I slipped into my new life, the days morphing into weeks. Each morning, we had our lessons in the Chamber of
Reflection, while in the afternoons we trained with the Celestial Army. My mind was opened to new worlds and knowledge, but it was the training on the field which
stirred me most. I learned to wield a sword proficiently—to slash and thrust, block and parry—although my abilities
still trailed behind Liwei’s. Eager to catch up, I studied the fighting techniques late into the night, repeating the moves in the quiet of my room until they came as easily to me as grasping my chopsticks or forming a note on my flute.
Sometimes I wondered, why did I feel such exhilaration when an arrow struck true? Or when an opponent was
brought down by a well-placed blow? Was it because I had been so weak before, that I now rejoiced in my newfound strength? Or had this urge—this desire to win—always run in my veins?
The prospect of training my powers filled me with both excitement and dread. As a child I had fantasized about
summoning firebolts and flying through the skies. But after the disastrous consequences of my first brush with magic, I would have been glad to never touch it again. Liwei would have excused me, yet an immortal without magic was like a
tiger without claws. We might be physically strong, but we might as well be mortal. If I ever wanted to help my mother, I had to embrace my power. And though it
frightened me, a part of me hungered for this, too.
Our instructor, Teacher Daoming, was the guardian of the Imperial Treasury and its hoard of enchanted artifacts. She only ever seemed to wear robes of dull gray, her black hair coiled into a tight bun from which silver pins protruded like a fantail. Her wide eyes were the hue of almonds, and her
pale skin was unmarred by lines from either frown or smile.
I had no magical training, whereas Liwei had already progressed to advanced enchantments. For the first few
weeks, all Teacher Daoming allowed me to do was meditate
—with sparse instructions to keep my eyes closed, my mind empty, and my spirit “as calm as a windless dawn.” I
approached these exercises with enthusiasm at first, anticipating the discovery of some hidden power or
enlightenment—but soon became bored with sitting cross- legged on the floor for hours on end. Whenever Teacher
Daoming saw so much as a wrinkle appear in my brow or a quiver in my leg, she smacked my arm with her fan,
snapping such vague things as: “Clear your mind of distraction!”
“Focus on the awareness of your energy!” “Seek the light through the dark!”
I would grit my teeth in mounting frustration, swallowing my ire as I imagined Liwei summoning bolts of flame while I was sitting here getting hit with a fan.
Meditating, for me, was particularly exasperating. In archery the goal was clear, the results, instantaneous. I knew what to do to improve and how I might get there.
Whereas meditation was a nebulous, mysterious thing. A path with endless winding destinations, where you might
spend hours wandering and end up just where you started.
One day, while I was sitting as still as I could and trying not to doze off, a shadow fell over me. I lifted my eyelids a
crack, to find Teacher Daoming standing there.
“If you’re worrying about whether you’re doing it right, then you’re not,” she sighed.
My eyes flew open. “I’m not very good at this,” I admitted. “Besides, how will meditating help? All it does is make me fall asleep.”
Teacher Daoming shook her head as she sank down
beside me. “Ah, Xingyin. Calming your mind is a crucial skill that extends even beyond magic. You are impatient,
rash, passionate in your endeavors. You, more than anyone, need to learn how to untether your mind from your feelings. Steady your thoughts and observe, before you
plunge ahead. When emotions cloud us, disaster soon follows.”
She smoothed her robe over her knees. “There is no target in meditation. No judgment. It is the peace, the
connection and oneness with yourself that is the key.” She paused. “I sense your lifeforce is strong. However, it’s been suppressed since your childhood, which is why you have
trouble grasping your magic. It was crudely done and
would never have worked had you been older and trained properly. Meditation will help break the seal on your lifeforce, to unleash your abilities. But only if you let it.”
I stared at Teacher Daoming, my mind whirling. My mother had not wished my magic to strengthen. She and Ping’er must have done what they could to shroud my powers and conceal my existence. I bit my lip, clenching
down hard. My mother wanted a quiet life for me, a happy one. After her decades of heartache and terror, she must have thought peace was the best gift she could give me.
Perhaps I had wanted it, too—until this fire was lit in me to be more than I was, to be all that I could.
