The fire crackled, sparks shooting in the air. I did not
flinch from where I sat on the ground, sanding the shaft of my arrows to make them leaner. Faster. The work was not necessary but it kept my hands busy and my mind, silent. A corner of my mouth tilted into a mocking smile. Just a few months ago I had been studying in the Chamber of
Reflection, and now I was preparing my arrows to slay a monster.
Xiangliu, the nine-headed serpent, had fled the Immortal Realm to the world below. It plagued the nearby villages, flooding their rivers and snatching up victims to feed its
insatiable appetite. While mortal warriors had long tried to bring this creature down, they were no match for its
strength and cunning. I wondered why the Celestial Emperor had waited till now to send his forces, just as he
let the sunbirds roam unchecked for so long. I did not think it was a conscious cruelty, but rather the detached triviality with which a mortal might view the life of an insect, unable to comprehend its suffering. It wasn’t only the emperor;
many immortals shared this view. Perhaps I might have been like them if mortal blood did not run in my veins. If my thoughts of my mother and father were not entwined with this place.
I stared at the mountain that rose from the ground.
Shadow Peak, this place was called. In the fading light, the dark rock glistened as though coated in a layer of grease.
This was nothing like how I imagined the Mortal Realm would be when I had gazed from above. No glowing lanterns, no laughing children, not even a single tree to
adorn the barren land. Just a tautness in the air akin to the moment a storm breaks.
I shifted on the ground, the metal pressing against my shoulders and ribs. Shuxiao had not exaggerated its weight. It struck me as a bad joke that I was now clad in the same armor which had roused such fear in me before. But this was my choice.
I thought back to the night I had left the Courtyard of Eternal Tranquility. Determined not to delay any longer, I had sought out General Jianyun and accepted his offer to join the Celestial Army.
“Excellent.” He had smiled then, a rare occurrence. “Have you informed His Highness? He should—”
“He knows.” My nerves had been too frayed to traverse the winding path of courtesy. I bowed to him again, hoping the gesture would take the sting from my next words.
“General Jianyun, I thank you for this opportunity, but I have a few terms.”
“Oh?” The single syllable somehow conveyed both indignation and amusement at my temerity.
“I don’t need an official rank or remuneration. What I
want is the freedom to choose my own campaigns and to be acknowledged for my achievements.” My body tensed,
bracing for his disapproval.
A scowl twisted his lips. Was he displeased by my audacity? But I knew my own worth now and was no longer just grateful to be granted any opportunity. I would not plow through the ranks for a meaningless title or power I
did not covet. Nor would I so readily place my future in the hands of another. Those most trusted could still let you
down, even when they did not mean to—a lesson I had learned with Liwei, and one I learned well.
General Jianyun folded his arms across his chest, fixing me with a fierce stare. “That’s not how it’s done. The commanders form their troops for each assignment,
considering each soldier’s experience and skill. We all
serve the best interests of the Celestial Kingdom.”
“As will I.” Such hollow words I spoke. I did not do this
out of loyalty to the Celestial Kingdom; all I wanted was the Crimson Lion Talisman. But it would be no easy feat to
shine brighter than the other warriors. And so, in this night filled with stars, I would chart my own path to blaze across the sky. I would pursue the opportunities which I believed would capture the Celestial Emperor’s attention. I would
earn the talisman, the key to my mother’s freedom—the
sole ambition that burned in me unchanged throughout the years, now unfettered by my weak heart. It shamed me, how I had hesitated before. I would never have forgotten
my mother, I would have done all I could to help her . . . but happiness had a way of blunting one’s edge, of dulling one’s urgency. Never again, I vowed.
Finally, General Jianyun had relented. Awarded the
nondescript rank of “Archer,” I had joined Captain Wenzhi’s troop—the only commander I knew and, more importantly, a celebrated one who would be assigned the most crucial campaigns.
I had cursed that decision in the weeks to follow, however
—shooting targets until my fingers bruised, sparring until I could no longer stand, and weaving enchantments until I was as drained as a wrung-out washcloth. Captain Wenzhi trained his soldiers hard, and each night I had fallen into
bed—my body limp and my muscles afire—eager to sink into the oblivion of slumber.
Nor was training without its dangers. Shortly after I had joined the army, Captain Wenzhi led me to an underground chamber lit by flickering torches. Gray stone lions with
bulbous eyes lined the walls, their open jaws mimicking fearsome grins like they were mocking us. How my skin
had crawled at the sight of them. The moment the captain left, the door slamming shut after him—darts hissed from the lions’ mouths, hurtling toward me faster than rain
pelting down in a storm. I dropped to the floor, rolling under a ledge. But I was too slow, pain streaking across my leg. I winced as I plucked the darts from my flesh, before
drawing an arrow and firing in the direction they came from. By accident more than design, I struck a lion’s mouth. Its jaws slammed shut, ending its attacks. Only after I had hit all of them—my arrows protruding from their jaws—did the barrage cease and the door swing open once more.
