The broken world

“What do you want to achieve? What do you dream of?” Yukinari had asked him once — back when they weren’t enemies. It felt like it had happened a lifetime ago. Gerel had said nothing then. And even now, he wasn’t sure. Maybe he wanted answers to the questions that had haunted him since childhood. And, if fate was kind, to survive — but that was secondary. Right now, all he wanted was to save the one person he still cared for. In other words, what he needed was nothing short of a miracle. His life had always seemed too bleak for dreams or belief in magic. But if that were entirely true, then why did he know the feeling — that strange, bittersweet ache in his chest, the mix of fear and anticipation… of something? He remembered it from childhood. The feeling you get when you see a dark figure in the twilight and, for just a few heartbeats, it seems like a mythical creature — a dragon, a vision from another, impossible world. Only later do you realize it’s just a tree, or a shadow, or your own reflection in the glass (with disheveled hair, dark circles under wide eyes full of shame and fear — gods, how embarrassing...). It was time to admit, at least to himself, that this longing — the silent yearning for something more — had always been a part of him. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, let alone give it words. He’d scoffed at others’ fascination with the supernatural. And yet, when Yukinari had voiced similar thoughts with the earnestness and candor of a madman, Gerel had been unable to laugh. It had hurt. It had made him angry. That constant, half-buried need to believe in something had been with him since childhood. In some ways, it was the foundation of how he saw the world, though his rational mind tried to chase the thoughts away. And this dream, this yearning, had never truly faded — not even after all these years. Why had he suddenly decided to change something, to believe it was possible? Was it hope? Or was it despair? (He wondered if hope and despair weren’t just two sides of the same coin.) If it was a miracle he sought, his path led him back to Cheongju, to Emperor Tokhung’s palace. If the miraculous had a source, it was the yaoguai. And it was obvious he had to start with the one who had caused all this — Master Fox.   He apologized to Jin-ho — she hadn’t stayed angry for long, understanding that his words had come from despair and drink — and told her his plan to return to Cheongju and meet with Master Fox. Jin-ho agreed that Master Fox was someone they needed to confront, even if it meant enduring his scorn and humiliation. They had to learn as much as they could — about Fox and from Fox. “I’ve never met this man,” Jin-ho admitted. “But he seems extremely dangerous. And if there are others like him… On the one hand, I don’t want to end up like my father, obsessed with all things mystical. I’ve always found those hexagrams, life-extending elixirs, and star-chart prophecies ridiculous. But on the other hand, maybe it’s us who’ve been ridiculous, turning away from a real power all this time. If magic exists, those who wield it could become the most powerful people in the Middle Kingdoms.” “They’re not people,” Gerel corrected her. It was late evening. As usual, the three of them were gathered in his chambers. But it was only Gerel and Jin-ho who spoke; Yukinari didn’t participate. The topic had no bearing on the orders he’d received from Tokhung to set the country in order, and he was indifferent to everything else. “I always thought the yaoguai were just a myth. I’ve never seen any of the Strangers, even though we’ve traveled all over the South...” Jin-ho said thoughtfully. “But older people say that about fifteen years ago, there were quite a few yaoguai. What do you think happened? What’s changed?” “Maybe the Strangers are just a myth, and those who claim to have seen them are either lying or mad?” “Enough, that’s not funny. I know you’re not a yaoguai, but if you know something about them, tell me. I’d rather be warned if these beings ever become a threat.” “They’re unlikely to be a threat. Not all the Strangers are like Master Fox. I’ve met a few, and they...” They — what? Gerel realized he knew only what the yaoguai knew about themselves — which was precious little. “They’re not magicians or anything. They just don’t look like ordinary people. Some of them do have light hair and eyes, like in the stories. Others have black hair, like you. They’re all beautiful, though by Cheongju standards, the men would seem too delicate, almost feminine. They have large almond-shaped eyes. Slightly pointed ears. And no navels.” He knew this description would mean little to Jin-ho. There were no words to explain the indefinable otherness of the yaoguai. You didn’t need to see their ears to know they weren’t human. “Is it true they’re immortal?” “No. My...” He hesitated, then decided there was no point in hiding it. “My mother was a yaoguai. She didn’t have any special abilities. And she wasn’t immortal. In every way except her appearance, she was just like a human. Her differences only brought her pain.” “Tell me about her,” Jin-ho asked. Gerel glanced at Yukinari. He sat nearby, his small pale hands resting on his knees, staring motionlessly into space. “All right,” Gerel said. “I was born in the South, in a nomadic settlement — you already know that. Back then, every herding tribe had one or two of the Strangers. Sometimes they were revered as shamans or great warriors. Other times, they were treated as demons — tormented, but never killed, because possessing a yaoguai was seen as a mark of status. My mother... was considered a demon. She was a slave, given the dirtiest, most degrading tasks. Her existence could hardly be called a life.” He spared Jin-ho the grimmer details, but anyone with imagination could guess what wild herders did to a powerless, beautiful, and defenseless being. “She was found somewhere in the steppes. She was...” He struggled to speak