Teacher Daoming continued, “You have great potential.
However, before you can harness your powers, you need to understand them. Before you can unleash your energy, you must learn how to grasp it. I hear you’re skilled in archery.
Could you shoot as you do without becoming one with the bow?” She touched the side of my head gently. “Some
knowledge beats in our hearts, while others are learned by the body and mind.”
Her words echoed those of my mother, a lesson I should have learned long before. Because some things came easily to me, I grew impatient at those which did not.
A wave of emotions swelled in me—shame at my conduct, gratitude for her patience. I shifted to my knees and
stretched out my cupped hands, bowing low. “Teacher Daoming, I ask your forgiveness. I was impatient and resentful. Arrogant, in thinking I knew better. From now, I promise to follow your instructions to the best of my
abilities.”
Her smile infused her face with sudden warmth. She was beautiful, I realized then, though not in the same way my mother was. One had to look a little closer to find the grace in her movements, the strength in her bearing, the delicacy of her features. Hers was a quieter beauty, but no less luminous once it was uncovered.
“I’m glad to hear that. My fan is getting worn out.” Without another word, she rose and walked away.
I choked back a laugh, even as I instinctively rubbed my arm. Perhaps Teacher Daoming was not as intimidating as I had thought. And perhaps, I might not be as terrible a
student as I had feared.
My progress was quicker now that I no longer resisted the lessons. Still, it took weeks more before I gained sufficient skill in meditation to advance to using my powers—what I had both craved and dreaded since leaving my home.
According to Teacher Daoming, the lights I glimpsed
swirling through me was my spiritual energy. While casting enchantments drained us of it, as water trickling from a bucket, it could be replenished through rest and
meditation. Without this, our bodies would be no different from a mortal’s and our lives as frail as theirs.
“Never drain your energy, Xingyin,” she cautioned me. “Why?”
“Trying to draw more than you possess will leave you
unable to sustain your lifeforce—which is the core of your powers, the source of your energy.” She spoke slowly,
holding my gaze to ensure I was paying attention. “That is death to an immortal.”
Cold sweat broke out over my palms. I had always
thought learning to use my magic meant I would be strong.
Fear, a distant thing of the past. Never did it occur to me that there would also be danger in using it.
“How does that happen?” I asked.
“Trying to cast too powerful an enchantment, trying to sustain one for too long, or trying to undo something you can’t.”
My thoughts flew to my mother and the spell which bound her. “Are some enchantments unbreakable?”
“All enchantments can be broken if you know how. If
you’re strong enough. If you’re the right person to do it,”
she said. “You don’t want to end up hurling your power into a void and getting too caught up to stop.”
I released a drawn-out breath. It was possible. That was what mattered. As for how, I would figure that out later.
In the beginning, I was unable to cast even the simplest enchantment—the lights still eluding my grasp. Yet as the
weeks passed, I edged closer until I sensed a stirring deep within, like an unfinished chord on the cusp of harmony.
One evening while Liwei was having his bath, I found his tea had gone cold. While he would not have cared, it was a cool night, ideal for a warm drink. Closing my eyes, I
searched inward for my energy—silver bright, glittering as stardust. It flickered as I reached out, struggling against
that unseen force tugging me back. Sweat broke out over my brow, my fists clenching under the strain—but I shoved through, snapping the hidden restraint to grasp the lights. For a moment they wriggled in my hold like the slippery scales of a fish unwilling to be caught, but then something shifted deep within, imbuing me with a sense of oneness as though I had finally connected to some vital part of me. My skin tingled like I had been doused in ice water. This was no accident. The lights stilled, yielding to my command as a stream of glowing energy surged from my fingertips toward the teapot. Steam curled from the spout, the water roiling with heat. I laughed, giddy with the success of my first enchantment.
Under Teacher Daoming’s guidance, I learned to coax a
breeze from the air, freeze raindrops to ice, raise protection shields, and—yes—even summon the bolts of flame I had
dreamed of. Many immortals chose not to exert their powers for mundane things that could easily be done without. Yet in those early days I practiced whenever I could, no task too small nor tiresome. Once, I unthinkingly summoned a hairpin, which plunged into Liwei’s topknot with more force than intended. His head jerked back, a
startled breath hissing from him, though he smiled as he glanced my way. No longer was I fumbling in the dark to grasp a sliver of light—my energy darted readily into my grasp, my magic flowing unbound.
