On the last day of the first month in the thirteenth year of Tiancheng Lingwei, the Emperor conducted a ritual offering to the gods at Changmi Platform. All three jade imperial seals were brought forth together, and the radiance of the sun and moon shone in full glory.

According to legend, the divine deity Daizhu oversaw the five living souls and the five evil ghosts. After a year of tireless toil, on the final day of the first month, the deity dozed off for a moment. Seizing the opportunity while the heavenly god slept, the five ghosts escaped and brought calamity upon the mortal world. The five living souls, in an effort to restore order and mend the diminished moon, fashioned themselves into precious pearls. The five ghosts were drawn to this radiance and devoured the moon, finally rousing the heavenly god, who then recaptured them.

From that time onward, the last day of the first month had no moon, and was called the Day of Obscurity.

According to Tiancheng’s customs, the Emperor was required to conduct a three-day offering ceremony to the gods within the palace walls of Quecheng’s Yuanqiong Hall, to ensure the prosperity of the realm and the protection of its people from disaster in the coming year.

However, this year’s Day of Obscurity ceremony was markedly different from those of previous years.

The great victory in the Bijiang campaign warranted the opening of an altar to honor the spirits of fallen heroes. Moreover, this was the first ceremony held since the return of all three of Tiancheng’s imperial seals.

The long-lost secret seal had finally been recovered, and for the historians who had been waiting to inscribe a momentous passage in the annals, no ceremony could be too grand for this occasion. The assembled ritual officials jointly submitted a memorial, requesting that the Emperor arrange for the ceremony to be held outside the palace walls at Changmi Platform, to lend it the gravity it deserved.

Changmi Platform was located in Jiaosong County, not far to the west of Quecheng. Surrounded on three sides by mountains and bordered on one side by water, it had been regarded since antiquity as a place that connected with the heavens and gathered spiritual energy, and was deeply venerated by diviners and shamans.

The preceding dynasty of Niexuan had a long history of ritual service to the gods, and its White Harvest and Dark Autumn ceremonies were closely guarded imperial secrets. After the Niexuan dynasty fell, the tradition of royal ritual was swept away along with the old royal house and lost to the river of history. The content and location of the Dark Autumn ceremony could no longer be determined, and only the site of the White Harvest ritual remained — the platform known as the foremost high terrace of Chizhou: Changmi Platform.

In truth, regardless of how the political landscape shifted and powers rose and fell, the rulers who had governed the land since ancient times could never entirely set aside matters of gods and spirits. At the milder end, medicine and shamanism were spoken of in the same breath, and shrines to gods and ghosts proliferated like a forest. Others slaughtered cattle to repay the gods and dispel misfortune, all placing the greatest weight upon such matters.

The arts of shamanism and sorcery had become so deeply entangled with the immense struggles of political power — like vines wound around roots — that they could not easily be separated. Thus, even after a dynastic change, Tiancheng still entrusted ritual officials to conduct grand ceremonial offerings year after year, without interruption or neglect.

The reopening of Changmi Platform was a major affair, and once news spread both inside and outside the palace, the officials debated it heatedly for a time. Villagers and commoners from all directions within ten miles of Jiaosong County flooded in, nearly collapsing several stone bridges that the county office had painstakingly rebuilt.

Although Changmi Platform stood in imposing height and there was absolutely no possibility of onlookers drawing close to observe the ceremony, this did nothing to diminish the enthusiasm of Tiancheng’s citizens, who were always eager for spectacle.

The white breath exhaled by countless eagerly expectant faces enveloped the whole of Jiaosong in a cloud of mist. Those figures of all shapes and sizes were undeterred by the bitter cold of deep winter, standing their ground for an entire day. They crowded together, talking, dreaming, beginning to inscribe this moment — one worth savoring for a lifetime — in their hearts.

Imperial rituals had always been intimate and distant legends. The incantations and hymns, the solemn and exacting ceremonial rites enclosed behind those lofty palace walls, all exuded an air of sacred inviolability.

And Tiancheng’s Emperor was especially well known for his reclusive ways. In earlier years, it seemed he had not been in the best of health, and there had been very few occasions on which he left the palace. Now, not only had he personally led the army on campaign, but he was openly appearing before the public — hardly different, in the eyes of many, from a heavenly deity descending to the mortal world. How could one live without regret for missing even one moment of such a spectacular event?

According to a real-time account relayed by the gossip-loving crowd who had squeezed their way to the very front that day: some said the Emperor’s figure was exceptionally upright and his features were handsome; others said that the Emperor had lost considerable weight since his return from the campaign and appeared somewhat frail and sickly; and yet most people were simply complaining that they were too far away to see anything at all.

Xiao Nanhui, of course, was not among that crowd.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, the Emperor would personally present lacquered boxes and honorary swords to the generals who had distinguished themselves in battle. A total of seventeen senior commanders, ranked by merit and official position, would each personally receive this honor.

