The broken world

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

—John Donne

Why should a man be scorned, if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls? The world outside has not become less real because the prisoner cannot see it... —J.R.R. Tolkien, On Fairy Stories

The first people emerged from the grasses of the Endless Steppe, in the South, at the edge of the world. They did not know where they had come from or what their purpose in this world might be. They clung to each other, trembling with cold and fear. And then four gods appeared to them. The first was the Black Tortoise. She dreamed of a land ruled by wisdom and law. She led those who shared her vision to the North — those whose minds shone with clarity. The second was the Azure Dragon. He called to the souls who longed for beauty, and they followed him East. The White Tiger found kinship with the strong and the brave, those unafraid of hardship. They traveled West to build a nation of their own. The Golden Phoenix was the last to arrive. She gazed upon those who remained, and her heart was filled with pity. She stayed with them in the South, bringing magic and wonder into their lives. Since then, the Four have argued endlessly about who chose the best path. They favor mortals, granting extraordinary gifts to their chosen ones — wise rulers, powerful sorcerers, great generals. But the quarrels of the Four never cease, and so the Middle Kingdoms are doomed to perpetual strife. Or so the story goes.

Prologue: The Madman

Yukinari would never forget the day his dragon appeared. (He never gave it another name — just "dragon." The dragon insisted names were for humans.) Some part of Yukinari's mind understood, of course, that dragons weren't real and that something was deeply wrong with him. But another part of him whispered otherwise. His thoughts were too tangled to separate reality from imagination — though this had been true long before the dragon came. Sometimes, he thought the dragon might be part of himself, a fragment of his personality. But the more he pondered it, the more he was convinced that this only proved its reality: if he stopped believing in the dragon, he would stop believing in himself. And then what would be left? In fact, with the dragon's arrival, his mind had grown sharper, the world around him more vivid. Until then, reality had always seemed muted, like living in the hazy blue-gray twilight before dawn. But now the sun had risen, and the fog had lifted. The fog had begun to gather in his mind when he was just a child, back in Baijing, the capital of Yuigui. It had started gradually. He had been a quiet, dreamy child, content without friends — until the day he realized he wanted them. And when he reached out, he made a painful discovery: the other children at court wanted nothing to do with him. Their aversion wasn't overtly hostile. Once, someone tripped him, and he fell — but it didn't hurt much, and the boy responsible was scolded harshly, so it never happened again. They didn't mock him, nor did they gossip about him — though children will find a reason to mock anything. They simply avoided him. He spent a long time not understanding why. His mother would insist it was because of his father. Yuki wasn't entirely convinced. He had seen how the other court ladies avoided his mother, which meant people didn't like her either. That, however, wasn't surprising to him — he feared his mother, and she hated him as fiercely as she hated everything connected to the man she'd been forced to marry against her will. His mother, Sun Xiaolian, had been a court lady in service to the aging but powerful Empress Yui Liang. His father... his father, Yukihito, was a foreigner to this land — the crown prince of Ryukoku, the Dragon Kingdom, sworn enemy of Yuigui. He lived at the Yuigui court as a hostage, treated with the courtesy owed to an honored guest, though he could not leave the country, even if he had wanted to. And of course, he wanted to. Yukihito despised Yuigui. He often told Yuki and his brother about his homeland — the Dragon Kingdom. A land where the sun rises, a place of elegant, melancholy beauty, defeated in war but unbroken in spirit. "The defeated are always nobler than the victors," their father liked to say. According to him, someday they would return there, and everything would finally be set right. He would take his place on the throne of his father — Yuki's grandfather — and Yuki and his brother, Yukiyoshi, would be honored as princes, the bloodline of the Azure Dragon. Their mother had no place in these fantasies. Yukihito hated Lady Sun Xiaolian as much as she loathed him. Listening to his father's stories, Yuki became enamored with the Dragon Kingdom, too. He knew almost nothing about the real Ryukoku, so he had no choice but to invent it for himself. In moments of loneliness and anger, he commanded his thoughts to dwell on a world where everything was different — as it should be. This was not new for him; the first such world had appeared to him at the age of five, and by the time he became captivated by Ryukoku, the worlds he had imagined numbered in the dozens. But this time, he knew it wasn't just another childish fantasy. It was real — the only real thing. He spent hours on his imagined Ryukoku, painstakingly creating its details: its customs, laws, cities, gods, people's clothing, the trees that grew there, the magical creatures that roamed its lands. His Ryukoku wasn't just home to dragons — there were unicorn-like qilin, sophisticated multi-tailed foxes, and giant talking birds — but it was the dragons he drew most often. Vibrant creatures brimming with life and color, with long crimson whiskers, eyes more dazzling than amethysts or sapphires, and radiant manes that either flared like tongues of fire or flowed like streams of water. At night, he dreamed of climbing onto the cool, scaled backs of dragons as they carried him over the sea (he'd dreamed of seeing the sea ever since he'd learned it existed), across mountains, and above an elegant, unfamiliar city — the capital of Ryukoku. Yukinari began to feel that his life in Yuigui — his fractured, hate-riddled family, his loneliness — was all temporary, a layover spent waiting for a grand journey. That journey, of course, would be his return to the Dragon Kingdom. His imagined Ryukoku became the home he lacked. He even set a specific age for his departure: eleven. When he first started envisioning Ryukoku, eleven felt impossibly distant. Almost as often as he drew dragons, he sketched the people he imagined waiting for him there — future friends who, he believed, were eager to meet him. At first, there were only a few: his best friend, the girl who would become his wife when they grew up, and a younger sister. He gave them strange, beautiful names in a language that didn't exist. Yuki knew Ryukokuan (the language of the real Ryukoku); his father stubbornly spoke only his native tongue with his sons, while everyone else addressed Yuki in the tongue of Yuigui. Both languages had been familiar to him from a young