Several months into my training, Teacher Daoming
brought me to the lush garden just beyond the Chamber of Reflection. It was a windless morning, the lake as still as a mirror. As she raised her hand, five luminous spheres
formed in the air. Tongues of flame leapt in one, translucent water lapped in the other. The third contained a chunk of
coppery earth, and a hazy mist swirled in the fourth.
Fire, Water, Earth, Air. The four elemental Talents of magic that I recalled from her previous lessons. I peered at the last globe, glowing a rich crimson. “What is this?”
“Life magic, to heal the body’s wounds and ailments. One of the intrinsic Talents.” She stiffened a little, her lips
pressing into thin lines.
“One of them? What are the others?”
She fixed me with a hard stare, ignoring my question. “Xingyin, which is the strongest of the elemental Talents?”
I passed my palm over the spheres, the heat mingling
with the coolness from the different energies. Fragments of lessons flashed across my mind. Earth might douse Fire,
but Fire could scorch Earth. Air might fan a flame or
extinguish it. My thoughts wound together into a maze of contradictions.
“It depends on the strength of the Talents pitted against each other,” I finally answered.
Her brows snapped into a frown. “That is half an answer.”
I lowered my head, wishing I had listened more attentively in her class.
She continued, “Each Talent has its own strengths and weaknesses. All four can be equally powerful. What matters most is the strength of the casters, their lifeforce which determines how much energy is at their disposal and the
skill with which they wield it.” As she passed her palm over the first two orbs, fire leapt high, engulfing the sphere of water. In the next moment, water surged to drown the flames.
“Those strong enough to specialize, first need to discover their Talent. Most immortals are drawn to one, maybe two. Prince Liwei’s Fire and Life magic are his strongest, while our emperor is one of the few accomplished across the Talents, even able to channel Sky-fire.”
“Sky-fire?” I repeated. It was the first I had heard of it. “Lightning, as wielded by immortals. A rare and powerful
magic. Not an element in itself, rather a unique convergence of one’s magic.”
With a flick of her finger the flames rekindled. “For some, their Talent is innate. For most of us, it stems from our
natural environment—perhaps because we unconsciously absorb the energy from our surroundings. Those living in the forests and mountains are more skilled in the arts of Earth and Air. Phoenix Immortals are adept in Fire magic and Sea Immortals cast the most powerful Water
enchantments. The Talents of Celestials have always varied across the elements.” She turned to me with a grave expression. “Which is yours?”
A thrill raced through me. Teacher Daoming believed I was strong enough to advance! Most immortals possessed enough magic to cast a repertoire of minor enchantments— lighting fires, healing minor injuries, calling a shower of rain. However, true power lay in the mastery of a Talent
and for that, one needed a sufficiently strong lifeforce. It was said that some advanced enchantments were so powerful, they could drain a weaker immortal’s energy with a single casting.
Following her instruction, I reached toward the glowing orbs and released my energy in a cloud of gleaming silver.
The Earth, Air, and Life spheres died out at once. Fire flared higher but a gust of wind surged from the
translucent orb, extinguishing the flames before it hurtled across the garden. The willow trees bent sharply, whipping the lake into waves.
With a sweep of Teacher Daoming’s hand, the wind
calmed and died. Her lips curved into a rare smile, as my heart pounded like a drum. The wind had wreaked utter
destruction upon the once tranquil garden; scattered leaves blanketing the ground, trees swaying wildly, snapped willow branches trailing in the water. Had I done this?
“Your Talent lies with Air, but you have some affinity in Fire,” Teacher Daoming observed.
Through my exhilaration, something tugged at the edge of my consciousness, something she had let slip earlier. I gestured toward the glowing spheres. “Are these all the Talents?”
A shadow flitted across her face. “It’s late. You are dismissed,” she said abruptly.
