The sun had remained fixed at its zenith for three months.
It was no longer the life-giving orb. It was a platter of red-hot brass, a colossal, unfeeling eye that stared down as the Nam Linh nation slowly died.
For ninety-two days, not a single drop of rain had fallen.
The air had thickened, not with moisture, but with dust. A scorched dust. It rose from the withered rice fields, from the earth roads that had split open, exposing deep fissures like the gasping mouths of the dying. The cicadas' drone was frail. They managed a few strained hisses before falling silent, as if the heat itself had strangled them.
The Cai River, the mother river that had once generously gifted its silt, was now shriveled. It lay exposed as a line of thick, black mud, releasing the foul stench of dead fish and baking moss.
By the edge of that mud, in a place that should have bustled with boats, a crowd was gathering. They said nothing. They just stood, hollow-boned, in their faded brown-gray clothes.
"Mama... I'm thirsty..."
A child's voice, parched, cracked and broke.
A small boy, perhaps five years old, staggered a few steps. He no longer had the strength to cry. He stretched a tiny, grimy hand toward the black sludge, and then collapsed, face-first.
"My son!"
The mother lunged forward, managing only to press her face into her child's bony back. She did not cry out. Her chest heaved violently, her whole body shaking in spasms, until a long, agonizing hiss tore itself from her, ripping the air.
No one in the crowd moved to comfort her.
Despair had gnawed away their compassion. Their tears had long since dried. Someone else's pain, now, was just a reminder that they were, by some miracle, still breathing.
Hundreds of eyes, old and young, were fixed on a single point in the middle of the dry riverbed.
A strange whirlpool.
It was a deep void, still churning with a faint foam, though all around it was dry. The water there was not the color of mud, but a stark, bottomless black, as if it opened straight into the underworld.
The Long Huyet. The Dragon's Lair.
And the place that would, in a few hours, receive its offering.
Not far from the chaotic and desperate crowd stood a temporary shrine. It was hastily built of bamboo and leaves, yet it managed to block the searing heat from outside. The air here held only the scent of old, damp incense.
Ling Luo was sitting.
She sat with her back straight, her legs crossed neatly on the reed mat. She wore a robe of pure, stark white. The white of mourning. But the people who gave it to her yesterday had called it by a beautiful name: "The Deity-Offering Wedding Gown."
Her hands, slender but calloused, held a small silk cloth. She was slowly, meticulously wiping a memorial tablet made of pear wood, its red lacquer peeling with age.
This was her mother's. The "Dragon Deity's Bride" from ten years ago.
Ling Luo did not tremble. Her hand was steady, moving in even strokes. She had imagined this moment thousands of times, ever since the day the village soothsayer had pointed at her forehead and screamed "Shaman-Blood."
She was not afraid. Fear, if it ever existed, had been exhausted long ago. It was like the mother's tears out on the riverbed. She felt only an endless exhaustion, and a quiet indignation simmering—not at the coming death, but at how meaningless it all was.
Her name, Ling Luo. A fallen soul. Her mother had given her this name, perhaps already knowing the fate of a Vu Y.
Shaman-Blood. The ancient bloodline of the Shaman-Healers. It sounded so noble. But to her, it was a curse. It gave her no power, no glory. It only gave her the ability to 'feel' things others could not. She could 'feel' the dryness of the earth, 'feel' the resentment of the dead fish spirits.
And she could 'feel' it. The dragon's lair out there held no 'wrath'.
There was only a loneliness. A cold, vast, and imprisoned loneliness.
Was the Dragon Deity real? Yes. She believed so.
But did he truly demand these young lives? Or was this just a lie, crafted by men, to blame a tragedy they could not explain?
Ten years ago, her mother had worn this same white robe. She, too, had calmly wiped this tablet. She had said only one thing to her: "Do not believe in the honor. Believe in the truth."
What was the truth? Her mother was sacrificed. But the drought that year had continued for another month, until the monsoon season returned on its own.
The murmuring outside suddenly ceased.
A heavy silence fell, more frightening than the wails. It gave way to a voice. A voice that was warm, resonant, and carried an authority that forced men to bow.
"The heavens turn, and this great drought is born of our own karmic debt, which has angered the Dragon Deity!"
Ling Luo's hand paused for a fraction of a second. The silk cloth dragged a long streak across the tablet.
She knew that voice.
"He does not demand life, He requires reverence! He needs to see that we dare to sacrifice!"
A tall, slender figure in a deep blue brocade robe, embroidered with clouds and waves, stepped onto the makeshift altar. It was the Great Shaman, Shadowless. He held a pure white horsetail whisk, and his jet-black hair was bound by a high jade pin. He looked upon them with compassion, a living Buddha gazing down at the suffering masses.