age. But in his imagined Dragon Kingdom, they spoke a different language, and Yuki delighted in creating its characters and sounds. The beloved sister who waited for him in Ryukoku bore no resemblance to his infant sibling, Mayumi. His brother, Yukiyoshi, also had no place in Ryukoku. Somehow, this didn't strike him as a contradiction. Neither his parents, his brother, nor the children who quietly despised him at court had any place in his perfect universe. Strangely, though, when he tried to picture his best friend, his mind conjured an image of a boy he vaguely recognized — one of the children he longed to befriend but had given up on approaching. The boy was clever, quiet, and graceful, with serious, wide-set brows. There was something in his demeanor that matched the friend Yuki envisioned in Ryukoku, though he barely knew him and had no desire to get closer. Perhaps Yuki's thoughts were already muddled even then, for it never occurred to him to try genuinely befriending any of the children around him. He didn't even single anyone out — they were, to him, a collective being, unkind yet alluring. He dreamed of friendship as an abstract concept, even as his solitude gnawed at him daily. It never dawned on him that friendship required effort. He didn't know how to show interest in these children, nor did he understand that he needed to. Instead, he performed little rituals. "If I step across the courtyard without touching a crack, I'll make a friend." "If I brush the edge of his sleeve, he'll speak to me," he would vow. These rituals only served to cement his status as not just an outcast ("This is the son of You-Know-Who; don't look at him") to the son of You-Know-Who who is not quite right in the head. Yukinari was vaguely aware that his behavior was strange, yet the rituals made sense to him. He felt that something was wrong but couldn't figure out what the right actions would be. His thoughts grew harder to untangle. Oddly enough, he excelled in his studies, and his tutors adored him. He retained characters, historical dates, and poetic verses with ease. These things, unlike the hostile world of people, were simple and logical. He read books far too advanced for his age. At ten, he asked for a textbook on Old Yuiguian as a gift. Yet in many ways, he remained a child. He continued to build his Dragon Kingdom, a world brighter and more real to him than the reality surrounding him. It was, in essence, all he had, and he clung to it desperately. His isolation thickened daily, a fog that seemed to solidify around him, until he stopped trying to connect with others. He spoke little to his parents and brother, buried himself in books, and occasionally played the Yuigui board game "Mist and Clouds" alone, inventing strategies. Often, he wandered for hours, lost in thought, only to realize later that he couldn't recall where he had been or what he had thought about. At times, he wasn't even sure if he truly existed. Shortly after he turned eleven, his father died. He never learned exactly how. They told him it was a weak heart. It could have been poison, but his father — a weak, ineffective man far removed from politics — was unlikely to have been a threat to anyone. What troubled Yuki most was how little his father's death upset him. He had never been particularly close to him, but he thought he should have felt something. Instead, he began to doubt the reality of his own existence. He had long felt insubstantial, pale, and thin. At times, it seemed as though others lived while he merely existed — a cold, hollow, two-dimensional creature, like a poorly conceived character by an indecisive author unsure whether to erase, reshape, or leave them as they were. On the day of his father's death, this sense of unreality overwhelmed him. He imagined himself as a fragile, colorless thing, like a dried butterfly, ready to crumble into dust. Terrified, he broke a cup and ran the shard across his wrist, finding comfort in the sight of his own blood — bright, alive, and undeniably real. When they found him — huddled in a corner, still scratching his arm with the broken shard — they surrounded him with care and concern, believing he was overcome with grief over his father's death. He tried to explain why he had done it, but no one understood. They thought he had tried to end his life. Yuki often thought of death, but he had never truly wanted to die. Some force — perhaps the Great Dragon his family claimed as their ancestor — had instilled in him a profound, innate love for life. Yet, cruelly, it had failed to give him the strength to live it fully. He simply wanted to know if he was real. That was all. His father's death had nothing to do with it. After his father's death, their family's position at court weakened even further. But Lady Sun Xiaolian still had a few useful connections. Faced with a choice between living as a pariah — or perhaps a prisoner — at the Yuigui court or fleeing to her husband's despised homeland, she chose the latter. She, like her sons, knew almost nothing about Ryukoku and clung to fragile hope. One night, under the cover of darkness, Yuki, his mother, his brother, his tiny sister, and a few loyal retainers slipped out of the palace, climbed into a carriage, and left Baijing. They were pursued, but not for long. Yuigui, at the height of its power, paid little attention to the escape of the family of a Ryukoku prince-hostage. Ryukoku lay in ruins after the war, after all. They arrived safely in Ryukoku — the real Dragon Kingdom, not the one Yuki had imagined. They had returned home. But somehow, nothing in Yuki's life changed. They were received with pomp, the people rejoicing in the salvation of the heirs to the throne after years of captivity. Yet, there was an undercurrent of wariness — how could anyone ignore that the children of Prince Yukihito had been born and raised in a hostile land, absorbing its language and culture? In truth, they were as foreign here as they had been in Yuigui. The real Ryukoku turned out to be nothing like the Dragon Kingdom of Yukinari's imagination. From his father's stories, he had thought he knew Shinju, the capital — a city as beautiful as a pearl of the sea, with canals and bridges instead of streets, boats and ships instead of carriages. He had envisioned something romantic. But real Shinju, perpetually shrouded in rain or fog, was a dark, oppressive place. It smelled of damp cold, rotting nets and pilings, fish. The houses were shabby, and the people in the streets looked impoverished. Unbidden, he compared it to the Baijing they had left behind, the capital of Yuigui, and his heart sank. His new home, with all its strange, sickly beauty, was utterly unsuited for life. A few times, he caught himself saying, "Back home, it was different..." meaning Yuigui, of course — a sentiment that hardly endeared him to anyone in Ryukoku. Only the sea surpassed his expectations. Infinite, boundless, it surged against the shore, never freezing in winter. Winters here were milder than in Yuigui, almost snowless, with plum blossoms appearing as