The Jade Corpse gave her no chance to examine her thoughts further. A low, cackling laugh rang out, and all at once a pair of ashen-grey arms appeared on the shoulders of every monk — thin, stunted limbs with faint blue veins visible beneath the skin, dirt caked beneath the fingernails, as though they had only just clawed their way up from underground.

A moment later, small children’s heads began to push up from those shoulders. The faces were incomplete: some were missing an eye, some had half their skulls caved in, the wounds fringed with rotting flesh. Yet despite all this, they moved with unsettling agility — their necks extending like serpents, impossibly long, stretching down toward the monks’ faces, where they split into wide, ghastly grins.

The monks kept their eyes tightly shut and pressed on with their scripture recitations and incantations, seemingly unaware. But several of the younger ones, whose concentration was less firmly rooted, caught a glimpse of the apparitions and were so terrified they could not move. The colour drained from their faces in wave after wave, and their bodies began to tremble despite themselves.

Yuan Jue suddenly called out in a clear, commanding voice: “Where the mind is pure, form follows not; where the mind is impure, form arises from it. Where form exists without mind, it vanishes when the mind is stilled.”

The young monks heard that pronouncement like a sudden awakening — as though ice-cold water had been poured over a drowsy mind — and hastened to steady their thoughts, letting go of all distracting imaginings.

The Jade Corpse’s eyes shifted ever so slightly. Its rigid neck tilted to one side with a creak of grinding joints, like a puppet turning its limbs, and at that signal every one of the small ghosts extended both arms at once and seized the monks by the throat.

Though they were illusions, the force constricting the monks’ necks was no illusion at all. The chanting immediately became laboured and halting.

Qing Xuzi had been standing to the left. Seeing this, he wasted no words — he snatched the straw rope from his waist, swung it with all his strength, and turned the Jade Corpse’s own method against her: he lassoed her neck with it.

The Jade Corpse’s tilted head was jerked upright by the rope. Her face remained utterly expressionless. Following the direction the rope had come from, she turned her neck with a grinding creak and fixed her cold gaze on Qing Xuzi. Then, slowly, the stiff corners of her mouth spread apart, and she exhaled a wisp of frigid air.

Qing Xuzi suddenly felt a deathly pale woman’s arm materialize before him out of thin air, lunging straight for his face.

Qin Yao saw the danger and quickly deployed the Soul-Devouring Bell to encircle all four of them with a ring of its fire. The arm came on with ferocious momentum — but the moment it touched the Soul-Devouring flames, it let out a shriek and hastily retreated back to the Jade Corpse’s side.

Encouraged by this, Qin Yao rallied her spirits and drove the Fire Dragon forward in a sweeping path toward the small ghosts lurking behind the monks. The dragon swallowed them one by one, consuming each whole, and by the time it had completed its circuit, its body appeared to glow markedly brighter.

Qin Yao was elated and was just about to press her advantage, steering the Fire Dragon toward the Jade Corpse herself, when a violent tremor erupted from beneath the ground — as though some enormous creature were about to burst through the earth. She was thrown off balance and nearly fell; it was only with great effort that she steadied herself. When she looked up, she found that she was no longer in the Eastern Side Hall at all. In its place stood a magnificent imperial audience chamber, gleaming with gold and jade.

Inside, over a hundred civil and military officials stood in formal rows. Qin Yao stood in the fifth position on the right-hand side. Before her was a white-haired elderly Confucian official; behind her, a sharp-eyed middle-aged bureaucrat. All of them were dressed in civil robes — and when Qin Yao looked down at herself, she found that she too had changed: she wore a purple python-embroidered long robe cinched with a jade belt, the dress of a high-ranking official — yet also with a protruding belly and a bloated figure that looked altogether bizarre.

Having been through this before, Qin Yao understood at once that she had fallen into another of the Jade Corpse’s traps. She moved to bite through her finger so she could cast a spell and break the illusion — but her fingers had suddenly become thick and swollen, and though she bit through several of them in succession, not a drop of blood came out. A cold dread crept through her. Could it be that her soul and body had been separated — that the Jade Corpse had plucked out her soul and dropped it into someone else’s body?

She grew frantic, looking frantically around her for some way to shatter the illusion — and then suddenly spotted, among the ranks of military officials opposite, an old man and a young man standing with eyes downcast, both clad in military armour. It was unmistakably her master and A’Han.

She rushed to go to them, but her feet were as though nailed to the floor; no matter what she did, she could not take a single step. Her mouth felt stitched shut — she could not even open it.

Just as her anxiety was peaking, a great thunder of ceremonial drums rang out. From behind the throne, a line of officials bearing ceremonial staffs filed in, led by a palace attendant who announced: “His Majesty approaches the court — all ministers kneel!”

