Chapter 1:
The Three Sage-Kings of Yaojin Palace
I long to cross the Yellow River, yet my way is choked with ice; I wish to scale the Taihang Mountains, yet the snow prevents my rise.1
THE SKY STRETCHED as far as the eye could see, the perpetually snowcapped peaks of the Taihang Mountains merging with the clouds at the horizon. This was a place beyond the reach of ordinary birds; only a few white gyrfalcons braved the bitter winds to wheel high above, a handful of black specks scattered across the deep blue canopy of heaven.
A great bird clutched a cloth-wrapped bundle in its talons as it swept through cloud banks, drawing closer with each beat of its outstretched wings. Bathed in the last glow of twilight, the creature’s feathers gleamed liquid gold as it swooped toward a mountain encircled by peaks and enshrouded in mist. The clouds parted to reveal a resplendent palace complex sitting atop its summit. The outer walls glowed red beneath the rays of the setting sun, as if they had been dyed by vermilion flames.
Snow did not gather within the palace complex as it did atop the peaks; instead it was filled with verdant parasol trees. Beneath the dazzling sun, it felt like midsummer. Now, as an evening breeze drifted past, the leaves of the trees rustled, shadows dancing in the lingering twilight, as if drawing open the curtains on a majestic dreamscape within this mountaintop residence.
The great bird landed on a platform outside the palace’s main hall. With a cry that made the mountains shudder, the creature shook out its shimmering plumage in a dramatic flourish before gathering its feathers into itself. As the plumes dispersed, the figure of a man appeared.
He had a towering stature, deep-set features, and pitch-black eyes that glinted dark gold in the dim light. He wore no clothes on his upper body, showing off a well-defined torso and wheat-colored skin; on his lower half, he wore a regal black qun2 with gold embroidery that danced in the wind. With his cloth bundle in hand, he slowly made his way toward the main hall.
The palace was a flurry of activity, young men and women coming and going in all directions. Upon seeing the newcomer, they hastily fell to their knees.
“Your Highness, King Qing Xiong.”
The man called Qing Xiong strode through the tree-lined courtyard to the main hall, his long, black qun fluttering behind him. Night had quietly fallen, yet the lamps within the main hall remained unlit. Beneath the scattered light of the moon and stars stood three thrones upon a dais, two of which were empty.
The center seat was occupied by a man whose hair and clothes were both a dazzling shade of red. Even in the room’s crepuscular light, his hair blazed like a flame, and his royal regalia gleamed a coppery gold, like rosy clouds drifting across the sky at dawn. Fiery tail feathers trailed from his belt to the ground, and his robes were draped loosely over his shoulders, revealing the fair skin and powerful muscles of his bare torso.
At the sound of footsteps, the man lifted his head and met Qing Xiong’s eyes.
He was the king of this palace, the ruler of this snowy domain and its vast sky. Few in the world knew that this stately man’s name was Chong Ming. Nearly two centuries had flown by; dynasties had risen and fallen in the Divine Land in that time, and his fearsome reputation had long since been lost to history.
Chong Ming had a handsome face, with brows sharp as blades and a countenance that inspired both fear and awe in all who looked upon him. A burn scar reached up the side of his neck, ending just below his ear.
After a lengthy silence, Qing Xiong finally spoke. “Kong Xuan is dead. He left behind an orphan son; I’m leaving him with you to raise.”
“How did he die?” Chong Ming asked coldly.
Qing Xiong slowly shook his head, and a dark silence settled over the hall.
“His offspring with a human? I’ll do no such thing,” Chong Ming said, voice flat. “Sheshen Cliff is out back, in the rear mountains—go find somewhere to toss it.”
Qing Xiong dropped to one knee and laid down the bundle in his arms. The moment the cloth touched the ground, it began to expand and unfurl, the lotus patterns embroidered on its four corners glowing faintly until the bundle opened to reveal a child lying curled up on his side.
The boy was dressed in a tattered linen robe, his thin chest rising and falling with each of his shallow breaths. His features were delicate, and his little hand clutched something—an object of utmost importance, if the way he curled his body around it was any indication.
“By human reckoning, he should be about four years old,” Qing Xiong said.
Chong Ming gazed down at the child in silence.
The boy twitched slightly in discomfort as Qing Xiong picked him up. “He looks just like his dad did as a child,” he added.
He walked up the steps of the dais, coming to stand before Chong Ming with the boy in his arms. “Look at his eyes,” he said quietly. “His brows.”
“I told you to kill it,” Chong Ming repeated.
Qing Xiong tried to hand the child to Chong Ming, but Chong Ming refused to take him. Qing Xiong set the boy in Chong Ming’s lap instead. The child shifted restlessly, as if about to wake from his deep sleep. Feeling the warmth of Chong Ming’s firm chest, he unconsciously pressed closer and fisted a tiny hand in the man’s robe. The object in his hand slid from his grip—it was a deep green peacock feather, fashioned out of jade.
“Give him a name,” Qing Xiong said, stepping away from the throne. “I’m leaving.”
“Where are you going?” Chong Ming asked, his voice frigid. “If you leave him here with me, I’ll kill him the next time I remember that woman.”
“Do as you like.” Qing Xiong turned to Chong Ming and took several steps backward. “Di Renjie is on his last breath. Yao have slowly overtaken the human realm, and Mara’s resurrection is fast approaching. I must learn the truth about Kong Xuan’s death. I’ll be going now.”
Qing Xiong took a flying leap, shook out his feathers, and transformed once again into that great black bird. With a thunderous beat of his wings and a resonant cry, he soared into the night sky.