early as February. He imagined dragons could indeed live in Shinju — this windswept, damp, venomous city clearly not meant for humans. But they wouldn't be the vivid, fiery dragons he had once envisioned and sketched. No, they would be silvery, like strands of rain, or murky green, like the sea, or leaden gray, the color of solitude and storm clouds before a downpour. Or black, like well water. The fog in his mind thickened, and his imagination played strange tricks on him. At times, he thought he saw them: shadowy forms gliding through the canals like seaweed, glimmers of scales... These dragons were not benevolent; they frightened him. He would have been glad to forget them, but reminders lurked everywhere — in sculptures, on clothing, dishes, and paintings. The Emperor's throne was the Dragon Throne, his face was the Dragon Face. When speaking of a deceased emperor, people said he had ridden a dragon to the heavens. The religious people of Ryukoku truly believed the imperial family were descendants of a god. But Yukinari, albeit with shaky certainty, knew better. Living in Baijing, he had learned that the Great Dragon didn't exist — educated Yuiguians regarded belief in the Four Gods with a touch of irony. Yet whether he believed it or not, Yukinari was now a descendant of the Great Dragon and heir to the throne. A throne in a defeated, impoverished, ruined country — but still, he had never seen such grandeur as he found at the Ryukoku court. There were endless rules, conventions, and ceremonies — how to dress, when to speak, when to remain silent. He memorized them all quickly and easily, treating them like a game or a ritual. New tutors were assigned to him and his brother, and Yukinari threw himself into his studies more fervently than ever, staying up past midnight with books. There was so much to learn about the country that was now his home. And yet, he didn't fully understand why he was doing it. Once, his small, childish rituals had been aimed at making friends, irrational and incomprehensible though they seemed to others. But the courtly rituals he performed here had no such purpose. There was no one at the Ryukoku court whom he could or wanted to call a friend. He mastered court etiquette simply to attract less attention. All he wanted now was to become as invisible as possible, to be forgotten. Thoughts of his own unreality, which had once frightened him, now offered a strange kind of hope. He realized there was more alienation in the reverence surrounding him here than in the indifference he had faced in Yuigui. How foolish he had been to think himself lonely before! Now he truly understood what it meant to be alone. He could go a week without speaking — not out of reluctance but because there was simply no one to exchange even a word with, aside from his tutors. Though he now lived in the real Ryukoku, the imaginary Ryukoku remained alive in his mind. His growing isolation in Shinju drove him to invent new friends. In his imagined Dragon Kingdom, he still had one best friend (he believed one was enough — finding that one person destined for you and sharing everything with them, what could be better?), but his vivid imagination wouldn't let him stop there. He became fascinated with tales of the Strangers, sorcerers from the southern steppes. In Yuigui, they were called yaoguai; here, yokai. He had never seen a Stranger, but they were said to always look strange, unlike ordinary people — perhaps with hair or eyes of any color. Once, he overheard someone say one of his grandfather's concubines had Stranger blood. Yukinari found her, but she disappointed him. She wasn't especially beautiful (though absurdly young compared to the aging emperor), her hair was only slightly less black and straight than most people's, and nothing else about her seemed unusual. In his fantasies, though, there were Strangers of every kind: white-haired, red-haired, green-haired; some with wings or scales; people who transformed into wolves or foxes; people who resembled great cats... His best friend, Dan, could ignite fires with his gaze. (Yukinari wanted his imagined brother and sister to have abilities too but decided they couldn't be Strangers — they were his family, and he himself was ordinary.) There was also a boy who could turn invisible —a power Yukinari often envied — and a girl with massive black wings like a raven's. There was a girl named Mika, with short, pearl-colored hair like bird feathers, who could stop time. And there was Fai Faen, the strangest of them all, older than the others. Very tall and thin, with greenish skin, he barely resembled a human. He could speak to flowers and trees, persuading them to grow and bear fruit. Then there was his fiancée, Lunhe, who could see the future. A fragile girl in black clothing, with enormous, troubled eyes. Her prophecies always came true, but they were rarely happy ones. Yukinari did wonder if his imaginary friends were replacing real ones, and whether that was wrong. But there was little he could do about it — where would real friends come from? His mother and sister, Mayumi, now lived on the women's side of the palace, and he rarely saw them, even if he wanted to. His grandfather, Emperor Yoshihito, seemed kind but took little interest in him — or perhaps he simply had no time for him. In any case, what could a boy and a seventy-year-old man have to talk about? All Yukinari had was his brother, Yukiyoshi. The two had never been close. Yukiyoshi wasn't exactly uncommunicative — he simply didn't see his elder brother as worthy of interest. He was also cruel and vindictive. In Yuigui, Yukiyoshi had often played mean tricks on other children, clever enough to avoid blame (and most wouldn't dare complain, knowing his retribution would be harsh). Yukinari had once admired this, thinking his brother was protecting their family. But he eventually realized Yukiyoshi simply enjoyed being cruel. While others merely avoided Yukinari, they outright hated Yukiyoshi. Yet they still included him in their games, knowing that excluding him would only make things worse. Of course, Yukiyoshi sensed the falseness in their treatment, knowing that no matter what he did, he would always remain an outsider — a wrong child from a wrong, despised family. This only fueled his anger. Perhaps he was as lonely as Yukinari, in his own way. Yukiyoshi took their father's words about being of the Heavenly Dragon's blood very seriously. Once, examining Yukinari's drawings, he asked about the people in them. Yukinari explained they were his friend and fiancée from the Dragon Kingdom, and Yukiyoshi laughed. "Didn't Father say the Emperor of the Dragon Kingdom could have a hundred wives? And we'll have so many friends we won't be able to count them. Who wouldn't want to be friends with princes?" Yukinari sensed something wrong in his brother's reasoning, but knowing so little about friendship or love, he didn't dare argue. The idea of one day claiming his rightful place on the throne lodged itself firmly in Yukiyoshi's mind. He alone welcomed the move to Ryukoku. Their