Nezha knows, Rin thought. She was certain; that was the only explanation. Somehow, Nezha understood what she was attempting, or at least an approximation of it. He wasn’t ready to murder the Trifecta just yet. He needed to find out, for the sake of his Hesperian overseers, what precisely lay in that chamber.
“Then hurry up,” Daji said curtly, turning her gaze back to the path. “Climb.”
There was no other option but to follow.
Rin scrambled up the slippery rock, all reservations driven from her mind by sheer icy fear. Her questions about the Trifecta didn’t matter now. Whatever Jiang had done, whatever he was hiding from her, whoever the children were—it didn’t matter. Nezha lurked above her, ready to turn her bones to dust with a single order. She had one path to survival and that was Riga.
She could be about to wake a monster. She didn’t care.
Farther up, the path was ensconced inside fog so thick that Rin could barely see or breathe. This was the famous mist of Mount Tianshan, the so-called impenetrable shroud of the Empress of the Four Skies, cast down to keep mortals from discovering the doors to the heavens. The humidity was so dense she felt almost as if she were moving through water. She couldn’t see even a foot in front of her; she had to scrabble along on all fours, listening desperately for the sound of Daji’s footsteps.
She could still hear the dirigible fleet, but she couldn’t see them at all now. The droning had become fainter, too, as if the fleet had first approached the mountain and then retreated backward.
Could they not see where they were going? That must be it—if the mist was hazardous to climbers, it must be doubly so for the aircraft. They must have fallen back to clearer skies, waiting until they figured out the precise location of their targets.
How long did that give them? Hours? Minutes?
She was finding it harder and harder to breathe. She had grown used to thin air on the march, but rarely had they ascended to such altitudes. Fatigue crept up her legs and arms and intensified to a screaming burn. Every step felt like torture. She slowed to a third of her initial speed, dragging her feet forward with every last ounce of energy she could squeeze from her muscles.
She couldn’t stop. They’d initially agreed to camp halfway up the mountain if they tired too quickly, but with dirigibles following overhead, that was no longer an option.
One at a time, she told herself. One step. Then another. And then another, until at last, the steep path gave way to flat stone. She dropped to all fours, chest heaving, desperate for just a few seconds’ reprieve.
“There,” Daji whispered behind her.
Rin lifted her head, squinting through the fog, until the Heavenly Temple emerged through the mist—an imposing nine-story pagoda with red walls and slanted cobalt roofs, gleaming pristinely as if it had been built only yesterday.
The temple had no doors. A square hole was carved into the wall where one should have been, revealing nothing but darkness within. There was no barrier against the wind and the cold. Whatever lay inside needed no defenses—the interior pulsed with some dark, crackling power of its own. Rin could feel it in the air, growing thicker as she approached—a vague tension that made her skin prickle with unease.
Here, the boundary between the world of gods and the world of men blurred. This place was blessed. This place was cursed. She didn’t know which.
The temple’s dark entrance beckoned, inviting. Rin was seized by a sudden, heart-clenching impulse to flee.
“Well,” Daji said behind her. “Go on.”
Rin swallowed and stepped over the raised panel at the threshold, casting flames into the darkness to light her way. The room on the ground level wasn’t warm. It wasn’t cool, either. It was nothing at all, the absence of temperature, a place perfectly conditioned to leave her untouched. The air didn’t stir. There was no dust. This was a space carved out of the boundaries of the natural world, a chamber outside of time.
Slowly her eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
The Heavenly Temple had no windows. The walls on all nine floors were solid stone. Even the ceiling, unlike ceilings in every pagoda Rin had ever seen, was closed off to the sky, blocking out all light except for the red glow in her palm.
Cautiously, she cast her flames higher and wider, trying to bring light to every corner of the room without setting anything ablaze. She made out the shapes of the sixty-four gods above her, statues perched on plinths exactly like those she’d always seen in the Pantheon. The flames distorted their shadows, made them loom large and menacing on the high stone walls.
Yes—the gods were undeniably present here. She didn’t just feel them, she could hear them. Odd whispers arced around her, speaking fleeting words that disappeared just as she tried to catch them. She lingered under the plinth of the Phoenix. Its eyes gazed down at her—fond, mocking, daring. Long time no see, little one.
In the middle of the room stood an altar.
“Great Tortoise,” Jiang said. “You really did a number on him.”
The Dragon Emperor lay still on a bed of pure jade, hands folded serenely over his chest. He didn’t look like someone who had been comatose without food or water for two decades. He didn’t look like a living person at all. He seemed a part of the temple, as still and permanent as stone. His chest did not rise or fall; Rin couldn’t tell if he still breathed.
The Yin family resemblance was uncanny. His face was sculpted porcelain: strong brows, straight nose, a lovely arrangement of sharp angles. His long, raven-black hair draped elegantly over his shoulders. Rin felt dizzy as her eyes traced his noble sleeping features. She felt as if she were staring down at Nezha’s corpse.
“Let’s not draw this out,” Daji said. “Ziya?”
Jiang moved fast. Before Rin could blink, he’d dropped the fawn onto the stone tiles and wedged a blade into its neck.
The fawn’s mouth worked furiously, but no scream came out, only agonized gurgles and an astonishing tide of blood.
“Quickly now, before he’s gone.” Daji pulled Rin out of the way as Jiang dragged the fawn’s writhing form against the base of the altar.
The fawn’s choking went on for a torturously long time. Finally, its struggling dwindled to minute shudders as its blood seeped across the floor, running in straight, clean rivulets where the stone tiles met. All the while Daji knelt over it, one hand pressed against its flank, murmuring something under her breath.
A crackling noise filled the cave, a long, unceasing roll of thunder that grew louder and louder until it seemed the pagoda was about to explode. Rin felt power in the air. Too much power—it cloyed in her throat, choking her. She crouched back against the wall, suddenly terrified.
Daji spoke faster and faster, unintelligible words tumbling eagerly from her lips.
Jiang was utterly still. His face twisted in some strange and unfamiliar grimace; Rin couldn’t tell if he was horrified or ecstatic.
Then shone a burst of white light, followed by a noise like a thunderclap. Rin didn’t realize she’d been thrown off her feet until she felt her back slam against the far wall.
Stars exploded behind her eyelids. The pain was excruciating. She wanted to curl up into a ball and rock back and forth until it stopped, but fear dominated; fear made her crawl to her knees, coughing, squinting as she waited for her vision to return.
Jiang stood with his back against the opposite wall, unmoving, his expression blank. Daji was collapsed against the base of the altar. A thin trail of blood ran out from between her lips. Rin stumbled forth to help her up, but Daji shook her head and pointed to the altar, where, for the first time in over twenty years, Yin Riga rose.