I woke to the sound of chanting.
Low, rhythmic syllables rolled through a cavern that smelled of copper and damp stone. Torches flickered on walls carved with snarling beasts and crescent moons. I lay flat on a slab of black rock, cold soaking through my spine, wrists bound with coarse rope that itched like crazy.
A hooded figure leaned into view. Bone-white mask. Gold teeth glinting behind the eye holes.
"Subject lives," the figure said. "Begin preparation."
If there's a word more effective than begin to make a person panic, I haven't heard it.
"Wait," I croaked. My throat felt like sandpaper. "I think there's been a mistake."
The masked man tilted his head. "There are no mistakes in the will of the Blood Moon."
There are, in fact, so many mistakes in the will of the Blood Moon, I wanted to say. Like abducting a college dropout with a useless media-studies degree and a terminal addiction to xianxia webnovels. It occurred to me that I might be dying, again, and this time the respawn timer was on cooldown.
Six robed cultists formed a circle around the slab. They carried bowls of dark liquid that steamed. Another pair dragged a goat toward a chalk diagram on the floor. Poor goat. The design was a tangle of triangles and ripples that looked like a toddler had tried sacred geometry with a crayon.
A gong sounded. The bone mask raised a knife with a fluted blade.
"Hold on," I said, and my voice came out squeaky, which was not the heroic baritone I'd hoped for. "What exactly are we summoning?"
"The Heir," the man said. "Our messiah. Vessel of the Blood Moon's shadow."
I did not feel honored. I felt like a snack on a plate—with garnish.
My wrists strained against the rope. It creaked. The torches hissed. The air thickened with humidity and static, as if the cavern itself were about to sneeze lightning.
The knife descended.
"Stop!" I shouted. "Behold, mortals, for your time has come!"
The words flew out before my brain could veto them. Panic had turned my tongue into a stand-up comedian with a death wish.
The knife froze a finger's width from my chest. Every masked face turned toward me as one. The bone mask slowly lowered the blade.
"Repeat," he said.
I swallowed. "Behold, mortals, for your time has come."Congratulations, Lin Qing, I thought. You've just quoted an edgy meme to people who probably kill before breakfast.
"Uh," I added, improvising. "Your time... it has come. For the Heir. Release me. Now."
There is a kind of silence that happens when everyone in a room is thinking the same dangerous thought. We had that silence. Then, somewhere to my left, a candle toppled off its sconce, bumped a clay bowl, and landed in a dish of powder with a soft plop.
The powder whooshed into blue flame.
A sound like a giant inhaling filled the cavern. The chalk lines flared white, then red, then black. The goat bleated once and sat down, reconsidering its life choices. Bowls frothed. The ground shook. Dust drifted from the ceiling.
I had accidentally kicked the slab while shouting, which had jostled the sconce, which had nudged the candle, which had ignited whatever alchemical nonsense that powder was. The sort of chain of events that makes a man find religion.
To the cultists, it looked like a miracle.
They fell forward as the chalk burned out. The bone mask dropped to one knee and pressed his forehead to the floor.
"The Heir speaks," he said, voice shaking. "All hail the Blood Moon Heir."
All six slammed their foreheads down—bang, bang, bang—like enthusiastic woodpeckers. The goat decided to nap.
I stared at the candle's blue fire. I stared at the bone mask. I stared at my own trembling knees, because at some point I'd sat up and the ropes had charred through. The cavern hummed with fading energy. My heart pounded like I'd swallowed a rabbit.
"Rise," I said, because if I didn't keep talking I might scream.
They rose, smoothly, as if pulled by a single string. The bone mask angled his knife down, which I appreciated.
"What is your will, Heir?" he asked.
I know three things very well:
How to study for an exam I'm guaranteed to fail.
How to heat instant noodles so they taste like childhood.
How to bluff while sweating.
"First," I said, "bring me water."
A terrified girl hurried forward with a clay cup. I drank. The water tasted smoky and faintly sweet.
"Second," I said, handing the cup back with the dignity of a wounded cat, "tell me your name."
"I am Elder Hei," he said. "Knife of the Ebon Moon Cult. I oversaw this offering."
Wonderful. Knife of the Cult. I smiled in a way that hopefully hid the terror.
"Elder Hei, you prepared the ritual well. The Heir is... pleased."
He made a soft noise that might have been relief or religious ecstasy.
"However," I said, drawing the word out like I'd planned it all along, "the Heir dislikes waste. Slaughter stains destiny's foundation. Release the prisoners to the outer barrens. They will spread our legend. They will live... for now."
Elder Hei hesitated. His knife trembled. The chalk lines dimmed to faint scars. The torches crackled.
"Mercy," he murmured, tasting the word. "A hidden blade."
"Exactly," I said. "We do not dull the knife on common necks. Save the edge for throats that matter."
Several heads nodded in unison. The water girl stared at me with wide eyes that reflected torchlight like wet stones.
"Your will be done," Elder Hei said. "What of the goat?"
"Retire the goat," I said gravely. "It has served its purpose."
The goat snored.
Orders flew. Cultists scattered. My body remembered that it hurt. I slid off the slab. My legs nearly mutinied, then decided to cooperate.
Elder Hei snapped his fingers. A folded bundle of black cloth appeared. "Robes for the Heir."
I took it. The fabric was warm, smelling faintly of iron and wild herbs. I wrapped it around my bare chest and belted it with loops clearly meant for knives I didn't own. It made me look taller—and like a walking assassination target.