mother regretted it a thousand times over — she had dreamed of power, only to find herself trapped in the women's quarters like a caged bird. For Yukinari, little had changed; Mayumi was too young to understand. But Yukiyoshi reveled in their new life. The fine clothes, exquisite food, the bows and frightened admiration of others — all of it thrilled him. He envisioned himself as the future emperor, the living incarnation of the Dragon on earth, and it showed in his every gesture and word. Only one thing marred his joy: Yukinari, the brother standing between him and the throne. If Yukiyoshi, not Yukinari, had been the elder, perhaps things might have turned out differently. Perhaps he wouldn't have carried such bitterness, envy, and hatred... Or perhaps not. It all began with a dead dog. Yukinari stumbled across the body in a secluded part of the garden, a spot rarely visited by servants or courtiers but often frequented by him and his brother. The dog, a cheerful, russet-coated Ryokoku breed with narrow eyes, had been cruelly mutilated — its ears and tail cut off, the stumps crusted with dried blood. Someone had tied it to a tree so cleverly that it couldn't break free or gnaw through the ropes, leaving it to die from wounds, cold, hunger, and thirst. What shook Yukinari wasn't just the death itself but the deliberate cruelty behind it— the calculated malice of a mind that had devised such an agonizingly slow death. Worse still, the killer had chosen as their victim not an equal, not someone who could fight back, but a weak, friendly, trusting creature. That betrayal, more than anything, was the vilest part. He buried the dog. It was winter, and the earth was frozen solid, hard as stone. Using a sturdy branch, he managed to scrape out a shallow grave. When he dragged the dog's body into it, he realized the hole was too small. Still, he covered it as best he could with clumps of icy dirt and dry leaves. The corpse remained partly exposed, but he decided it was better than leaving it in plain sight. Yukinari didn't know for certain who had done this, but he had his suspicions. He had noticed that Yukiyoshi, his brother, often displayed a streak of cruelty toward the servants. Those who dared defy the prince — or even looked at him the wrong way — paid dearly. Yukiyoshi, it seemed, had realized he no longer needed to hide his impulses as he once had back in Yuigui, where attacks had to be covert. Now, he could indulge his whims openly. For the time being, his victims were limited to household servants and animals, but Yukinari feared it was only a matter of time before he realized he could do far worse. The dog's death was followed, not long after, by a human one. A servant brought Yukiyoshi a cup of lukewarm tea — a grave offense, in the young prince's eyes. For this crime, Yukiyoshi ordered the man to be flogged with two hundred strokes. Some could survive such a punishment, but this servant did not. Yukinari was there to witness it. It was the first time either brother had seen death. Yukiyoshi watched intently, his wide eyes devouring every moment, his nostrils flaring as though savoring the smell of blood and sweat. Yukinari didn't want to admit it to himself, but from that day on, he feared his brother. And Yukiyoshi had found a new passion: attending public executions. He would stand among the crowd in the marketplace, transfixed by the grim spectacle, his face alight with an unnerving fascination. When they crossed paths, Yukiyoshi would say nothing, only casting sidelong glances at Yukinari — silent, unreadable, yet undeniably hostile. Those glances unsettled Yukinari deeply. He tried to make conversation, but Yukiyoshi's curt, dismissive responses made it clear he had no interest in his brother's company. Eventually, Yukinari began avoiding him altogether, spending more and more time hidden away in the garden, anything to avoid a confrontation. These events troubled Yukinari, pulling him out of the safety of his fantasies and forcing him to grapple with an unpleasant reality. Yet he had no idea how to fix it. Before long, every servant in the palace knew of the young prince Yukiyoshi's terrifying temper. Punishments grew more frequent. Some servants died. Yukinari avoided these scenes, avoiding even thinking about them, but he knew they continued — and the knowledge gnawed at him. The worst part was how these events began to change Ryukoku — not the real kingdom, but the imaginary one Yukinari had built in his mind. When he was younger, Ryukoku had been a bright, joyous, magical place, filled with all the wonder and light his real life lacked. But now, the kingdom grew darker. In his imagination, Ryokoku had been invaded by foreign conquerors — inhuman, monstrous invaders. At first, he imagined himself as a hero, a savior of his kingdom, but the situation in Ryukoku grew increasingly dire with each passing day. Yukinari often blended routine tasks with his imagination, a habit that had started long ago in Yuigui, even before he'd created the world of Ryukoku. For example, he was convinced that the fat, elderly neighbor's cat was a shape-shifting bakeneko, and he often spied on it, hoping to catch it walking on two legs. The house and garden were alive with marvelous and frightening things others seemed not to notice. He had seen tiny footprints in the ash by the hearth — surely left by a household spirit. Someone invisible rustled ominously among the reeds by the pond. Once, in a snowstorm at dusk, he thought he glimpsed a woman's silhouette in the distance — perhaps the beautiful Snow Woman, come to befriend him and, one day, become his bride. After they moved to Ryukoku, he occasionally wondered if he was too old for such games. But without them, his life would have been unbearably dull. So he embraced his fantasies so completely that he hardly recognized them as fantasies anymore. Studying lessons became reconnaissance missions to uncover the enemy's plans. Jumping over puddles in the spring became wading through marshes on a secret path to an enemy camp. Climbing a tree became flying on the back of a dragon. One day, while hiding in the garden pavilion to avoid his brother, half-immersed in his imaginary world, a terrible realization struck him. The evil forces invading Ryukoku were being led by Yukiyoshi. Previously, Yukinari had thought his brother had no place in Ryukoku, but now it all made sense. Yukiyoshi was there, and he was the villain. He was the one destroying the kingdom — it was as clear as day. Yukinari realized he hated Yukiyoshi. And Yukiyoshi hated him. Perhaps this had been obvious to everyone else for some time, but Yukinari, with his inability to grasp others' feelings — or even his own — had only just understood it. But what could he do with this new understanding? He had no idea. As for the rest of the palace inhabitants, Yukinari had never thought much about them — they had always been strangers to him. But now, when he forced himself to consider his feelings, he realized some of them he liked (a rare few), others he did not, and some reminded