My blood roiled at the sight of Captain Wenzhi standing by the entrance. Had this been a test?
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I demanded.
“In a real battle, would the enemy warn you before attacking?”
“You aren’t my enemy.”
He tilted his head to one side, pinning me with his stare. “I’m glad you think so. But Archer Xingyin, your
performance was dismal.”
I jutted my chin out, my pride pricked. “I shot all the lions. I escaped the trap.”
His gaze lingered on the red marks dotted across my calf, blood trickling down in thin streams. “This was the first
stage in the Chamber of Lions and you still got injured. If these were coated with venom, you’d be dead.”
Shaking his head, he strode into the room and struck my arrows from the lions’ jaws. Darts sprang toward us once more. I wanted to duck, to roll to safety—but as he held his ground, I forced myself to stay beside him, my heart
thumping as the sharp points hurtled ever closer. Just as I was above to dive to the ground, he flicked his hand almost
negligently. A shimmering wall of ice appeared before us, the darts slamming into it.
My pride vanished like steam in the cool air. A gust of wind, a wall of flame—any of these would have worked! While I had learned to summon my magic effortlessly, its use did not come instinctively to me. Perhaps I had
managed without it for too long. When attacked, my first instinct was to retaliate with my hands and feet. Like a mortal, I thought silently. True to my roots.
His voice hardened. “The most powerful warriors are proficient in both combat and magic. You wouldn’t survive
long on fighting skills alone, nor can you rely on just magic.
If you did, you would soon find your energy exhausted. A most dangerous circumstance. No matter what is happening, keep a clear mind to judge when to use your
power for greatest impact. But don’t hesitate to use it when necessary.”
His words struck me. Eager to prove myself, I had
returned to this chamber on my own. Each time the traps
had been a little harder; sometimes spikes shot through the ground or fire erupted from the walls. I ended the sessions sore and bruised, blood dripping from my wounds. It was
only later that I learned the Chamber of Lions was reserved for the army’s most skilled warriors. While most had taken months, a year even to master every trap, it took me a matter of weeks.
And I was stronger, faster, more powerful than I had ever been.
But was I ready for what now lay ahead? I stared at the dark mountain, trying to quell the queasiness that rose in me, wondering if I had made the right choice in coming
here—my first battle against a monster so fearsome, its very name cowed immortals into silence.
Someone approached, footsteps treading over the earth. I was glad for the distraction from my bleak thoughts.
“Archer Xingyin, I’ve been searching for you.” Captain Wenzhi sank down beside me. “There are things you should know of Xiangliu.”
I started to rise to greet him, but he gestured for me to remain seated. When we were alone, he often lapsed into such informality—rare in the Celestial Army, governed by rank and hierarchy. Was it because we had bonded at the banquet, when he lent me his strength at the moment I
most needed it? Or was he at ease with me because I held no official position here, seeking neither his favor nor approval?
“Of Xiangliu’s nine heads, you can only strike one,” he said abruptly.
I stilled, my fingers curling around the arrow. “What do you mean?”
“The core of its power lies within its fifth skull, the middle one.” He stared into the flames. “If we were
anywhere else, we could attack it with magic. However, on this mountain, our powers are bound.”
I had been warned about this. When I tried to reach for my energy here, it darted away just like it had when I was untrained. “Is this some enchantment?”
He shifted, the leaping flames throwing shadows across his face. “No one knows. We only discovered this place
when we hunted Xiangliu here. The serpent is both ancient and cunning; maybe it knew it would be safe here.”
“Can’t I shoot all its heads until I get the right one?” My flippancy disguised my unease. The thought of nine jaws gnashing their fangs at me sent a chill through my bones.
“If that were so, we could just get a dozen archers and
blanket it with arrows. Xiangliu would be long dead and we wouldn’t need you.”
“Why don’t you then?” I retorted, irked by his words.
“Its other heads are invulnerable. Striking the wrong one only antagonizes Xiangliu, raising its suspicions and
making our task harder. The last time, we were forced to
retreat once our archer was incapacitated. But with every battle we learn more about our enemy.”
I stared at him in surprise. I had not realized they had
tried before. Perhaps only victories were flaunted, defeats swiftly buried.
“Is its fifth head any different from the others?” I asked. “It’s not covered in scales as the rest, and its skin is
almost like ours. To destroy Xiangliu, you must hit its eyes, clean through the skull.” He paused. “Unfortunately, its eyelids can’t be pierced by any weapon. At least none
which we know of.”
“I can only shoot its eyes when they’re open?” I repeated numbly.
A terse nod. “Xiangliu protects itself well. From what we gathered the last time, these eyes only opened when it struck with acid, its most powerful attack. And even then, for the briefest of moments.”
He picked up a stick and tossed it into the fire. It crackled, sparks flying high—mirroring my mounting tension.
My arrow fell to the ground. “Is that all?” How I prayed it was.
He nodded, as though this were a simple matter of hitting a target from ten paces away.