"The Heir requires a room," I said. "Quiet. With a door and a lock only I control."
He bowed. "Of course."
He led me through tunnels that glimmered with quartz veins. We passed bone charms, grain sacks, and an acolyte polishing an altar like he was scrubbing away fate. When he saw me, he inhaled dramatically and whispered, "The Heir," to the altar, as if sharing gossip.
The room he offered wouldn't impress a rat: straw mattress, low table, three books, and a smoky brazier. But it had a door. And a lock.
"It is humble," Elder Hei said. "The true sanctum remains sealed until the Blood Moon ascends. For now, the Heir rests here."
"It will do," I said truthfully. After a rock slab, a straw mattress is a cloud.
Elder Hei lingered. "The Sect will wish to see a sign. A small miracle will suffice. The elders can gather at dusk."
"Dusk is fine," I said, buying time like oxygen. "Send food. And water not flavored like sadness."
He nodded. "Acolyte Chun will attend you."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Your words about waste," he said softly. "Unexpected. The last Heir favored fire."
"Fire has its place," I said. "But ash feeds nothing." Whatever that means, I thought.
He bowed low and left. I slid the iron bar through the brackets and leaned against the door, exhaling the breath of several lifetimes.
Silence.
Then: tap tap, a polite knock. Too polite for a demon cult.
"Yes," I said, aiming for regal and hitting pebble-in-throat.
The door opened a crack. The altar-polishing boy peeked in, grin dangerously wide."Acolyte Chun," he said. "Assigned to the Heir. I brought porridge. And a broom. In case the Heir wishes to cleanse evil aura."
He slipped in with tray and broom. The tray held gray porridge, bread, and—thank heavens—clean water. He set it down, then stood guard like a broom-armed soldier.
"Chun," I said. "Close the door."
He did. Beamed. "The Heir's first command to Chun. Understood."
"Second command," I said. "Do not tell anyone what I look like when I eat."
He nodded so hard his hair bounced. "Chun will gouge out his eyes before he sees the Heir chew."
"Please don't," I said. "Just face the wall."
He turned obediently. I ate. The porridge tasted like wet flour and regret, but the bread was decent and the water clean. My hands shook less with each bite.
When the bowl was empty, I examined the rope grooves on my wrists. I closed my eyes and breathed.
In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth.
It was absurd—cross-legged on a straw mattress in a demon cave, trying a breathing method from some old forum thread—but here we were.
Air became something more than oxygen: light, weight, a faint hum. My breath stretched and slowed until my heartbeat steadied.
On my fourth breath, something clicked.
A cool thread slid into my lungs. The hairs on my arms lifted. The room sharpened. I heard the brazier's whisper, Chun's quiet fidget, distant dripping water.
Heavenly Insight, a voice in my head offered.. or wishful thinking.
I followed the thread as it pooled low in my belly, warm and heavy. A tiny river of life. I focused, and it deepened, glowing like a pan warming on a stove.
Then: a knock. The warmth hiccupped.
Chun spun, broom at the ready. "The Heir is cultivating! Who dares?"
"Elder Hei," came the muffled reply. "With a schedule."
I sighed, stood. The warmth remained—a coin of light under my ribs.
I unbarred the door. Elder Hei entered with two figures: a scribe, and a woman in flawless black silk whose presence smelled faintly of crushed petals and steel.
"The Saintess wished to pay respects," Elder Hei said.
The woman inclined her head. "Saintess Yao greets destiny." Her smile promised that flowers could bloom or cities could burn, depending on my answer.
"Lin Qing," I said automatically, then scrambled. "Heir Lin Qing."
Saintess Yao's eyes brightened. "A name given, not stolen. Auspicious."
Elder Hei cleared his throat. "The elders gather at dusk for the miracle."
"Not a miracle," Yao murmured. "A mercy. The Heir's words already cut deeper than blades."
I tried to look like someone whose words cut anything other than his own dignity."Very well," I said. "Bring the outer disciples to the northern cavern at dusk. Prepare them for the Heaven-Piercing Fist of Eternal Suffering."
Three pairs of eyes blinked at me.
"The what," Elder Hei said.
"The movement drill," I explained smoothly. "To temper breath and bone, to focus the mind, to grind sorrow into strength. No spicy food an hour before; it interferes with breath cycles."
Saintess Yao smiled wider. "The Heir is precise."
The scribe scribbled. Elder Hei bowed. Chun tried to bow and nearly impaled himself with the broom. I kept my face calm while my brain screamed, because I had just invented a technique and promised results by dusk.
"Dismissed," I said. The word tasted good, like catching a plate before it fell.
They left. I shut the door. Chun stared at me with the adoration people usually reserve for gods—or very good soup.
"Heir," he whispered, "Heaven-Piercing Fist of Eternal Suffering. It's so cool."
"It's completely made up," I said.
Chun nodded solemnly. "All the best techniques are. At first."
I rubbed my eyes. Dusk would come. People would gather. Expectation would thicken the air. And I, Lin Qing, would need to conjure a miracle out of a breathing drill and a prayer.
I sat cross-legged again. Found the warm coin of qi. It hummed like a trapped bee that wanted to be a dragon.
"Okay," I told the humming. "We fake it till we make it. Preferably make it before they notice."
The brazier popped. Somewhere far below, the retired goat probably dreamed of grass.
Dusk would come. I'd pretend to be a monster to save people from monsters—and try not to become one in the pretending.
Somewhere, the Blood Moon smiled. Or maybe it was just the curve of a candle flame.