The broken world

Master Fox had been promoted to court astrologer and named the king’s personal advisor. The court of Tokhung had never witnessed such a meteoric rise. And such a meteoric fall, thought Gerel to himself. Officially, he still held the title of Supreme Strategist, but he was well aware that his power was no longer what it used to be — and soon, others would realize it too. Not long ago, Gerel had imagined the throne of Cheongju to be only a few steps away; with the army under his command, removing Tokhung from his path seemed merely a matter of time. But now, that throne seemed to have receded into the distance, perched atop an impossibly high, treacherous staircase. Tokhung was displeased with the progress of the war. The campaign against Ryukoku, as Gerel had feared, had dragged on far too long. Cheongju’s forces were gradually pushing the Ryukokuans deeper into their own territory, but the cost in lives was high. Many Ryukokuans still clung to the belief that their emperor was alive and would one day return — a foolish hope, but one that fueled their fierce resistance. The Taoist was steadily turning the Emperor against Gerel, and Tokhung was sinking deeper into paranoia. His suspicion of Gerel grew increasingly overt. For now, he still needed the general, but the presence of his immortal bodyguard gave Tokhung a newfound confidence. The root of it all was that walking corpse. It had to be dealt with. But how? Gerel had no idea, and he doubted anyone else did — aside from the Taoist who had raised Yukinari from the dead. Master Fox, a weirdo and a hopeless drunk. The only small comfort was that Master Fox was even more despised at court than Gerel himself. And it wasn’t because the Taoist was a yaoguai. The courtiers had spent years alongside Gerel, who they also considered a yaoguai, and had come to see that apart from his appearance, he wasn’t much different from them. He wasn’t a magician; he could be wounded, he tired, he grew angry, he felt joy. Over time, they’d grown immune to Tokhung’s long-standing obsession with the supernatural. Few truly believed in Master Fox’s supposed powers. (They should have.) No, the Taoist’s unpopularity stemmed from a far more mundane reason: he was simply unbearable. He had a unique talent for creating a vortex of animosity around himself with nothing but his presence. And despair — because to oppose Master Fox now was to oppose Tokhung himself. Where Gerel had always shielded himself with his otherness, the alchemist flaunted his, as if it were a badge of honor. He loved to show off. Some of his remarks and antics seemed calculated to shock those around him. Yet people often couldn’t tell which of his actions were deliberate provocations, as his general behavior was just as eccentric — if not more so — when he wasn’t trying to make an impression. And he didn’t distance himself from people. Master Fox was sociable, even excessively so — this great lover of drinking and fighting; but in practice, this meant he could spend hours spewing pure nonsense until his companions wanted either to strangle him or hang themselves. It was clear that Fox understood perfectly well how much he grated on those around him, and he took a perverse pleasure in it. Rarely serious, he loved mockery and crude antics and, in Gerel’s opinion, behaved outrageously, no better than a street comedian. His humor, dark and sharp, leaned heavily on death, madness, and perversity — or on jokes that left others feeling insulted.   Gerel had his own reason for avoiding the alchemist: ever since the incident with Yukinari, he found Master Fox almost physically repulsive. Yet one day, Fox managed to draw the general into a conversation — or at least something resembling one — and by the end of it, Gerel hated him even more. It happened in the imperial palace gardens. The court painter, Wan Fusin, had asked Gerel to pose for a new painting: a depiction of the Four Great Beasts in human form. Naturally, Gerel was to represent the White Tiger. He had refused at first, but Wan Fusin had eventually worn him down. “How much longer?” Gerel asked grimly. “Just a little more, please bear with me,” the artist replied. Gerel stood leaning against a tree, arms crossed, thinking he probably looked more sullen than majestic. That was when Master Fox appeared. He greeted them both cordially (Gerel scowled at the sight of him and didn’t reply) and peered at the scroll. “Hmm,” the Taoist muttered dramatically before seizing on a