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” I cursed myself
inwardly for not seeking more information before. I had not cared enough then. However, tonight . . . I found I was not so indifferent to my own survival.
“Don’t doubt yourself. Xiangliu won’t escape this time.
We have all we need,” he said with calm assurance.
“And what might that be?” I asked, a little suspiciously. “Two archers,” he quipped.
“You’ll have one less soon,” I told him darkly.
He laughed. “And speed. Your speed, to be precise. I’ve never seen anyone shoot as accurately and swiftly as you. That will be crucial.” He spoke the last part somberly.
“I might have trained differently if I’d realized what we were up against.”
“How could you have pushed yourself harder than you
did?” he countered, before his tone gentled. “Don’t you feel ready?”
My mouth twisted into a grimace. More than my fear of the serpent, I did not like this feeling—that I was a chess piece played to his whim. Told what he believed I should know, positioned where he thought I should go. Such was
the hierarchy of command as Shuxiao had warned me, but I was no powerless recruit.
“Next time, I prefer to decide my readiness on my own.” His lips curved as he rose to his feet. “Good night, Archer
Xingyin. It’s late and everyone else is already asleep.”
I expected him to go to his tent, but he walked toward the mountain instead, disappearing into its shadow. Where was he going at this hour? My curiosity battled with my
reluctance to intrude, my desire to respect his privacy
winning out. We all needed time to ourselves. The flames flickered weakly before dwindling into a smoldering heap.
Without its hiss and crackle, the silence was only
punctured by the steady breathing of the other soldiers. I
had no idea how long I sat there, lost in my thoughts. When Captain Wenzhi finally reemerged, he stared at me, sitting alone in the dark.
“Why are you still up?” he asked, striding toward me. “I’m not tired.” My eyes flicked to his hands, streaked
with dirt. “Why are you still up?” I repeated his question back to him.
“I needed to inspect our path for tomorrow. To make sure there weren’t any surprises.” He sighed. “Get some sleep.
Tomorrow we have a steep climb and a hard fight.”
I left him then, to find my place on the ground. The nights were the hardest. When I lay alone in the dark, the memories I drove away in the light of day came crashing down. Of warm dark eyes and a teasing smile, which wore
away at the hard shell around my heart until I wrapped my arms around myself, struggling to breathe through the tightness in my chest. Perhaps it was worse tonight
because I was in the Mortal Realm—where my mother and father had met, fallen in love, and been happy. Until the sunbirds. Until me.
Once, I had screwed up the courage to ask my mother how they’d met. If I had not read the book, I would never
have been so bold. But it was so with all knowledge, having just a little left you with a greater thirst. And I had found
that she did not mind speaking of her mortal past. It was the memories that came after which she shied from.
Sometimes I felt there were two parts of her—the mortal and the immortal—of which the former belonged to my father and the latter to me.
She had glowed at my question, a flush rising to her cheeks. “We grew up together in a village by the sea,” she had told me. “He was the clever one, the fastest runner and quickest with a bow. It was no surprise when the soldiers
came for him just after he turned seventeen, recruiting him to join them. He did not complain, only hugging his mother as she wept over him. I tried not to cry, too, though we
loved each other. Before he left, he promised he would come back for me. For five years, I waited. Sometimes I
thought he had forgotten me along his path to greatness. But he did not.”
A cloud had fallen over her face then, as she pressed her trembling lips together. There was no need for her to say aloud what we both knew: that they had parted, more
irrevocably than if my father had a change of heart and never returned—with the entire sky between them now.
With a sigh, I stretched out on the cold ground. Everyone else was asleep just as Captain Wenzhi had said. I still ached, though no longer for my loss alone. My parents had been torn apart as a peach twisted into two halves. Their
love was intact and yet they could not be together. Was that worse than the inevitable finality of death? I did not know.
I thought bitterly that unlike me, at least my mother had married her love. He had been true to her. And she to him, until the fateful day she had taken the elixir. Was this
where all paths to love led? Heartbreak, whether through separation, betrayal, or death? Was the fleeting joy worth the sorrow that came after? I supposed it depended on the strength of the love, the memories made—which seemed
enough to sustain my mother through the decades of her
lonely vigil. Yet in my lowest moments a darkness had crept over me, whispering hateful things—that I was a fool, a weakling, so easily discarded. It would have eased my
gnawing ache had I surrendered to the hate, letting
resentment smother my grief, blaming Liwei for the hurt he caused me. It would only have been a brief respite though as what I mourned more than any injured pride was the
love we had lost, the future which was no longer ours.
The aching hollow within my chest gaped wider. I
instinctively searched the night for the moon, letting its soft light graze my face, the balm to my pain. Closing my
eyes, I could almost imagine it were my mother’s touch. My nails dug into my palms. I was more than this ill-fated love; I would not let it define me. I had my family to think of, my own dreams to fulfill . . . and a nine-headed serpent to slay on the morrow.