calmly, as if describing an unfamiliar person. “...a little unhinged. At first, she couldn’t talk and didn’t remember who she was or where she came from. Later, she learned to speak but often behaved oddly, always making things up...” Speaking of his mother pained him. In his bleak childhood, she had been the only source of kindness and beauty. She had always been gentle with him — when she remembered his existence at all. Most of the time, though, she seemed lost in her own world. As he grew older, her soul seemed unable to endure the horror around her, and she retreated entirely into her fantasies. Whatever she did, her gaze was distant, unfocused; when someone called her name, she would startle, as if waking from a dream, and look around in bewilderment, as though each time she had to remember anew who she was and where she was. She never resisted her fate, never wished anyone harm, and endured every cruelty with helpless surprise. Gerel had loved her more than anyone in the world, but he also hated her for her weakness and passivity. The first thing he had learned in life was to be nothing like her. To survive, to fight back, to scratch, to bite — and always to get up after being struck down. That was why, from an early age, he avoided dreamers, madmen, and those incapable of hatred. People like Yukinari, for instance. ...“Later,” Gerel continued, “the tribe decided my mother and I would only bring them misfortune and resolved to get rid of us. We were sold to a Cheongju nobleman. He was warned that the woman he was buying was a demoness, but her fair hair captivated him, and he dismissed the superstitions. He was kind to her — and to me, too. His wife and children didn’t like us, and that was understandable, but life in the Cheongju house was a hundred times better than life with the herders. “Seven years passed like that. Then, the peace treaty between Cheongju and the nomads was broken. Of course, Cheongju was much stronger — what were a few ragged tribes against an entire country? — but the border towns suffered greatly. The nomads raided and burned with the fury of the doomed. The city where we lived was one of the first to fall to their rage. “They burned our home. They killed everyone, including my mother. So no... the yaoguai are not immortal.”   ...Many of his childhood memories had faded or blurred, but that day remained vivid in his mind. The oppressive heat of the midday sun, the sickening stench of grass soaked in blood. His mother, running toward him. And himself — no longer a child, almost fourteen, old enough to pick up a sword and fight alongside the city’s defenders. But the nomads — or rather, his memories of childhood among Baatar’s ulus — paralyzed him with fear, leaving him trembling and rooted to the spot. “This’ll teach you, pale-haired witch!” A mounted nomad drove his sword into his mother’s back. She was still alive; as she fell, she managed to stretch her arms toward him: “Gerel...” Her voice dissolved into a wet gurgle as blood poured from her mouth. She collapsed, and the next moment, horses’ hooves crashed down on her back with a sickening crunch. She lay still. At the sight of her blood, something inside him snapped. Screaming, he rushed at the rider, sinking his teeth into the man’s leg. “Damn it! What kind of feral brat is this?” The nomad yanked him away by the hair and tossed him aside. But he scrambled to his feet and lunged again, oblivious to the pain. The southerner swung his sword to finish him off, but at the last moment, he hesitated — perhaps overcome by a flicker of pity. The blade struck flat, not sharp, but hard enough to send Gerel crashing to the ground, unconscious. The next thing he remembered was darkness. He woke later, blood crusted in his ears, nose, and mouth. Clutching his head to dull the splitting pain, he staggered to his feet. “Mother... Mama...” He wandered among the rapidly cooling corpses, calling out their names. All those people he’d never considered family, whom he’d feared and hated — now, he desperately wished to bring them back, to hold onto some shred of life. Pressing his ear to their lips, he tried in vain to sense their breath. But they were all gone. Everyone but him. He was left alone.   They had killed his mother, their master, his wife, their children, their servants — everyone. Yet he survived. He didn’t know how. For a while, he wandered as a vagrant. Eventually, he joined a band of mercenaries. It's not that they felt pity for Gerel — they likely found his strange appearance amusing. He learned to wield a sword. Enlisted in the army. By the time he commanded a hundred men, rumors of him had reached Emperor Tokhung. Jin-ho listened in silence, then said: “If I were you, I’d have wanted to kill every nomad in the South.” “I tried,” he replied indifferently, “but quickly realized it was pointless.” “Yes…” She fell quiet again. Firelight flickered in her dark eyes. Then, forcing a smile, she said: “Your background is certainly… not very regal.” She was teasing, avoiding pity. It touched him. Once more, Gerel marveled at how quickly she’d grown up. Perhaps more than he had. “I’m not ashamed of my origins,” he said. “Nor should you be. If anything, I should be ashamed of mine. I’ve never had anyone I thought of as warmly as you speak of your mother…” “I don’t think anyone should be ashamed of their family, whatever it may be. But at least we can choose our friends.” Jin-ho nodded. She seemed to momentarily forget her efforts to behave like a noble lady; sitting with her knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around them, she looked like the soldier she once was on a bitterly cold night beside a campfire. “What if your mother wasn’t mad?” she suddenly asked. “What if she really did see the future, for instance?” He shook his head. “Sometimes she spoke of things that would happen, but she was just as often wrong. Mostly, she talked about some other world she said she remembered: a world where everything