criticism. “Tell me, Master Wan, doesn’t it trouble you to choose for the role of the Great Tiger...” What, a demon? White blood? Gerel thought. Master Fox paused and finished, “...a southerner ?” Wan Fusin hesitated, then quickly recovered: “It doesn’t matter where we were born; we serve the god whose weapon we wield.” “A profound sentiment,” Master Fox said with a smirk. “But wouldn’t it have been more fitting to depict our own king Tokhung as the Tiger, thereby glorifying the emperor even further?” He was openly mocking him, but Wan Fusin fumbled out an apology, mumbling that no one was going to belittle the emperor’s merits, but his appearance wasn’t quite suitable for the role, and so on. Curious, Gerel stepped closer to look at the painting. The Tortoise sat at the top, representing the North. Of course, Wan Fusin had envisioned her as a scholarly maiden with a regal hairstyle, a book in one hand and a sword in the other. The Tiger occupied the left side of the scroll. Wan Fusin, determined to portray the Heavenly Tiger in all its splendor, had adorned it with absurdly opulent armor, encrusted with patterns and gems. Though Fusin wasn’t much of a portraitist, the god’s features — sharp and utterly unlike those of the Middle Kingdoms — bore an unmistakable resemblance to Gerel: waves of pale hair, a thin, predatory, haughty profile. The Phoenix on the South remained unfinished. The Dragon on the East, however, was clearly inspired by tales of Emperor Yukinari — a mysterious beauty in ornate Ryukoku silks stared back from the scroll. Painted lips, languid lashes. A cold, enigmatic smile (yes, Ryukokuans were treacherous scoundrels, after all). Eyes bright gold, completely inhuman. So this is Beauty? He looked nothing like Yukinari — none of his kindness, resilience, quiet courage, or capacity for dreams. Just a pretty face sneering down. What is beauty worth without all that? What is reason worth? What is strength worth if it serves neither reason nor beauty, if it exists only for itself? What is a miracle worth when it hides in the southern steppes, forgotten by most? And these are the gods we’re meant to pray to? Something is wrong with people if they so desperately need these monsters. No, to hell with gods like these. “Well then, Master Fox,” Wan Fusin was saying, “who would you suggest as a model for the Phoenix? As you see, I haven’t painted her yet. Perhaps I should ask Princess Iljeon to pose?” “Yes, do invite Princess Iljeon if you wish to disgrace this painting further,” the alchemist said with disdain, his tone unusually serious. “The South is a riddle, a haven for the strange, and the Phoenix is a three-year-old child playing with mysteries and wonders. If you want to salvage this piece, find the ugliest little girl in the slums and depict her riding one of their magical beasts. The Phoenix should be neither wise, nor powerful, nor beautiful. If the Four Gods’ quarrel were a game of Mist and Clouds, the Phoenix would be the fool, placing pieces at random with no logic. She loves chaos, color, and laughter. She rejoices wildly when she wins unexpectedly for herself and for everyone else. Phoenix knows better than anyone that there is no point in anything. And she’s the only one of the four worth praying to.” “An interesting thought,” Wan Fusin replied politely but without interest. “And your Tortoise,” Fox continued, savoring his role as critic, “looks like a cheap pin-up girl. Give her the face of an old woman, Master Wan — she’s sick to death of this world.” “Forgive me, but I’d rather not think ill of the Tortoise,” Wan Fusin protested. “I was born in Yuigui, after all.” “Really? What brought you to Cheongju, then? Was your brush not good enough for the Land of the Tortoise? I never would have guessed,” Fox said, feigning innocence. Wan Fusin had no answer. Gerel guessed the Taoist had struck a nerve; in Yuigui or Ryukoku, Wan Fusin’s work would have been politely dismissed as “lesser.” Gerel had no desire to engage Fox, but he found himself saying: “Enough. These gods are unlikable enough as it is without you making them even worse.” He regretted it immediately. His comment further discouraged Wan Fusin but seemed to invigorate Fox. “Gods aren’t meant to be liked,” Fox retorted. “They simply are. And you, General — do you believe in gods?” “No,” Gerel replied curtly. “That would be foolish, wouldn’t it?” Fox smirked. “Only children or senile old men believe that some heavenly beasts choose favorites, inhabit them, or