As one of the leading commanders, she now stood no more than ten paces from him.

Today he was dressed with more grandeur than she had ever seen him. His dark hair was gathered up into a red-gold ceremonial crown, and the many-layered upper and lower garments he wore were intricate and weighty. His black robe embroidered with the twelve-chapter imperial pattern had wide sleeves that tapered to a narrow waist, and over it was draped an exceptionally sheer gauze, yet even on his frame it did not appear bulky — it only made his silhouette appear considerably more commanding than usual.

Xiao Nanhui felt that she was not intentionally sneaking glances at the Emperor; it was simply that he was genuinely exceptionally fine-looking today, and the love of beauty was a universal human trait. She had long since forgotten that a year ago she had firmly resolved to have no interest in this sort of sickly, beautiful man.

After the Emperor, the figure who most drew the eye at the center of the ceremony was the Grand Priest who led the ritual.

He was an elderly man with long eyebrows, dressed with equal grandeur, holding a flower-adorned ceremonial staff, and was seated at the very center of the altar — the focal point of every gaze in the entire ceremony.

This man was none other than the legendary Fuqiu Heavenly Master, who had come from the north and proclaimed himself the head of the Northern Hongji Gate.

The Northern Hongji Gate was a place that sounded even more mystical than Buxu Valley, and indeed it was a place that made its living from gods and ghosts. Its leader, Fuqiu, simultaneously claimed descent from a lineage of shamans while also practicing the natural great law of following heaven’s way. He had assisted when the Su clan established dominion over the realm in earlier times, and thereafter became the central figure at the annual national ceremony, gathering a considerable following across Huozhou and Chizhou.

Several hours earlier, Xiao Nanhui had escorted the ritual officials into Changmi Platform in her capacity as Commander of the Guangyao Camp guards, and had taken the opportunity to observe the distinguished guest who had traveled so far.

The Northern Hongji Gate arrived with an enormous entourage. Aside from Fuqiu himself, who was a decrepit old man, every last one of his attendants and servants was a comely man or beautiful woman. In the depths of winter they were each dressed in brilliant finery, looking less like celestial disciples and more like spirits and monsters that had cultivated themselves in some cave or hollow.

Although Fuqiu himself had something of an air of ethereal refinement, one glance at the green ox on which he sat gave the game away completely. The animal was armored in gold and silver all the way to the tips of its horns; its saddle was exquisitely carved and engraved, adorned with white clamshell ornaments, purple-gold flowers, and nine-colored silk sashes embroidered throughout with silver thread, hung all over the ox’s body.

Was this truly not a troupe come to perform in an opera? Xiao Nanhui regarded this ceremony she had never witnessed before with considerable skepticism.

One hour later, her skepticism had solidified into a firm and certain conviction.

The ritual had not even reached its halfway point. Dozens of ritual officials, each holding ceremonial implements and ritual treasures of various kinds, with Fuqiu at their head, had encircled the Emperor completely in their midst — looking for all the world like a group of Taoist priests working a ritual to chant someone inside their formation to death.

Whether this ceremony could truly commune with gods and spirits, she could not say. But she knew a person could be exhausted to death by it.

Even now she herself was having trouble staying on her feet, to say nothing of the Emperor, who had been bowing and cooperating with the ritual throughout.

Given her familiarity with that slight frame of his, she was genuinely worried that he might not be able to withstand the weight of those dozens of catties of robes and headgear, and would end up fainting right there on the ritual platform.

Had it always been like this every year in the past? Was this a ceremony or a tribulation?

She rolled her eyes to look at her neighbors, but the people around her did not seem to be paying any attention to what the Emperor was doing.

The assembled officials were either lost in their own thoughts or nodding off to sleep, as though long accustomed to this annual “scene of punishment.” It only made her feel as though she were the one with no worldly experience.

The sun moved from noon to the western sky. The commoners gathered outside Changmi Platform had cycled through five or six shifts of spectators, and the ceremony was finally approaching its conclusion.

Xiao Nanhui’s back and legs ached, her mouth was dry, and her stomach was empty. She had mentally rehearsed Yaoyi’s cloud-leaf delicacies and Dujuan’s signature crystal roasted duck three or four times over in her head.

Yet she looked at the dozens of ritual officials, who seemed energized and were fighting with ever-greater vigor, and she was nearly driven to wonder whether they had taken some secret concoction before ascending the platform. Otherwise she simply could not understand how a group of officials past fifty — the sort who normally needed someone to help them in and out of a carriage — could be so useful today, indomitable through a hundred battles.

After the time it took to burn one incense stick, Fuqiu, who had been sitting upright in the center this entire time, finally shifted his posture. He picked up the ceremonial wind instrument that had been set aside beside him and began to play a mournful, undulating tune.

