving birth to their only son, and all his relatives were dead even before then. Some from disease, some from accidents. He did everything he could to better his son’s chances of passing the civil service exams. Since selling persimmons alone wasn’t enough, he sold all their pots and pans in exchange for books and brushes. When he ran out of pots, he sold his clothes. When that ran out, he sold his blood. They managed to somehow survive five years of this, because his son kept failing his exams.”

“Five years?” I ask. “So after the fifth year . . . he succeeded?”

“No, I’m afraid not. After the fifth year, when his son found out that he’d failed yet again, he went into the yard and killed himself.”

My mouth dries. I glance over at Keran, who does not appear remotely surprised nor upset by the story. But then, he must have come to collect the son’s soul. He must see these stories play out right before him all the time.

“There are different theories about why he did it, but I think . . . I think the answer is obvious. The pressure was awful. The disappointment was crushing. Failure—repeated failure—was unbearable. It’s a very tragic lesson, and an important one: If you aren’t made to do something, you shouldn’t force it. So I shouldn’t either.” As he talks, I observe all the subtle differences in Junyi’s face. It is like a pretty vase without the glaze. The features are distinctly his, but they have been worn down by hardship, by suffering, by the very things he speaks of. That steady, ceaseless confidence in the universe—and in himself—has vanished as his divinity has. He has transformed from someone who commands the world to someone who kneels at the world’s mercy. Keran was wrong about him, I decide as I stare at those dark, guileless eyes. Whatever he might have done in the past, however ruthless he might have been—this is no act. It’s merely a consequence of everything he’s endured and been deprived of in this life.

And while I would’ve thought it a welcome change to see the crown prince without his pride, it is dangerous for him to doubt himself so deeply. He will not be strong enough to survive his trials and ascend to the Celestial Realm. He will not even be strong enough for his trial to arrive.

“Shouldn’t you still try?” I ask Junyi, nodding to all the scrolls on his desk. Notes, diagrams, essays. Many appear to be incomplete, the characters crossed out and blotted with ink in multiple places, sentences ending halfway, as if he’d lost faith in his next thought before it had even finished forming. “You’ve already done so much work, and you’ve passed the first round. What if you end up surprising yourself?”

But he’s already stepping back, his head lowered. “The provincial examinations will be held in autumn. It’s too late for me to prepare, and even if I did, starting from today, I wouldn’t be able to pass. It would make more sense if I were to become a teacher, like all the other failed candidates, or a clerk; at least I’d stand a chance of being paid for my time. But the exams are out of the question. I lack—something.” He tugs absently at a thread unraveling from his sleeve hem. In the Celestial Realms, it would have been cut for him by two attendants with a pair of golden scissors. Likely, the entire set of robes would have been burned and replaced lest the crown prince be dressed in anything less than perfect. “I was born lacking something, and nothing I do will ever compensate for it. There are those who believe themselves fated for greatness, and they will achieve it, but I—I know my fate. I am not fated for anything at all.”

I stare, swallowing back the truth. You can achieve not only greatness, but godhood, if you make the right choice. I have been so focused on resisting fate, on outrunning it and pushing against it and fighting it with all my strength; I had never thought there would be people who wouldn’t recognize their fate, even when it was sitting down inside their own house. How many have forgone the radiant futures that could have been theirs, simply because they didn’t believe in them?

“I’m so sorry,” Junyi says, misjudging my silence. “Here I am, inviting you in as my guests, and I subject you to the most depressing tales of my life. It has been a while since somebody has visited; please, excuse my rusty manners. Let me—let me fetch you that tea. What would you prefer?”

“Pu’er tea will do,” Keran says.

Junyi flushes. “I . . . unfortunately don’t have any pu’er stored.”

“Jasmine, then,” Keran tells him.