grant them powers…” “Exactly.” “But have you ever considered,” Fox said softly, “that it’s more subtle than that? Perhaps they don’t need to possess anyone. Perhaps they merely nudge events into place, shaping their chosen ones through trials — it is to them that we owe all our troubles, separations, losses, deaths — everything that breaks us, giving us shape — until the kitten grows into a tiger...” They had spoken of this before, Gerel realized. He and Yukinari. “It’s clear to me that everything that happens in the world is not by chance...” "Honestly, that sounds repulsive to me...” He answered almost the same way he had that day: “Then your gods are nothing but sick bastards who toy with people like pawns.” “Perhaps,” Master Fox agreed with a shrug. “But without their meddling…” The Taoist leaned closer, his voice conspiratorial. “…we wouldn’t be who we are. Each of us would just be ordinary, boring people.” For a moment, through the thick smell of alcohol, Gerel caught a familiar, bitter-sweet scent — yaoguai. He inhaled reflexively, despite himself. Fox noticed the tiny movement. Remarkably, he understood it perfectly. And grinned wickedly. “Ah yes, I forgot — you are just an ordinary man. Let me tell you a secret: it’s good to be special. Truly special. But to feel like an outsider in this world, yet have no extraordinary talent — just another man, only one everyone avoids — that must be terribly unpleasant. Don’t you think, General?” Master Fox could read thoughts as easily as Yukinari had. (Perhaps he really could, Gerel thought — he was a yaoguai, after all.) But unlike the former Ryukoku emperor, the Taoist used this talent for harm, not good. Gerel managed to keep his expression neutral and said calmly, “Forgive me, Master Astrologer, or whatever your title may be, but I have no interest in listening to you. You’re distracting Wan Fusin from his work, and my time is limited.” Master Fox shrugged and sauntered off, muttering insults about rude soldiers. He looked more amused than offended. Life at Tokhung’s court was growing more unbearable for Gerel by the day.   Gerel was learning to think of Yukinari in the past tense. The Yukinari he had known was gone. Even his name had been stripped away. Tokhung called him Shadow, and he answered to it. Gerel didn’t mind; Shadow was fitting enough — what else could you call someone who had neither a heart (he had seen the incision on his chest himself) nor a face (the dead man still wore a blindfold in public) and whose sole purpose seemed to be to follow his master like a silent twin? It wasn’t like the stories of vengeful spirits taking possession of bodies, like the jiang-shi in folk tales, with their outstretched arms, draining blood and life and committing all manner of wickedness. The undead Yukinari knew and remembered everything he had known in life. All his countless skills remained intact. But everything that had made him a person was gone — his thoughts, his emotions, his desires. Without a command, he would simply stand motionless, staring into the void, perhaps for all eternity. The familiar gestures and expressions had vanished too. His gaze was foreign. Yukinari’s face now conveyed nothing — it was as lifeless as a doll’s. There was something uniquely horrifying about familiar eyes staring back at you with an empty, unrecognizable look. He still answered questions, though. If a yes or no wouldn’t suffice, he gave a full response — truthful and precise, whatever the inquiry. He spoke with unflinching calm, his voice measured and even. For a time, Tokhung amused himself by asking Shadow questions that would have embarrassed, angered, or wounded the living Yukinari. But the game quickly lost its appeal — there was no satisfaction in mocking someone who could no longer feel. Instead, it was Gerel who felt shame and guilt. He could have walked away, but he stayed and listened. “Shadow, did you — no, did he ever have to kill?” the emperor asked, intrigued. “Yes.” “In battle?” “Not only in battle.” “When did he kill someone for the first time?” Shadow looked at the emperor with calm, unblinking eyes. That gaze — totally inhuman — was the reason Tokhung insisted he wear a blindfold in the presence of the court. “He was twelve years old. He killed Prince Yukiyoshi.” Each time Yukinari referred to himself in the third person, Gerel felt a shiver run through him. Yet the alternative — him saying “I” — might have been worse. “Yukiyoshi?” Tokhung turned to Gerel for clarification. “His