Hearing this, Xiao Nanhui finally perked up somewhat.

This was the process that the ritual officials had emphasized a thousand times before the ceremony began — and it was the only part of the entire ritual that required her participation.

In truth, it was not exactly participation. She was simply to cooperate with the Emperor in completing the ceremony of bestowing the swords, a process that from start to finish would take less time than it would take to drink a cup of tea.

Other than the Emperor, no one on the ritual platform was permitted to carry a weapon. This was a mark of respect for the divine, and a rule that had been set down early on for reasons of security.

According to the original ceremonial precedent, no court officials were to stand beside the Emperor on the ritual platform aside from the ritual officials themselves. This year, because the ceremony was also honoring the spirits of fallen soldiers from the campaign, a new procedure had been added: the Emperor was to present the jade honorary swords — symbolizing honor and divine protection — to those who had rendered meritorious service.

Tiancheng honored the left side above the right, so the highest-ranking civil and military officials stood on the left, while she stood on the far right. Even from Su Pingchuan she was separated by several people, to say nothing of Xiao Zhun, who stood at the far left.

Even so, being able to share a platform with the Emperor in offering ceremony to the gods and Buddhas was the highest possible honor. At the very least, in this moment, she had taken another step closer to the position at Xiao Zhun’s side.

Half a year ago, it was for exactly this day that she had gone alone into the heart of Bijiang.

But now that she had achieved her wish and was standing here on this platform of honor, her feelings were not quite what she had imagined they would be.

She thought of the Southern Qiang boy she had encountered on the road home, of the mountain village where she had lived for several months and which had finally turned to ash in the great fire.

She had paid many an immeasurable price for this day.

And perhaps most of what she had once believed she had always longed for was, in truth, what Xiao Zhun had wanted.

The clear, crisp sound of the ritual official striking jade rang out at her ear. Xiao Nanhui raised her eyes slightly and found that the Emperor had already finished bestowing the sword to her left and was now walking to stand before her.

After a long passage of chanting — in words she could not understand — the ritual official opened the final lacquered box, revealing the ornately decorated honorary sword within.

The Emperor slowly drew the sword from the box, held it level with both hands, and extended it toward her.

The Emperor’s hands were concealed within his sleeves, and she could not see them at all. Only when she reached out to receive the honorary sword did she brush the palm of his hand — and found that his hands were as cold as ice.

For some reason, her own hand gave a sudden, involuntary tremor, and her heart seemed to tremble along with it.

As if moved by some inexplicable force, she raised her eyes to look — and found the Emperor’s dark gaze already fixed upon her.

Those eyes were as tranquil and still as ever, as though they had lost all sensitivity to heat, cold, sorrow, or joy. Even if someone were to plunge a blade into him at this very moment, he would likely show no great reaction.

For a moment, Xiao Nanhui had the feeling that this vast and imposing Changmi Platform had, from the very beginning, contained only him.

She finally understood the origin of that withered, solitary, ancient-as-eternity quality she had sensed on him ever since their first meeting.

Magnificent robes and finery, the adoration of ten thousand, supreme and exalted — what did any of it matter? At this moment, there was not a single person beside him who would warm his hands. He could only stand alone at the center of the high platform, playing the role of a “god,” receiving the prayers and reverence of his subjects.

But deep within this shell of a body, she was certain that what lay curled within was not a god.

Only a person.

A person who could feel cold and warmth, pain and joy.

The winter wind stirred the jade and gold pendants of Su Wei’s ceremonial crown, drawing forth a soft, fine sound like golden bells.

He looked at her, as though in the next second he were about to say something.

She hastily lowered her gaze, as if she had never met his eyes at all, and knelt on one knee to receive the honorary sword, then raised it above her head.

“Your subject, Xiao Nanhui, gives thanks for His Majesty’s gracious favor.”

After a long moment, she saw the hem of that black embroidered robe depart from before her feet. Only then did the breath she had been holding silently slip free.

The accompanying ritual official lightly struck the honorary sword in her hands with a long-handled mallet made from Suiyang jade, signaling that the ceremony was complete, and she rose to her feet.

It was at this very moment that a faint sound came to her through the wind — only to vanish just as it was about to reach Changmi Platform.

Xiao Nanhui suddenly felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

She turned sharply, looking toward the crowd of spectators gathered below the platform not far away. It was a dense press of heads, crowded tightly together, with not even a trace of anything amiss to be seen.

No, this feeling was one she knew far too well.

At some point in the past, she had heard this kind of long, resonant sound before.

Piercing, drawing nearer from afar, carrying with it a killing intent.

Her pupils contracted sharply. She raised her head and looked toward the highest point of Changmi Platform.

Atop the altar at the center of the platform, perched at the tip of the towering intertwining dragon banner, stood a figure in purple.