Every official dropped to their knees as one. Qin Yao felt a tremendous force descend on her shoulders from nowhere, pressing her involuntarily down to her knees along with the rest.

A man’s deep voice intoned: “Rise.”

Qin Yao stood, and could not help but glance up toward the throne.

Because the person she was inhabiting held no low rank, the distance was not great, and she could see clearly: the man on the dragon throne was exceptionally handsome and upright — a striking beauty of a man. Yet for some reason, there was something in his eyes and brows that reminded her faintly of Lin Xiao.

She reflected inwardly that this dynasty had been founded over a hundred years ago, and this man was wearing the court dress of this dynasty — he must therefore be one of its emperors. Lin Xiao was of the imperial bloodline; it was not strange at all that he should share some resemblance with an ancestor.

She was still trying to work out which emperor this might be when she suddenly remembered: she was currently trapped inside the Jade Corpse’s illusion. Could this man be the heartless emperor of a century ago?

With that thought she looked at him more carefully — and then heard the Emperor speak: “The Empress carries our child. We are greatly gladdened. Effective this day, we declare a general amnesty throughout the realm. Let the Bureau of Astronomy select an auspicious date; we intend to personally pray for blessings upon the Empress and upon our first imperial son.”

A ripple of congratulatory voices rose among the assembled officials.

After a moment, someone stepped out of line — an elderly Daoist who appeared to be well past seventy, with a head of white hair yet a face of youthful vigour, exuding an air of otherworldly refinement. He flicked his horsetail whisk and spoke in a carrying voice: “Your Majesty has only recently ascended the throne, and already the Empress carries a child — this is the most auspicious of signs. It is surely an omen that the Imperial couple will be of one heart and mind, extending the dynasty’s bloodline and its blessings without end. However, some days ago this humble Daoist observed the heavens at night and detected in the Jiangnan region a baleful star — a Lone Killing Star — that threatens to disturb the realm’s stability. In alarm, I cast a divination that very night, and discovered that a woman in that region corresponds to the stellar pattern — the very image of a once-in-a-century solitary killing omen.”

The white-haired elder official standing before Qin Yao immediately responded: “Oh? And who is this woman?”

The old Daoist glanced cautiously at the Emperor and shook his head repeatedly. “This humble Daoist could not divine precisely who she is, only that she has a karmic affinity with the Buddhist faith, that she is a reincarnation of the Lone Killing Star, and that she currently lives quietly in a distant corner — yet because her fate carries this solitary killing energy, she disturbs the heavenly patterns. If this woman is not eliminated, it may imperil the progeny of the Empress.”

“Can this truly be so?” The court erupted in murmurs. This old Daoist seemed to carry considerable prestige; his words fell with the weight of stones cast into still water, sending ripples spreading through the hearts of emperor and ministers alike.

The Emperor sat on the dragon throne, his face a mask of indifference, revealing nothing of his thoughts. He let the ministers debate noisily among themselves and said nothing throughout.

Qin Yao’s unease deepened. This woman with Buddhist affinities that the old Daoist described — could she be the peerlessly beautiful Buddhist nun, before she became the Jade Corpse? Judging by the scene unfolding around her, the nun was most likely still faithfully waiting in the Jiangnan residence the Emperor had arranged for her before his ascension, counting the days until the crown prince became Emperor and would come to reunite with her. She could scarcely have imagined that a thousand li away in Chang’an, the man she longed for day and night was sitting by without a word while his ministers debated what to do with her — this “Lone Killing Star.”

Lost in these thoughts, Qin Yao suddenly found the scene dissolving and reforming. When it coalesced again, she was still in the imperial audience chamber — but the expressions on every official’s face had shifted to anxiety.

The white-haired elder before her tottered forward and said in a trembling voice: “Yesterday the Empress already showed signs of a miscarriage; it was only through the timely application of acupuncture by the imperial physicians that the pregnancy was stabilized. The day before, floods burst from the mountains in Yushan; the entire Ministry of Works had no choice but to rush through the night to inspect the damage. Your Majesty, it is exactly as Daoist Li foretold — this woman is a reincarnation of the Lone Killing Star, born to bring calamity upon the world. If she is not removed with haste, who can say what further disturbances lie ahead.”

The assembled officials all voiced their agreement.

A shadow of displeasure passed across the young Emperor’s face.

Seeing this, the ministers grew all the more fervent in their arguments, cataloguing the disasters caused by malignant stars in dynasties past, laying out one example after another and embellishing each freely, until it seemed that if the Emperor did not dispatch someone to execute this woman at once, the dynasty itself might fall within the hour.