younger brother,” Gerel said. “Oh, he killed his brother? Good children don’t do that. Why? And how?” “His brother hated him,” the undead man explained. “He tried to kill him first. But he was stronger.” “Fascinating,” Tokhung said, almost with a hint of admiration. “I think I’ll take my leave,” Gerel muttered. Why did he feel awkward? Before a dead man? “It came to me when I was twelve. I had bad days…” The memory surfaced unbidden. And another: “For certain reasons, I find it difficult to kill people…” A sudden thought struck him. He could ask anything. He could ask about all the times Yukinari’s words had seemed insincere, whether he had lied, whether he had truly wanted to share his dream with him. And the undead Yukinari would answer, truthfully. The thought was so vile that Gerel tried to banish it at once. He failed. “May I ask a question, Your Majesty?” he said at last, loathing himself. Tokhung nodded, intrigued. “Did you — did he really believe things could change?” Gerel asked. The undead man turned his heavy, dark gaze on him. “He believed that,” he said. “What’s he on about?” Tokhung asked. “I asked…” Gerel shook his head. “I asked if Yukinari was really a good person.” Why had he asked? He already knew the answer. Perhaps Yukinari was the only truly good person in this entire world. Sun Xiaolian had been wrong to call her son a hypocrite and a monster. To accuse someone who sincerely wished everyone well of hypocrisy — what nonsense... True, he had sometimes manipulated people, pretended to say what they wanted to hear, used others for his own purposes. But Yukinari had been an emperor, and naïve emperors didn’t live long. His aspirations, however, had been genuine. He had always tried to use soft power — charisma, intelligence, his understanding of human nature — where others would have resorted to deceit or murder. They said no one in power could remain noble, but Yukinari had been just that. Perhaps he’d been too young, too lucky, and hadn’t yet had time to soil his hands. Or perhaps he could have stayed that way, even changed the world for the better. But Gerel had stood in his way. It wouldn’t have been hard to remove him and continue toward his dream, but Yukinari hadn’t done it. Hadn’t wanted to. Instead, the fool had died in his place, smiling as if it was the only right thing to do. “And the dragon?” Gerel asked, feeling like a madman or a fool. “Did he really speak with it?” Shadow didn’t answer immediately. “I don’t know,” he said at last. If the real, living Yukinari were here, Gerel thought, he would have thoughtfully touched his temple, as he always did when searching for the right words. But the undead man didn’t move, his hollow voice steady. Gerel realized he hated that voice as much as the empty gaze. “I cannot answer with certainty,” the dead man continued. “As you know, he was unwell.” (“He”, again that absurd “he,” Gerel thought.) “He couldn’t always distinguish reality from fantasy. He believed he was cured, but it’s impossible to say if that was true. Perhaps the dragon was another illusion. Perhaps he needed validation for his actions and imagined it.” “What?” Gerel snapped, momentarily forgetting the former emperor was speaking about himself. “He wasn’t unwell, do you hear me? He was fine. If there were even ten people like him in this world, it would be a thousand times better. And I saw that damn dragon with my own eyes — my own eyes!” He stopped short, realizing he — usually so calm, so meticulous with his emotions — was nearly shouting, gripping the undead man’s shoulders and shaking him like a lifeless puppet. He let go and stepped back. “Indeed,” the dead man said, his tone unperturbed. “You saw the dragon, and that supports its existence. But it is not conclusive. No one else saw it. It could have been some strange creature.” “I hate you,” Gerel said. “You blame me for his death,” Shadow replied. “But I am not to blame. He is me. You should hate those truly responsible.” He didn’t add, “First and foremost, yourself,” but the unspoken words hung heavy between them, almost tangible. Tokhung laughed as though he’d witnessed something immensely amusing. Gerel hadn’t asked the most important question. Why had Yukinari chosen him of all people? Hadn’t he found someone better to share his absurd yet beautiful dream? What had he really thought of him? The very thought of asking made Gerel sick. And he was too afraid of the answer — any answer. Most of all, no answer could ever absolve his crime.