The broken world

The emperor was furious. "How could this happen? Where did he get a knife?! I personally oversaw the search!" "Perhaps he had sewn it into the lining of his clothing," Gerel suggested with calm indifference. The emperor glared at Yukinari's lifeless body, his rage simmering into impotent fury. Of course, Gerel wasn't suspected. Anyone else, but not him. Gerel's face betrayed nothing, but inwardly he grinned. I’m happy for you, my poor friend-enemy, he thought. Your dreams may have died with you, but at least you're free. Perhaps you're now rejoicing in the heavens with the gods you believed in so fervently. "The body should be sent to the Ryukokuans," he suggested. "Let them bury him properly." But the emperor's face twisted into a malicious grin, and Gerel instantly realized that Tokhung had devised a way to exact vengeance on Yukinari even in death. "We will send it. But not yet. I have an idea," the emperor said quietly. They were alone in the chamber — Gerel and Tokhung. Even the hapless jailer had fled, too fearful to face the emperor's wrath. Yet Tokhung leaned close, as if afraid even the walls might overhear. Tokhung’s idea was to suspend Yukinari’s body on a pole in the city square for all to see. As much as Gerel despised the emperor’s cruelty, he couldn't deny the practicality of the plan. He might have done something similar to a fallen enemy himself. The clearer the death, the stronger its effect. No room for doubt. Tokhung took to the balcony of the palace personally to address the masses. Before the gathered crowd, he declared that Yukinari had fallen in a duel against the "renowned General Gerel." A vile lie. Had Gerel truly defeated Yukinari in fair combat, his guilt might have weighed less heavily. Tokhung, for his part, looked just as miserable delivering this fabrication, his expression as sour as if he were biting into the bitterest of lemons. But the "duel with the renowned General Gerel" was Tokhung's own invention. Tokhung, despite his painful pride, was too shrewd to claim the victory for himself — no one would have believed such an absurdity. To say the crowd was shocked would be an understatement. Nearly the entire city had gathered to glimpse the defeated emperor of Ryukoku. Only hours had passed since Yukinari's death, but already his body looked less like him. His skin, under the unforgiving light, had taken on a grayish pallor, except where dark streaks of dried blood traced his wrists and palms. The body swayed slightly in the cold breeze. Gerel tried to focus on the benefits of what had happened, forcing his thoughts to drift as though they belonged to someone else. A peaceful resolution was no longer possible, but the war could now end quickly. With Yukinari's death, Ryukoku would crumble. Rumors traveled fast. Gerel was sure it would take no more than a few days for news of Yukinari’s demise to spread across the Middle Kingdoms. Tokhung had agreed that, once the citizens of Cheongju had had their fill of staring at the body, it would be sent to Ryukoku so that Yukinari's people could see for themselves. Even now, unaware of their emperor's fate, the Ryukokuans were demoralized and suffering defeat after defeat. Once they confirmed his death, their spirit would shatter entirely. Gerel still hoped to spare Shinju — the city Yukinari had so cherished — from being looted and burned. A bloodless surrender would be ideal, and this turn of events made it more likely. Tokhung, however, cared little for politics or strategy. His decision to send Yukinari's body to Ryukoku was driven purely by hatred. "People said he was a pretty boy, but he looks awful," Gerel overheard a passerby murmur. "And his nails — look, they've already turned blue…" The wrongness of it all gnawed at him. How would Yukinari feel about being put on display like this? The thought was absurd; of everything that had happened, this was hardly the worst. And after all, it was for the greater good. Perhaps Yukinari wouldn’t have minded. And if he would have — well, what did it matter now? Flies began to settle on Yukinari’s blood-soaked clothing. Gerel could hardly bear to look anymore.   But the body remained in the square for only a few hours. Something entirely unexpected occurred. A boy-servant ran into the chamber where the emperor and Gerel stood. Bowing hastily, he stammered out a report. "There’s a… a strange man at the palace gates. He says he wishes to speak with His Majesty. He claims he has something of interest to offer. Shall we let him in, Your Majesty?" "Strange? In what way? Why wasn’t he turned away?" Tokhung asked absently, clearly ready to dismiss the interruption. "He’s one of those... He looks like..." the boy said, casting a wary glance at Gerel before adding as politely as possible, “He’s… unusual, sire. His hair — it’s red, like the water spirits in the stories. He looks foreign, Your Majesty." Tokhung’s demeanor sharpened immediately. "I’ll see him. What else did he say?" "He said it concerns the dead emperor. And he said… he’s a man of science." "A monk?" Tokhung frowned. In Cheongju, science was regarded as frivolous, a pastime fit only for monks. "Yes, a Taoist."   