was good and just, without poverty or evil. But such a world couldn’t exist.” “Mmm,” Jin-ho murmured, neither agreeing nor arguing. “Do you know where she was found?” “No, but most Strangers came from the tribes far to the south — away from the sea and Cheongju’s border, where the...” “ ...Wastelands begin,” Jin-ho finished. “Yes.” “I think the answers lie there. In the South. Perhaps Master Fox knows something, but the truth is out there, in Phoenix lands. Or beyond — in the Wastelands, at the edge of the world...” When Gerel was little, his mother told him that yaoguai weren’t born like normal people but appeared in the Wastelands, fully grown. Sometimes, though, there were yaoguai children — it was a matter of chance. That’s why they had no navels. And before they came into the world, they saw strange dreams. Most forgot them, but for some reason, she remembered hers — a vivid reminder of another, better world. Gerel had always thought it was a fairy tale. Now, he wasn’t so sure.   He prepared for the journey swiftly. Affairs in Shinju were more or less settled, and, as much as he disliked admitting it, there wasn’t much he could contribute there anymore. He decided to take only Shadow with him. Ryukoku was still teeming with people eager to kill him, and a large retinue would undoubtedly attract attention. That left him with two options: travel with half an army to ensure safety or take no one at all. Two riders, however, were unlikely to draw notice, and he and Yukinari could handle minor threats like bandits. Besides, he didn’t want word of his absence from Shinju to spread too quickly. The easiest way to reach Cheongju was by sea, but boarding a ship was out of the question for the same reason — they would be recognized instantly. Travel by land through Ryukoku was too dangerous — checkpoints were everywhere — so in the end, he chose a longer route, circling north through peaceful Yuigui.   He and Jin-ho said their farewells at the city gates. Gerel and Yukinari, dressed for travel, stood holding the reins of their horses. Jin-ho's dusky face was calm, but it was this unusual impassiveness that betrayed the storm of emotions she was holding back. He had passed his title of governor to her; in his absence, Jin-ho would rule Ryukoku. He hoped the plans they had devised would be of some use to her in managing the country. Gerel looked at her, knowing that this was likely the last time he would see her. He wanted to remember her well. For the first time, he thought how small and slight she looked for her not-quite-eighteen years. She was shivering — it was a cold, windy day. He draped his cloak over her shoulders and said: "You'll catch a cold..." She shivered again but replied briskly, "Nonsense." "Keep your chin up," he said. "I don’t intend to die." "You’d better not. If something happens to you, who will take care of this country?" "You will," he said, and he wasn’t joking. Jin-ho gave a faint smile. "Have you forgotten? I’m only seventeen, the unloved wife of an emperor from a foreign land." "You’ll manage." "I know," she sighed. They all knew it. Jin-ho was born to rule, as fish are born for the sea. Of the three of them, she had turned out to be the strongest — so they were the ones leaving, and she was the one staying behind.   At first, he and the dead man spoke rarely and only when necessary — just as it had been in Shinju, before they departed. They discussed the route, the weather, and little else. During the first few days of the journey, they exchanged barely a handful of words. But when someone is constantly by your side, it’s hard to remain silent forever. Gerel didn’t know how to act around the dead man now that he had accepted he was Yukinari. He felt ashamed of his earlier coldness and harshness, yet he couldn’t bring himself to speak to him as if he were alive — as if nothing had happened. A few times, he slipped and addressed him as he would have the living Yukinari, only to falter, fall silent, and feel a pang of awkwardness. Gradually, Gerel grew accustomed to talking to the living corpse. He didn’t try to have serious conversations, but rather shared stray, unimportant thoughts—much as one might talk to oneself or to a portrait of a deceased friend, not truly expecting a response. Although, truth be told, sometimes he hoped for one. And he was glad when Yukinari did answer, albeit rarely and with few words...   A few days after leaving Shinju, Gerel had another dream — about the gods he didn’t believe in. Yet when he woke, he felt calm and strangely comforted. He dreamed of Jin-ho. They stood side by side on the balcony of the imperial palace in Shinju, gazing out at the city. The sky was clear, and the canals, boats, people, and the distant sea were all vividly visible. “So, you think a world where everything is fair and just can’t exist? Care to bet on it?” Jin-ho’s voice was thoughtful and mischievous. From the high, blue sky, a shadow descended, circled above them, and landed on Jin-ho’s shoulder. A dragon! It had grown larger since the last time Gerel had seen it. Its scales had lightened, revealing that it wasn’t black at all but a deep aquamarine, with silver sparks rippling through its surface. Jin-ho, however, seemed entirely unsurprised. She laughed and stroked the dragon’s head. “So, you’re alive?” Gerel blurted out. The dragon settled comfortably on Jin-ho’s shoulder, its tail coiling around her neck several times, and replied with dignified simplicity: “Alive, of course. Killing a dragon takes far more than some silly war.” The dragon’s voice was oddly childlike, high and unsteady. Only then did Gerel notice a white tiger with blue eyes standing beside Jin-ho, pressing its head against her knees. Her silk and beaded gown shimmered in the sunlight, and in the fabric’s radiant reflections, he suddenly saw a phoenix unfurling its wings, blazing with carmine and vermilion. And in the end, a vast shadow passed over them all — the shadow of an enormous tortoise.