him of his imaginary friends from Ryokoku — or at least, he wished he could invite them into his kingdom. His intimate knowledge of the palace and garden, combined with his knack for moving like a ghost, could have made him an excellent spy, had he cared about court politics. But he didn't. However, when he accidentally overheard conversations, he did not feel awkward either. Most often, he simply remained indifferent to what he learned from them — most of what he heard had nothing to do with him. But conversations that concerned him unsettled Yuki, leaving him feeling awkward and uneasy. One such exchange he overheard near the library wall, in a rarely frequented corner of the garden. Two men were speaking. Yuki thought he recognized the deep voice of one of them: it belonged to the elderly General Nakatomi. "Were you with His Majesty today when he fell ill?" "Yes. I was the one who summoned the physician." A pause, as though the speaker hesitated, unsure whether to confide further. But at last, he continued. "I don't mean to alarm you, but it's far more serious than most in the court believe." "That's hardly surprising. He is no longer young. We must begin preparing for the inevitable... May I ask how you see our future?" The first speaker's tone was cautious. "Bleak," the other replied curtly, followed by a dry laugh. The sound of it — and the speaker's apparent habit of finding humor in the most inappropriate moments — struck Yuki as familiar. He wasn't certain, but he suspected it was Lord Mitsune, the head of the imperial archives. "I, for one, am bracing myself for exile to the provinces," the archivist continued — or so Yuki assumed it was him. "I'll consider myself fortunate if I arrive alive and with all the limbs I was born with." Another laugh. "You know as well as I do, Minister Ise-no-Akahito has no love for me." "Are you truly so afraid of the Left Minister? I doubt he would dare banish anyone from the capital, even after the Emperor..." A pause, which the second speaker broke, his tone tinged now with faint irritation: "You have nothing to fear. Your family has always been but a single step removed from the Dragon Throne itself." "That step is wider than an abyss." "A pity — many would rejoice to see you upon that treasured seat, my friend." "Enough of that. If you truly thought it a possibility, you wouldn't be speaking so freely to me. My father ensured I chose a military career precisely to keep me clear of the throne's intrigues." "Wise of him," the archivist chuckled again. "And what do you make of our future, General?" "The Left Minister troubles me as well," Nakatomi admitted cautiously. "Not for my own sake, but no one man should wield so much power. Unless, of course, he is the Son of Heaven." "Oh, but we have two prospective Sons of Heaven," the archivist quipped with a bitter edge. "A madman and a cruel madman — which do you prefer?" "Comments like that could easily cost you a limb or two," Nakatomi warned. "I see intelligence in Prince Yukinari — and kindness, too." "Intelligence?" The laugh this time was sharper, almost mocking. "Perhaps. But he's long lost himself in the labyrinth of his own mind. A physician would serve him better than a tutor." "All the better, then — if Yukinari ascends to the throne, he'll let us do our work unhindered. He can go on playing with his toys and painting his dragons." "That would be ideal. But I doubt he'll live long. And his brother..." "Enough. Quiet. I have no desire to share poor Kiri's fate." "It would be amusing to pit the boy against Minister Akahito." "I doubt that can be arranged. Akahito has already ingratiated himself with their mother and will soon find a way to do the same with her son. It's hardly a challenge — all Akahito needs to do is show deference and indulge Yukiyoshi's cruel whims. Like attracts like." (The Left Minister Ise-no-Akahito and their mother? Yuki had no idea what they meant.) "As Emperor, he could prove dangerous to us — twice as dangerous with Akahito's backing," the general murmured quickly, his voice dropping lower. "That's why I'm saying: prepare for the inevitable. Save your money, pack your things. Don't look at me like that — I have no idea what should be done. All I can manage is to make unfunny jokes... Fine. Someone must deal with them — is that what you wanted to hear?" "With both of them? The minister and the boy?" "But who would dare?" A pause. And then, so quietly that Yuki barely caught the words, the archivist muttered: "Poor Ryukoku..." The idea that the real — unimagined — Land of the Dragon might need help as much as his imaginary one was new and unexpected for Yuki. Until now, it had never occurred to him to compare his former life in Yuigui to his current existence in the palace at Shinju. The differences in status and surroundings were simply too vast (though in both lives, he had hidden from the world in his fantasies, as if retreating into a shell). But now, belatedly, he realized something unpleasant: his new homeland was an unhappy, impoverished, backward, and cruel country. He tried to think about this as little as possible because whenever he did, it hurt him in every way — from the separation from his mother and sister (whom he had never particularly loved, but the inability even to see them felt cruelly unfair) to the daily humiliations of court rituals, like the three prostrations required of courtiers before they could petition the Emperor or Crown Prince. When he realized that among these courtiers were people he genuinely liked, he wanted to free them from this obligation — to approach them, take their hands, lift them to their feet, and speak to them as equals. But he could do none of this. The same absurd court etiquette demanded that he remain silent, wait, and endure. From the snippets of conversations he overheard, a grim mosaic began to take shape — Yukinari was coming to understand that the palace was steeped in lies, malice, and betrayal. Beyond the palace gates, the city and the country were worse still. The scraps of information he gleaned about the lives of common folk were so cruel and absurd they defied comprehension. He thought to himself that a world in which such a way of life was accepted simply could not, should not exist. With warmth and sadness, he began to recall Yuigui and realized that life there had not been as awful as it had seemed when he was a child, lost in his sorrows and loneliness, blind to everything around him. To comfort himself, he tried to retreat into his imaginary Land of the Dragon, a world whose order was, of course, wise and just. But even there, things had begun to grow worse and worse. The war continued, and it was becoming clear that they would not hold out. The enemy drew closer to the capital — until finally, they seized it. Yuki tried to imagine himself bravely infiltrating the enemy camp and slaying all the key strategists, leaving the invaders' army helpless. But he couldn't think of a way to craft a happy ending for this story: the enemies captured him and took him prisoner. His comrades — his friends — refused to abandon him, attempting a daring rescue, but soon they too were surrounded by the invaders. The enemy forces were endless; his friends, just a handful. Once, long ago, when he created the Land of the Dragon for joy, he controlled everything that happened there. Now, things were different. Everything unfolded on its own, against his will. Of course, it was all still in his mind (he was aware they were fantasies, though they felt more vivid than reality), but it would have been a lie to say he enjoyed conjuring all this suffering, death, and despair. It simply happened that way. They fought to the death, his friends, in that final battle. It was as if he were reading a book or hearing someone else's story — one of those dreams you see just before waking. He tried to intervene, to imagine better twists of fate, but he couldn't. Whenever he attempted to alter the events for the better, he felt an overwhelming falseness in what he created, and he couldn't even force himself to picture it clearly. His mind buzzed with stray thoughts, like the noise of distant voices, interfering with his imagination. So all he could do was watch helplessly as his friends fell, one by one. Fai Faen died first — he respected life too much to take it, even from an enemy, and chose instead to give up his own. His best friend, Dan, was surrounded by enemy soldiers. Someone knocked his weapon from his hands, and he, master of fire, ignited like a candle, taking everyone nearby with him. Only a handful of ash remained. The winged girl swooped down on the enemy like a black whirlwind, striking terror into their hearts. But as her wings grew heavier with arrows, her strength waned. At last, her wings hung limp like tattered banners; she hovered in the air for a moment before plummeting to the ground. Her wings bent grotesquely beneath her, breaking under her weight, becoming a bloody mess. Snow began to fall, slowly blanketing the Land of the Dragon. The invisible boy darted among the soldiers, a ruthless god of death. But when the snowflakes began to fall, the enemy saw his silhouette, tracing his movements. He was invisible, yes, but not invincible. Yuki's fiancée, Lunhe, tried to shield him from a blade meant for him. The brutal strike intended for Yuki struck her instead. She gasped, closed her eyes, and sank to the ground, her face serene and almost happy. But her sacrifice was in vain because the next blow was meant for him. He couldn't block it and fell, clutching at the wound that gushed blood in rhythmic spurts — so much pain, unbearable pain... He managed to see Mika, fighting the fiercest of them all, fall last. Two arrows pierced her chest, and one struck her neck. She collapsed, arms outstretched. Her pearly hair blended with the whiteness of the snow, and he waited in horror for a crimson stain to spread beneath her. But Mika's lips moved silently before her final breath — she stopped time... Everything slowed, as if underwater, and then froze entirely. Only the snow continued to fall, blanketing the bodies of the fallen. Yuki hated himself for imagining such a thing. He wanted to undo it all, to save his friends, to end the war. But he couldn't. He could see the cold, soft, white flakes so clearly, settling on the ground, on the lifeless bodies and faces of his friends —friends who were far more real to him than anyone in the life that surrounded him now, the only life left to him. In the second Ryukoku, the one his mind stubbornly called real, though his heart screamed otherwise, there was no war, no deaths. But here, as there, he was alone, and everything else was just as cold and unreal, as if covered in snow or submerged underwater. But this world was different from his imagined one in one crucial way: in his own Land of the Dragon, life had stopped, but here it went on. And though everything in this world was dull, ugly, and wrong, it unsettled him, confused him, demanded his involvement — or at least some opinion — and wouldn't let him rest. It wasn't that he began to feel affection for this real Ryukoku or wanted to help anyone. Truly, he wanted only one thing: to reclaim his world. But that, of all things, was beyond his power. The practice of beating servants with sticks for even the smallest infractions was one of the many things Yuki despised about the Ryukoku palace. He couldn't abolish punishments entirely — not yet, anyway. For one, he vaguely understood that doing so would upset some deep-rooted traditions, pillars that were far larger and more significant than just the system of punishments. And for another, he wasn't the emperor yet. In the palace, he was — at least in his own eyes — nobody, despite the threefold bows and all the other rituals performed before him. But he could, at the very least, influence Yukiyoshi. He was older than his brother, and when Yukiyoshi once again issued an absurdly cruel punishment, Yuki finally said: "No." It had taken him a long time to gather the courage to say even that single word, to say anything at all. And he was almost startled when Yukiyoshi obeyed. His younger brother turned to him, his expression a mix of astonishment and anger. "Why are you interfering in my affairs?" Yukiyoshi asked, his voice low. "Because everything that happens in this palace concerns me, too. And I am asking you to stop." "Stop what? Punishing people for their mistakes?" "Stop being cruel. I forbid it." "You... forbid it?" Yukiyoshi let out a derisive laugh. "Go on, brother. Run off and play while you still can. Climb your trees, draw your maps, slay your imaginary monsters. What makes you think you can forbid me anything?" His outright scorn infuriated Yukinari, and though Yukiyoshi still frightened him, he now felt a little more certain of himself. His voice rang out, firm and loud enough for the onlookers to hear: "I can forbid you — as your elder brother and the future emperor — and I am forbidding it now. From now on, all your orders will be reported to me." Turning away from Yukiyoshi, Yuki gave another order, forcing his voice to sound steady: "Confine him to the tower for two days. He is to have plenty of food and water, but he is not to see or speak with anyone. I think that is a lenient punishment for his insolence." As Yukiyoshi was led away, he glanced back, and Yuki saw in his eyes such pure, undiluted hatred that it made his skin crawl. He thought, Yukiyoshi must know I'm afraid of him... (He told himself he wasn't afraid anymore, but it was a lie.) Yukiyoshi remembered the lesson well. Knowing his brother, Yukinari had a sense of what would happen next. What he didn't expect was how quickly it would happen — or how openly Yukiyoshi would show his feelings. Yukinari now needed to be more careful. He had always thought of himself as invisible, almost like his invisible friend from the Dragon Kingdom. And an invisible boy has nothing to fear. But the moment he proved he wasn't invisible, that he was someone, he became vulnerable — and he knew it. But old habits were hard to break. It was his own fault he had no guards with him. He loved