Each nation of the Four Gods’ World regarded the Taoists differently. To the Northerners, proud of their land’s scholarly traditions and skeptical of all religions and superstitions, Taoists were figures of ridicule. The Taoists themselves rarely ventured into the Land of the Tortoise, knowing they would find a warmer reception elsewhere — like in Ryukoku. The people of Yukinari's land were superstitious, curious and open to novelty, making them enthusiastic patrons of Taoist teachings. While visiting Shinju, Gerel had seen important Ryukokan officials strolling through the streets with Taoist advisors clad in brilliant sky-blue robes. Yukinari himself, however, seemed indifferent to such trends. At his court, Gerel had seen no sign of the blue-robed scholars. In the war-torn West, where life was harsh and chaotic, Taoism had found a surprising foothold. It would seem that it would be better for the Taoist sages not to meddle there, and people could have found something more practical to do than to join the new teaching, but some did meddle and others joined. For many, Taoist teachings offered a way to endure hardship. Just a few decades ago, an accusation of witchcraft or shapeshifting had once been enough to ruin a nobleman overnight, turning him into the most insignificant of the eunuchs. But then Taoist practices had become fashionable. Now everyone in Cheongju seemed to be casting hexagrams, dabbling in astrology, or concocting potions, with Tokhung leading the way in his obsession with the supernatural. In the wild, fragmented tribal states of the South, lived people with the same wild consciousness, rich in fantasies and all sorts of quirks. They did not see anything out of the ordinary in the Taoists. They blended seamlessly into the vibrant tapestry of shamans, spirits, and legends of bright, spicy southern lands. The Taoist tradition itself had originated in the South but had gained little traction there before spreading to other countries — to where it had a chance to be known as at least somewhat unusual. Well, yes, magicians, the nomads said about the Taoists, sure, they can fly, move time, melt immortality pills somewhere in their mountain monasteries. What's surprising about that? The most common thing. But if you believe the tales of the nomads, it turned out that twelve-legged deer still run across their steppes and phoenixes fly down from the branches. The nomads have no science, no statehood, instead they have more gods and idols than stars in the sky, and each of these gods demanded offerings. What can you expect from them, these fools... However, in the South there really was much that would seem magical to the inhabitants of other countries. Eccentric shamans - half-women, half-men; the Strangers, whom, however, no one had seen for the last ten years; "white blood", whom foreigners often confused with the Strangers, especially if they stood out from ordinary people like Gerel. Against this background, the Taoists presence felt almost mundane. Despite these varying attitudes, one sentiment was universal: no one truly liked the Taoists. Simply because they themselves did not like anyone and, unlike the followers of many other teachings, did not at all believe that one must do good deeds to achieve enlightenment. Although, to tell the truth, what they believed themselves to do, no one really knew. But the fact is that they were not loved. People respected them, feared them, or found them fascinating — but they didn’t love them. Gerel had never given much thought to Taoists before. He’d simply never had reason to. But there came a day when he learned one thing very clearly: If you see a Taoist, you should run as far from him as you can.   The Taoist who knocked on the gates of the imperial palace introduced himself as Hu Xiansheng — Master Fox. He was nothing like a priest or a venerable sage. Master Fox’s face spoke volumes about his poor sleeping habits and a fondness for wild drinking bouts. Judging by the evidence, including the bruise on his cheek, it seemed the previous evening had been spent in some tavern brawl. His attire bore more resemblance to that of a vagabond or bandit than the robes of a monk. In short, the man radiated roguishness in every possible way. And most importantly — he wasn’t human. He was an unmistakable yaoguai, one of the eerie Strangers whispered about by children and elders across the Middle Kingdoms, sharp-eared and slant-eyed. Worse still, he wasn’t just a Stranger; he was one of the white-blooded, just like Gerel’s own mother. He was neither young nor old. His hair — just as the boy-servant had described — was as red as river spirits’ and cut scandalously short, defying the Taoist tradition of long, flowing locks. His eyes were narrow and elongated; his face, thin and angular. In Gerel’s memory, yaoguai had always seemed strange but beautiful. This man, however, seemed to be made entirely of jagged edges and broken lines. His eyes carried a wild, unsettling gleam. Everything about him was unpleasant, everything screamed, I am not one of you. (And certainly not a monk. Then again, who could truly understand the ways of the Taoists?) “Greetings to the most honorable Son of Heaven and his illustrious general,” said the Taoist. His speech was unhurried, his gaze appraising. There wasn’t a trace of reverence in his tone; in fact, Gerel thought he caught a hint of mockery in Master Fox’s voice. Tokhung, however, seemed oblivious. The emperor stared at the guest as though enchanted, as if gazing upon the most wondrous vision in the world. “I hear, Your Majesty, that you have an interest in the secret of eternal life.” The emperor cast a sidelong glance at Gerel, clearly irritated by his presence, and Gerel maintained a neutral expression. “I am indeed interested,” Tokhung admitted quietly, almost shyly. “I wish to conduct an experiment that might intrigue you.” “Are you a healer? What exactly do you do?” Gerel asked, his voice cautious. The Taoist turned a cold gaze on him. “I am a scholar,” he said curtly. “And I would like to speak with the emperor in private, if you don’t mind.” Tokhung hesitated, but his curiosity outweighed his better judgment. He nodded. “You’ll have to excuse me, Gerel…” Gerel, baffled, stepped out of the room. “Quite the handsome young man dangling on the main square’s post…” he heard, just before the door slammed shut behind him.