Curiosity warred with courtesy. I bowed, thanking her for the lesson. But then the question burst from me, “If Life is one of the intrinsic Talents, what are the others?”
“It is forbidden.” Without another word, she walked away. Her strange behavior only stoked my curiosity further,
weighing on me for the rest of the day. During the evening meal, I ate with little enthusiasm, barely tasting the prawns fried in red peppercorns.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Liwei asked, his chopsticks poised above his bowl.
I hesitated. Teacher Daoming had said it was forbidden but . . . he was the only one who might tell me. “Beyond Life, what are the other intrinsic Talents?”
He was quiet for so long, I thought he, too, would leave me in the dark. “Are we not allowed to even speak of it?” I shook my head then. “Forget I asked. I don’t want you to say anything you shouldn’t.”
He set down his chopsticks, his fingers tapping the table in a restless rhythm. “There’s just one other: Mind, which used to be among the most powerful Talents. However, centuries ago, my father and his allies condemned this magic and banned it across the realm.”
I refilled the teapot with hot water, letting the tea steep before pouring it into our cups. “Why did he do that?”
“Terrifying stories emerged regarding the practices of
Mind Talents—that they drank mortal blood and feasted on the flesh of children to sustain their magic, that their powers had distorted their true forms beyond recognition.” He frowned. “Rumors, perhaps? After all, they are immortals just as us. The only difference we know for sure is in their eyes, which glitter like cut stones.”
“Were their powers truly evil?” I asked.
“Some Mind Talents could compel others against their
will to perform their bidding. A heinous act. Imagine, being
forced to attack someone? To harm those you love?”
I shuddered at the thought. “How is such a thing possible?”
“Fortunately, few are truly capable of it. The stronger one’s lifeforce, the harder it is to compel them as it requires more energy. A skilled Mind Talent might only be able to control a powerful immortal for a brief period.” A shadow crossed his face. “Even if this happens once, that’s once too often. Even if it’s just for a moment, one’s life can be destroyed then. A prison of the mind is far worse than
that of the body.”
“Do many immortals have this power? Why aren’t we warned about it?”
“My father doesn’t like this to be mentioned. Besides, it is a rare skill, not even my father wields it.”
Part of me could not help wondering if that was why the emperor hated this magic. Because he could not
understand it, because it was the one Talent that eluded him. But I buried those thoughts, unwilling to speak them aloud. No matter how close Liwei and I had grown, I could not let myself forget that he was the son of the Celestial Emperor.
He continued, “Most came from the Cloud Wall, once a
domain of our kingdom which bordered the Golden Desert. When the ban was announced, a few volunteered to seal their powers to resettle in our lands. However, most
refused.”
“It’s a hard thing to sacrifice years of study and
practice,” I ventured, thinking of my own efforts to master just a few skills.
“Those who did were well compensated. The Cloud Immortals were stirred to rebellion by an ambitious upstart, in a gambit to seize power and declare himself king. After they proclaimed their separation from us, my father burned the ancient scrolls of their magic, burying their ashes at the bottom of the Four Seas.”
A harsh retaliation. “Was that the end of it?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, the Cloud Wall King retrieved the ashes and reconstructed the scrolls. He was weakened, but with whatever dark arts he learned, his new powers outstripped his old. With newly forged alliances with the Northern and Western Seas, he declared war upon us. The losses were catastrophic, thousands of immortals perishing—until, at last, a truce was agreed. However, my father swore that no Cloud Immortal would ever be allowed into the Celestial
Kingdom again.”
I searched my memory for all Ping’er had told me of the eight kingdoms of the Immortal Realm. There had been no mention of the Cloud Wall. “Did it become part of another kingdom?”
He paused. “It’s now known as the Demon Realm.”
I choked on my tea, coughing and sputtering, as Liwei passed me a handkerchief to wipe my chin. The Demon Realm was said to be a land of mist and fog, home to
fearsome beasts, monsters, and evil sorcerers. Somehow, it was easier to despise them before realizing—as Liwei had said—they were like us.
My mind spun with all I had learned and I could not help asking, “Did you agree with what your father did?”
