When Emperor An’he learned from the Director of the Celestial Observatory that the star of the Purple Tenuity had grown dim, a restlessness and unease seized him unlike anything he had ever felt before — worse even than the dread of those nights he had spent poling a boat on the Forgetting River.

The night had grown deep. The Zichen Palace was lit by only a handful of palace lanterns, and Emperor An’he, draped in a thin outer dragon robe, paced back and forth across the hall in agitation. The Director’s words kept circling through his mind, coiling around his heart like creeping vines, tightening their grip with every passing moment. Now and again, he cast his gaze out toward the night sky beyond the hall, straining to locate the star of the Purple Tenuity — to see for himself whether it had truly dimmed.

Then, in the palace, the candlelight that had been swaying with his movements suddenly became perfectly, utterly still — not so much as a flicker. The scent of dragon-saliva incense that had been drifting through the hall faded away, replaced by an aura that was clearer and colder, as though the temperature in the room had dropped by degrees.

Emperor An’he’s body went rigid. He turned to see a figure standing at the center of the great hall without a sound — robed in wide Daoist garments — and at the sight, his heart plummeted into his stomach at last.

This was it. His days of wealth and privilege had run their course.

“Na—national Preceptor.” The Emperor An’he who commanded all beneath heaven with the dignity of a sovereign — the same man who had never been anything less than imperious — crumpled like a child who had done something wrong. He dropped to his knees before the man with a heavy thud and prostrated himself.

His fingers curled faintly against the white jade floor tiles. He kept his head low until he saw a pair of plain moon-white cloth shoes appear before his eyes. His gaze traveled upward to the figure’s moon-white robe, and then he looked away again.

The world bowed before him as Emperor. But only the Emperor himself knew that the sole true sovereign in this world was the seemingly young National Preceptor — and moreover, the ancestral patriarch of the Tantai clan: Tantai Qing, with the Daoist title Canglan.

Yet this ancestor who stood before him wore only the simplest of moon-white robes, without elaborate ornamentation — nothing more than a scattering of sun, moon, and star talismanic inscriptions embroidered into the cloth. And yet from him flowed a purity and transcendence utterly untouched by the dust of the mortal world.

Emperor An’he glanced up once, then hastily looked away. His body began to tremble.

It was a face that looked younger than the Emperor’s own. Jet-black hair was held loosely with a single green-wood hairpin engraved with Daoist talismanic scripts. A few strands fell against a forehead smooth as flawless jade, which only further accentuated the luminous, jade-like quality of his face. It was as though time had treated him with extraordinary partiality, leaving not the faintest trace of its passage. His brows and eyes were unhurried and sparse, yet those eyes — they were extraordinarily deep, as though they harbored countless galaxies within them.

“Raise your head.” The National Preceptor’s clear, cold voice fell upon Emperor An’he’s ears.

Emperor An’he raised his head in trembling obedience. The National Preceptor was standing just below the window, and the moonlight poured through the opening and draped itself around him, enveloping him in a faint luminous halo — the bearing of an immortal, otherworldly and beyond the dust.

But Emperor An’he’s mouth went dry, and his voice came out cracked: “Na—national Preceptor…”

The National Preceptor gave the faintest of sighs. His pair of ice-cold eyes settled on the Emperor, and those eyes held no warmth at all — only indifference, and cool, detached reason, and the disdain of one who looks down upon all living things as though they are nothing more than insects. Omniscient. Seeing through everything.

With a single glance, Emperor An’he felt himself frozen in a thousand-year sheet of ice. A chill rose from the soles of his feet straight to the crown of his skull, and his very soul shuddered. He could no longer dare to meet those eyes, and prostrated himself again at the National Preceptor’s feet.

There was no one else in the hall. Had there been, they would surely have been struck with astonishment — the supreme sovereign of all the land, in the presence of the National Preceptor, was rendered so infinitesimally small as dust.

The National Preceptor’s gaze swept over him, then shifted to the empty sky beyond the hall. A rare flicker of irritation crossed those detached, cool features. In truth, he despised the sensation of events slipping out of his grasp — particularly when a carefully constructed arrangement was thrown into disarray. The feeling made his Dao-heart genuinely prone to wavering.