wandering alone through the palace's quieter corners too much. He was sitting by his favorite little black pond deep in the garden when someone crept up behind him and struck him on the head with a stone. The blow was hard — very hard — but not hard enough. He didn't lose consciousness, though the pain was so blinding that his vision darkened, and for a moment, he couldn't think. Rough hands grabbed him by the collar of his robe, dragged him toward the pond, and shoved him into the water. He struggled, but the hands were strong, and he was still dazed from the blow. The cold water shocked him back to some awareness. Through the rippling surface — which, seen from below, wasn't so black but rather a clear greenish glass — he saw the figure and face of Yukiyoshi. "I'm going to die," he thought. Strangely, the realization didn't frighten him. His lungs burned, desperate for air, but his mind remained startlingly clear. "Why am I not afraid? I'm only twelve..." Perhaps he wasn't afraid because the life he had lived didn't feel confined to these twelve years. How many other lives had he lived? How much had he already seen? His friends from the Dragon Kingdom — he was them, all of them: Dan's defiant bravery, Lunhe's transparent sorrow, Fai Faen's quiet kindness, Mika's grim determination — they were all his, as much a part of him as his own breath. And there were so many other shades of lives he had imagined, less important but still vivid. All of it he had tried, however clumsily, to capture in drawings and awkward words. He felt it all; it was all with him. Wasn't that enough for one person? But the moment he thought of the Dragon Kingdom, he also remembered the endless white wasteland it had become and the bones in the snow. A wave of grief surged up inside him, so vast it felt like it would burst his chest — It's gone, all of it, gone, gone, gone. Or was it just that he had no air left? And then he remembered who had destroyed his Ryukoku and taken his friends from him. Twisted, distorted logic, but it was this thought that allowed him to hate Yukiyoshi with his whole being in that moment. He fought back — where had the strength come from? He broke free, gulped in a searing breath of air, and lashed out blindly. His fingers found his brother's head and neck. He pushed him down, holding him underwater, and didn't let go until he felt Yukiyoshi go limp. Yuki shoved the lifeless body away. It sank soundlessly into the black depths of the pond and disappeared. He stood. He raised his head and looked at the garden. For a moment, he simply stared, as though seeing it for the first time. Dawn had just broken, and the royal palace was veiled in mist — it was autumn. "How beautiful," Yukinari thought with wonder. It was the first thing he felt after the killing. Not shame, not guilt, not fear, not even relief at being alive. Just an overwhelming sense of the world's beauty. His eyes took in the darkness of the earth, the pattern of the leaves, the glint of dew-beaded spiderwebs stretched between branches. It was all so vivid, so real, so breathtakingly beautiful that tears filled his eyes. In that moment, he knew he would do everything in his power to make this city and this country just a little more like the Dragon Kingdom of his dreams. And if human strength wasn't enough — well, he was the descendant of a god, blood of the Dragon itself. And then everything else finally came — the guilt, the shame, the fear — and he began to cry. His body trembled. When the full weight of what had happened — no, not happened, for that implied it had occurred on its own — when the full weight of what he had done struck him, he vomited. He hadn't eaten anything yet that day, so it was mostly water and bile. He washed his face but vomited again. He washed himself once more, scrubbing his face with the pond water over and over, as though trying to cleanse an invisible stain. But it was clear he would never be able to wash away what he had done. How could he? Just minutes ago, Yukiyoshi had been alive, and now he was gone. There must have been another way — he could have talked to him, explained things... locked him in the tower again if he didn't listen, or sent him off to some distant province. There were always longer, harder, but better paths. But now his brother was gone, and nothing could change that. Nothing could undo it. He had killed Yukiyoshi to protect his Dragon Kingdom. And now he had neither. A strange sound rang out — like a muffled tolling of a bell: a chime, a vibration, a whisper. Ripples spread across the surface of the pond. Then, from the water, slipped a dark turquoise scaly ribbon, which gently curled around his arm. What a peculiar creature: webbed ears, branched horns, absurdly long whiskers; eyes like black saucers filled with stars. A dragon, it's a dragon. Yukinari gasped and, with cautious awe, touched one of its horns. The creature spoke to him — its mouth didn't move, but Yukinari heard the words in his mind. "Hello." The dragon's voice was soft and fragile, like that of a teenager. "Hello," Yukinari replied. "You did something wrong." Yukinari fell silent. He could have said, Yes, I know, I'll never do it again, forgive me — but the words caught in his throat because there was no one left to ask for forgiveness. "Yukiyoshi was a bad person," the voice in his head said comfortingly. "No one will mourn him." "I'm a bad person too," Yukinari whispered. "That's not true," the dragon said firmly. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have shown myself to you." "No one will mourn me either when I'm gone." "You just haven't been known well enough yet," the dragon said. "But they will love you. And they will mourn you." Yukinari felt a strange warmth at the dragon's pity, though he didn't fully believe it. "They will love me? I'm not sure... The only good thing I had was the Dragon's Kingdom. But everyone there's dead now, and all that's left is snow and bones... I don't know what else there is to love about me." The dragon reassuringly wrapped its tail around his little finger. "They will love you, all those you wish. You'll see, you won't always be alone," it promised with deep conviction. Yukiyoshi's body eventually surfaced, and they found him. He had been in the water too long for the court physicians to give any definitive answer. Whether it was an accident or not — everyone had a different opinion. Yukinari began to be watched with suspicion, but no one dared accuse him of anything. Even the left minister, Ise-no Akahito, who was evidently upset that the prince he had influence over had died. Yukinari didn't like Minister Ise-no Akahito — not for personal reasons, but for quite objective ones: when Yukinari began piecing together fragments of information about court intrigues, he realized Akahito played a significant role in them. He still didn't know how to improve the life of the palace and his country, but now he believed it was possible. To start, he needed to talk to someone openly about it — and he chose the one person he trusted, General Nakatomi. Previously, Yukinari