He grimaced. “According to my father, there can be no
respect without fear. To be a powerful leader, one needs to govern with an iron hand, to crush resistance with even greater strength. I’m a disappointment to him; he reprimands me for being too soft. But no matter what he does, I can’t change who I am.”
“What does he do?” A tightness formed in my gut. I had never seen Liwei look so troubled before.
His fingers curled into a fist on the table. When he spoke, his voice was low. “He only wants what’s best for me. But
when my turn comes to take the throne, I will not rule as he does.”
Reaching out, I touched his clenched knuckles in comfort.
All I knew of such matters were from our lessons, what I
studied in the texts, the stories of great kings and queens— both mortal and immortal. But I was sure of one thing, that the Celestial Kingdom—any kingdom—would fare better under a ruler who listened with an open mind, than one who demanded unswerving obedience.
I had no love for the Celestial Empress and less for the emperor who had imprisoned my mother, although I had never met him before. From what I gleaned from gossip and learned myself, Liwei was nothing like his parents.
Unlike many in positions of power, he took no pleasure in imposing his will or pushing others down. Never did he
condescend to me, as far too many had. He morphed from a laughing friend to a patient instructor, and whichever role he took, his care and consideration warmed me. Whenever we debated our lessons or sparred, he drove me to improve myself, never surrendering an advantage I had not earned.
Each night I went to bed aching and exhausted, yet my heart aglow to be treated as his equal.
Archery was where I shone—whether using the short bow, which was lighter and faster, or the longbow, which allowed for greater accuracy. A few commanders soon
instructed their troops to watch me while I trained. Their presence unnerved me; I was afraid of making a fool of myself by dropping my arrows or missing the target. Yet the moment I drew my bow, a calm spread over me.
Perhaps my control over my emotions had improved with Teacher Daoming’s instruction, although it was still far
from perfect.
One afternoon, I arrived at the archery station to find it set up differently, with just two targets in the distance.
Liwei stood there, holding a bow in each hand. A little behind him was General Jianyun with a small cluster of soldiers, Shuxiao among them.
“It’s been three months. Did you forget?” Liwei called out.
My spirits sank as I recalled my reckless wager. Still, I
plastered on a bright smile as I took the bow from him. “Of course not. What are the terms?”
“Three arrows each?” he proposed. “The winner is whoever scores the most points.”
I nodded in acceptance, moving to stand behind the line.
His arrow whistled as it flew toward the target, but I
averted my gaze. His performance was a distraction I could ill afford. Keeping my attention upon my board, I released
the first arrow, piercing the target in the center. The
second followed in its trail, into the crimson eye of the board. And my last arrow split the former right down its middle. Having scored three perfect strikes, my confidence swelled—until I saw Liwei’s board, a mirror of my own.
General Jianyun frowned, unable to decide the victor.
Striding to the weapons rack, he pulled out a clay disc, no bigger than my fist. “Our advanced archers use this to
practice their skills. When the disc is released, it will soar away. The first person who shoots it down will be the winner.”
I groaned inwardly. I did not have much experience with moving targets.
“Perhaps this is too difficult for Xingyin,” Liwei said. Pride got the better of me. “It’s fine,” I said curtly,
drawing an arrow through my bow.
General Jianyun threw the disc high. It shot through the air, faster than anticipated. I blinked—half a heartbeat of hesitation—my arrow already hurtling toward the soaring
disc . . . as Liwei’s gold-feathered arrow shattered the clay.
I fought down my dismay. It had been a fair match. “You win,” I conceded.
“I’ll collect tomorrow.” He flashed a grin at me, which raised my hackles. “Another month or two, I wouldn’t be able to beat you. Time your battles better next time!”
As he strode away, I glowered at his retreating back, no longer caring about the dignity of losing with grace.
Shuxiao clapped me on my shoulder. “It was close. For a moment I thought you had him, but those flying targets are tricky. I miss mine half the time.”
“Close is not good enough.”
She pulled a face. “You’re too hard on yourself. He beat you today, but you’ve only been training for a few months.”
A little cheered by her words, I turned to General Jianyun. His head was tilted to one side, an assessing light in his eyes as he stared at the boards.
“General Jianyun, could I try that disc again?” I would not lose a second time.