He regarded the star of the Purple Tenuity and spoke at last, slowly: “The Purple Tenuity grows dim. The national fortune is in decline. Ming’er — you have disappointed me greatly.”

That single word — Ming’er — sent the Emperor’s scalp prickling with cold sweat. It instantly soaked through his inner garments. The outer dragon robe he had been wearing had long since slipped from his shoulders. His voice shook uncontrollably as he answered: “Old ancestor…”

“Hmm?”

Emperor An’he corrected himself at once: “National Preceptor, please do not be angered. It is I who am without ability. It was all instigated by that worthless Rong Yiming, who urged me toward a foolish decree, and thus incurred the reprimand of the heavens. Now that Rong Yiming has perished and the Rong clan has met with sudden calamity, this must also be the heavens’ punishment upon them…”

Under extreme terror, his words grew incoherent — and the National Preceptor’s expression grew colder still. He cut the Emperor off: “The reason is of no importance. The national fortune is the very foundation of our great Daan dynasty — it cannot be compromised. The national fortune has diminished; though the loss is small, the omen it reveals is dire. It means you are no longer sufficient to bear and stabilize the national fortune.”

Emperor An’he’s head jerked up, his eyes wide with dread. Did this mean — he was to be deposed?

His throat worked with a series of tight, audible swallows. His pupils shook. Fear climbed up his face. His whole body went rigid. Even his breath nearly stopped.

“Beginning immediately,” the National Preceptor said, “prepare for the abdication.”

His pair of ice-cold eyes finally withdrew from the void and came to rest upon the Emperor. The words he spoke were like a blade tempered in poison — delivered in the flattest, most unremarkable of tones, and yet they drove straight into the Emperor’s fragile soul. “As I suspected — he intends to depose me.”

Emperor An’he felt an inexplicable defiance stir within him. “National Preceptor,” he said, “during my reign, I have ensured the nation prospered and the people were at peace. This was nothing more than a single instance of being deceived, a momentary lapse in judgment. I vow to take this as a grave warning and govern the realm with still greater care. I implore the National Preceptor to grant me another chance.”

The National Preceptor watched him with an expression of complete equanimity, not a flicker of change in those eyes — save for the faintest, most barely perceptible trace of mockery: “Give you another chance? So you may continue to consume the national fortune that is already stretched to its limit? A year ago, the national fortune was already showing signs of decay and leakage. Even when the imperial mausoleum cracked, you remained entirely unaware. Had I not repaired it in time, the dynasty might already have collapsed — just as you described the Rong clan, toppled overnight.”

Emperor An’he’s face drained of all color.

The National Preceptor looked down at him from on high. “I came to inform you, not to negotiate with you. Do you mean to say — you wish to defy my will?”

He raised his hand slightly. From his fingertip, a thread of pure spiritual energy transformed into a surge of pure qi and force. In an instant, the air throughout the entire Zichen Palace seemed to solidify. The immense pressure took on a physical weight, and Emperor An’he could not so much as lift a single finger. His spine could only buckle and bend under that crushing force.

This was the absolute suppression of a higher order upon a lower.

And this was precisely why the National Preceptor had always inspired fear in every inheritor of the Tantai throne. No one knew the true extent of his cultivation — nor how long he had lived. All anyone knew was that as long as the Tantai dynasty had existed, so had he.

“Do not forget,” the National Preceptor said, his voice as calm as ever, yet every word was an ice spike piercing into the Emperor’s vulnerable divine soul, “how this throne came to be yours. I allowed you to sit on it. I can just as easily order you off of it. National fortune endures, and thus I endure, and the Tantai clan endures. National fortune wanes, and all of it ceases to be. Abdication can bring in new blood, and with it, a chance to reverse the course. This is my decree — and you have never had the right to choose otherwise. This is also for the sake of Daan’s foundation.”

“I — I receive and obey the decree.” Emperor An’he squeezed each word through clenched teeth as though it cost him everything he had. He collapsed entirely onto the floor, his face the color of ash, the corner of his mouth twisting into a thin, bitter smile.

Yes — he, and every Tantai emperor before him, had never been anything more than chess pieces in that man’s eyes. Once a piece became useless, it was to be discarded, replaced with a living piece.