had thought it would be terribly difficult to arrange a conversation with someone he didn't know, but those very lessons on culture and court etiquette, which he had dutifully absorbed over time and considered useless, suggested to him that it was quite simple: he sent Nakatomi an iris as a gift, symbolizing loyalty to the imperial family, and in return, the general politely invited him to his house. It was more of a formality, but Yukinari gladly accepted the invitation. However, no one had really taught him how to have a private conversation — without a crowd of advisors — so, almost immediately upon entering, Yukinari blurted out: "I know you're loyal to my grandfather. They say he's ill and... it's complicated. I came to..." He hesitated, because the old general bent into one of the traditional bows. Before Nakatomi could finish his greeting, Yuki swiftly approached him and said: "No need, no need to bow, you're no longer young — I release you from three bows..." Nakatomi straightened up and looked at Yukinari with interest. "Thank you. What do I owe this visit, Your Highness?" "What I'm about to say might sound foolish... but I'd be grateful if you helped me figure this out. Give me advice. What should I do, who should I trust..." "How can I tell you what to do? You'd know better what you want..." the old man said, studying Yukinari. "Tell me — do you love Ryukoku?" Yukinari hesitated. He didn't want to lie. And he couldn't honestly say how he felt about the country he was supposed to rule. Perhaps pity? He wasn't sure if he should tell this — completely foreign — man about his imagined Dragon's Land. He had never spoken of it to anyone except Yukiyoshi, but he decided to share anyway: "I'd like our country to be like the one I..."—He decided to twist the truth a little and ended the sentence differently than he'd planned—"...dreamed of... well, you know, when I was a child." He paused, waiting for the old man to laugh at him or, worse, to show indifference. But the general kindly replied: "It's good when you have a refuge in your heart where you can take shelter. But don't lock yourself there forever. You could do a lot of good for the real people." Yukinari wanted to tell Nakatomi that the people who lived — had lived — in his country were just as real as those who inhabited the palace, and that more than anything, he wanted to bring them back, to revive them... But he decided the general wouldn't understand that. "I'm not mad," he said in response, perhaps more to his own thoughts than to the general's remark. "I know," the old man replied seriously. "Really?" Yukinari asked, genuinely surprised. "Because sometimes... I see and hear things... things that probably aren't there. But I know they aren't really there," he quickly added. "And I really do want to be a good ruler... better than..." He choked on the last word — he couldn't say his brother's name aloud. General Nakatomi turned his eyes away — probably remembering Yukiyoshi too — but then he looked back at Yukinari, and neither his knowing gaze nor his tone changed. "I think you need an advisor." Yukinari wondered if the little dragon from the pond could be his advisor. No, probably not — the dragon didn't know much about the life of the palace and the country. Besides, it might just be a figment of his imagination. "Can't you be my advisor?" Yukinari asked. "I'm a soldier, and while my family is noble, soldiers aren't really favored at court. Besides, as you've noticed, I'm old — almost as old as your grandfather the emperor. But I know a few good, honest people who can help you more than I can. First, there's a man currently serving as governor in one of the southern provinces — he'd gladly return to the court if he considers you a worthy successor to the emperor..." Nakatomi mentioned several names and gave more advice, which Yukinari listened to carefully, memorizing every word. As he was leaving, Yukinari said: "Thank you for believing in me." He remembered how the archivist had called him a madman, and the old wound stirred within him. The old general smiled. "Our country isn't so rich that we can afford to throw away broken things. I don't know if you've ever seen, living in the palace, dishes mended with golden or silver lacquer... We repair what's broken, and with a bit of luck, those things often become even more beautiful than before..." Yukinari didn't understand these words. Was he a broken thing? If anything was broken, it was the world they lived in. Does that mean it could be fixed? Among other things, Nakatomi advised him to always rely on his heart. It seemed odd to give such advice to a boy who could barely tell fantasy from reality. But later, when Yukinari's mind would finally clear and he would come to understand people better than anyone, he would be surprised to realize that, even in those years, even through the fog that surrounded him, knowing the world mostly from books and understanding little of human relations, he had somehow managed to act correctly and intuitively distinguish those who could be trusted from those who could not... Those who reminded him of his friends and soldiers from the imagined Dragon's Land would turn out to be good, loyal, and honest people. He wouldn't get close to any of them. His unfortunate, cruel brother Yukiyoshi had been wrong in thinking the emperor could have as many friends as he wanted; it would turn out that, quite the opposite, an emperor could not afford the luxury of having friends — not even one. And, of course, his childhood friends from the Dragon's Land would never be resurrected — not even in his imagination. Even as he grew older, he would continue to return to that world in his thoughts, but he would not be able to change its fate — all attempts to alter something, to rewrite its story, would be futile and meaningless. General Nakatomi had called the world of his imagination a refuge, but for Yukinari, the snow-covered Dragon's Land would resemble more of a graveyard. Walking through it, he would feel just as alone as in the real world. When the whole country would be celebrating his coronation, Yukinari would sit alone in the garden near the palace wall, preparing his speech, listening to the voices and music drifting from beyond it, hating his court, his country, and the entire world for the way everything was unfairly arranged — a celebration in his honor, yet he wouldn't even have the right to go into the city and join the common people in their revelry — and asking himself where he would find the strength to endure, and endure, and endure it for the rest of his life. Several hours later, when he would ascend the steps to the throne in a gown the color of frozen blood, speak the ritual words, and place his grandfather's crown upon his head, he would think of his dragon's words. That someone would love him. That somewhere — perhaps on the other side of the world — there was someone destined to share his solitude. This would happen four years later. He would be sixteen — in the year of the Wood and the Snake, under the sign of Yin.