At last the Emperor raised a tired hand. “Do as you see fit,” he said — as though, with his grip on power still not firmly established, he dared not go against the wishes of his most powerful ministers.

When Qin Yao heard this, she felt a tremor run through her to her core. So the nun had not been killed by a servant, as recorded in the Yelan Scripture — she had been executed by the man she loved, who sent assassins a thousand li to kill her.

She had waited two years. Not only had no Imperial Prince come to care for her — she had been stripped even of the chance to live.

No wonder such bottomless resentment had taken root.

She stood dazed in the middle of the hall, not knowing how much more time passed, when suddenly a woman’s voice drifted in from outside — light and sweet and lingering, singing what sounded like a Buddhist verse in Sanskrit.

The ministers, who had been reporting on affairs in various regions, all fell silent and looked at one another in bewilderment. Only the Emperor on the dragon throne reacted as though struck by lightning, unable to remain seated — he rose to his feet in utter shock and looked toward the entrance of the hall.

The woman entered slowly. Her features, seen in the flesh rather than carved in jade, were far more beautiful and gentle than her statue suggested — a breathtaking, world-toppling beauty. She walked to the Emperor with no one blocking her path, and stopping before him, let out a soft laugh, tilted her face up, and looked at him closely.

The Emperor was so startled he could not move. After a long moment he managed to speak, with great difficulty: “You… were you not already dead?”

“Indeed,” the woman said with a smile and a nod. “I died for the sake of your throne. I only just learned that whether a man can hold his dynasty together depends entirely upon a single woman.”

She curled her fingers into claws and reached forward — then, with a piercing motion, thrust her hand straight through the Emperor’s yellow dragon robe and into his chest. After a moment, she slowly withdrew her arm. Her hand held a still-beating heart.

The Emperor looked down in disbelief at the ruin of flesh and blood where his chest had been. His consciousness seemed to freeze; for a long moment he could not lift his head.

The woman examined the heart in her palm, then broke into a surprised smile. “So you did have a heart after all.”

Without hesitation, she crushed it with her hand.

Seeing his heart discarded on the floor before him, all colour drained instantly from the Emperor’s face. He looked at her with an expression of terrible complexity, the single word “you” dying on his lips before he toppled from the dragon throne with a thunderous crash.

The woman kicked him contemptuously off the footstool, then settled herself in the dragon throne with a smile curving her lips, looking down at the gathered officials. “I have always wondered what it tastes like, this dragon throne — to make a man so utterly without feeling or conscience. Surely the taste must not be poor.”

She lowered her gaze to the Emperor lying motionless at her feet. “Since you loved this throne so dearly, I cannot let you have your wish. Better that I sit your realm in your stead, and bring ruin upon your subjects — otherwise how shall I live up to my name, the Lone Killing Star?”

Her last words had barely faded when, all at once, gleaming white guillotine blades shot up from the back of every official’s neck — suspended high above their heads, waiting only for a single command before they would come slicing down.

Qin Yao had been watching in a stupor. Now she saw that the nun had changed into imperial dragon robes, and her face had returned to the Jade Corpse’s rigid, ice-cold blankness. Qin Yao felt as though she herself had been one of those who had conspired against the nun — and was so ashamed that not only did she forget to resist, she even felt that having her own head struck off would not be punishment enough to wash away her own complicity in all this wickedness.

The blades were on the verge of falling. And then she suddenly remembered the earlier vision of floodwater surging through the imperial hall — she gave a violent start and cursed herself inwardly for nearly being caught in the trap again. She scrambled to think of a way to shatter the illusion, but the hands gripping her from behind were like iron clamps and she could not break free no matter what she tried.

Her mind raced. With no part of her body able to move, she did the only thing she could — she pressed the tip of her tongue between her upper and lower teeth, intending to use the blood from her bitten tongue to break the spell.

Then, from outside the hall, came the clear ring of a sword’s cry. A gleaming blade cut through the air and flew straight for the Jade Corpse seated on the dragon throne.

The Jade Corpse’s expression darkened, but she neither retreated nor moved to avoid it. The sword arrived at her body — struck the jade shell over her chest with a resounding clang — and sank in a fraction of an inch, then could penetrate no further.

Yet the moment that blade struck, the scene before Qin Yao shattered like a mirror, and every official, the dragon throne, and every palace attendant vanished without a trace. Qin Yao snapped her head up — and found herself back in the Eastern Side Hall of the travelling palace.

Lin Xiao was driving his sword into the Jade Statue’s chest. Sweat rolled continually from his temples; from the look of it, forcing the blade in was taking every ounce of his strength. The Jade Statue’s face wore an expression that was neither a smile nor its absence, watching Lin Xiao with cold, distant eyes.