The villagers fell to their knees as one. They kowtowed, their mouths murmuring pleas. To them, Shadowless was their only hope. He was the court shaman, the only one who knew how to "commune" with the Dragon Deity.
"The Bride's self-offering is the highest honor! It is the most reverent act, to cleanse our debts and beg for rain for all people!"
He spoke, his voice full of resounding grace.
"Everyone, be reverent! Bless our Bride! She will be transformed, an immortal attendant, to serve by the Dragon Deity's side!"
Honor.
Ling Luo set the memorial tablet down. She rose to her feet.
Ten years ago, he had said the exact same words. The same tone of bestowing grace. The same false, compassionate eyes. He had presided over her mother's sacrifice.
Understanding struck Ling Luo. She was not afraid to die. She was afraid of dying while this lie remained unbroken.
Boom... Boom... Boom...
The ox-hide drums began to sound. The rhythm was deep, somber, like the call of death. The long, mournful wail of horns followed.
The sun began to set.
It hung like a bleeding wound, dripping red onto the horizon, staining the dry riverbed a ghastly crimson. The sight was beautiful, and terrifying.
Hundreds of torches were lit. The flames flickered, illuminating the hollow faces, the fanatical eyes, the gnarled hands clasped in prayer.
The bamboo-leaf door of the shrine was pulled open by two young attendants.
Ling Luo stepped out.
The white robe made her stark against the sea of brown-clad people and red-tinged fire. She was barefoot. The cracked earth was still hot, but she did not falter.
All sound seemed to recede.
She walked past them. She saw it all. The fearful, downcast eyes of the children. The stolen glances of relief from families whose daughters were her age. The indifferent stares of those already broken by despair, for whom one more life meant nothing.
And the eyes of the Great Shaman, Shadowless.
He stood on the altar, watching her, and nodded slightly. A benign, gracious nod. His compassionate gaze was perfectly still.
Ling Luo did not return the gesture. She did not bow.
Her eyes remained fixed straight ahead.
A small, simple canoe waited at the edge of the mud. It was adorned with white flowers, a-the only wild blossoms that survived by a dried-up spring. It looked more like a coffin than a bridal boat.
She stepped into it. The hull rocked.
Two muscular men, their faces painted with red streaks, began to push the boat.
It moved slowly. There was no paddling. They used long poles, pushing it across the thick mud, inching it closer to the dragon's lair.
The chant of Shadowless began to rise, high and piercing, drowning out the drums.
"Oh, Dragon Deity of the Cai River... Accept this offering... Grant us the rain..."
The villagers began to kowtow like hammers, their cries and pleas rising into a wail.
The boat reached the middle of the riverbed. It stopped, hovering directly over the black whirlpool.
Ling Luo looked down.
The vortex was like the eye of the abyss. She could 'feel' that cold, lonely egress, waiting just below. It was waiting.
According to custom, at the proper hour, Shadowless would use a long bamboo pole, capped with bronze, to flip the boat. A quick death. A perfect sacrifice.
The chanting of Shadowless suddenly grew frantic. He was preparing to end the ritual.
But before he could act.
As hundreds of eyes watched in stunned silence, as the drums beat their frantic rhythm, Ling Luo stood up on her own.
She stood in the fragile canoe, her small figure silhouetted against the blood-red sky.
A river wind suddenly gusted. Her white robes billowed. Her long, unbound black hair whipped across her face, parting one moment to reveal features that were terrifying in their stillness.
She glanced at the crowd on the shore. She looked at the Great Shaman, Shadowless.
Ling Luo saw, for a fleeting instant, surprise flicker in his compassionate eyes.
She did not throw herself down like an obedient offering. She did not scream or beg.
She took a deep breath. She breathed in the stench of mud. The smoke of incense. The reek of lies.
Then she stepped over the side of the boat, her foot finding only air.
She stepped directly into the whirlpool.
The water was ice. A bone-searing cold that seized her body in an instant.
There was no struggle. She sank, fast.
The light of the torches, the sound of the chanting, the wails of the crowd—all of all of it receded, growing distant, and then winked out.
Absolute darkness and silence enveloped her.
Ache blossomed in her lungs, but strangely, they did not demand air. The suffocating death she had imagined never came.
Instead, the strange, lonely egress she had 'felt' before now wrapped around her. It was not warm, nor cold. It was just... empty. An emptiness that had existed for ten thousand years.
Ling Luo opened her eyes.
She was still sinking. But in the deep darkness of the riverbed, a faint, ethereal, pale blue light began to glow from far below.
It was a palace.
A vast, ruined palace, submerged in silence.