The light flickered between bright and dim. A candle wick exploded with a “crack,” and Dou Jing, Prefect of Henan Prefecture, knelt on the ground, his body violently trembling at the sound.

The last batch of autumn cicadas had completely died off, their corpses scattered messily across the ground. In this dim, secret chamber, deathly silence enveloped everything—not even the faintest insect chirping could be heard.

The windows were covered with thick paper. Dou Jing could not distinguish whether it was day or night, nor could he tell if this was a nightmare or cruel reality. He only felt an indescribable terror pressing down on his spine like a dark cloud. Cold sweat dripped onto the thick Persian carpet, instantly swallowed by the heavy fabric and vanishing without a trace.

“Do as I say.”

A hoarse voice broke the silence. Behind the curtain, the vague outline of a woman in gray monk’s robes could be seen. Two cold gazes pierced through the gauze screen, observing the Prefect of Henan Prefecture kneeling on the ground.

This master of an entire prefecture, this third-rank official, trembled uncontrollably, his forehead pressed firmly to the ground as he said in a quavering voice: “This would be an unpardonable crime!”

“If you dare not act, then that will be your crime.” The female voice was cold and resolute, devoid of any emotion. “Would you rather bear the guilt and die in their place?”

Dou Jing shook his head desperately. He had reached his twilight years and come to Luoyang to prepare for retirement and peaceful aging. He had no desire to be drawn into such disastrous affairs, yet he was powerless to resist.

His voice carried despair as he tried desperately to argue: “True dragon bloodline, a body worth a thousand gold, and protected by skilled warriors—how dare I provoke such mighty forces…”

“True dragon? Hah…”

A hand emerged from behind the curtain, its five fingertips dyed brilliant red with balsam flower juice. In the dim candlelight, it seemed as if it had just been pulled from a pool of blood. The gray-robed figure slowly opened her palm, revealing a knife-like scar on the inside of her fingers. Dou Jing’s gaze focused on a tuft of golden-yellow hair in her palm—at first glance it looked like straw, or perhaps some animal’s mane.

“Yellow lion,” she breathed out ethereally.

Dou Jing was stunned for a moment before grasping the true meaning. This phrase pierced his heart like an icy blade, making his internal organs contract and his intestines churn with unbearable pain. In his heart, he frantically prayed to gods and Buddhas—if this was a nightmare, please let the Bodhisattva quickly awaken him from this terrible dream.

The gray-robed figure issued her final command, her authoritative voice carrying unquestionable determination.

“This is Heaven’s mandate.”