In the narrow, soot-stained alleys of the capital's Northern District, the air held the scent of wet coal and old desperation. Xiao Chen sat within a room no larger than a palanquin, the walls lined with scrolls he had transcribed for a pittance. The winter wind hissed through the cracks in the timber, biting at his fingers, which remained stiff and stained with the black blood of his trade. He gripped his brush with a tremulous hand, his stomach a hollow pit that had long since forgotten the weight of a full meal.
"Brother?"
The voice belonged to Xiao Ling, a girl whose beauty was fading like a flower deprived of sun. She stood in the doorway, clutching a threadbare shawl. Her face bore the waxen pallor of the starving. "The debt-collector from the Merchant's Guild... he stood at our door while you walked to the market. He says the interest must be paid by tomorrow's light, or he will drag me to the Southern Pleasure Houses to settle the account."
The brush in Xiao Chen's hand snapped. A jagged black smear ruined the parchment before him—a month of labor unmade in a heartbeat. He did not look up; the shame of his failure as a brother felt heavier than the mountain peaks he had only read about in poetry.
"I shall find the coin, Ling'er," he whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Go back to your bed. I will speak to the Headmaster once more."
The lie hung heavy in the damp air. The Headmaster had already barred the doors against him. To the world of the high-born, Xiao Chen was merely the son of a disgraced merchant, a brilliant mind discarded in the mud of the streets.
A sudden vibration shook the floorboards. The rhythmic thud of heavy hooves echoed against the alley walls—powerful, grain-fed warhorses that did not belong in this district of ghosts. Xiao Chen stood, pulling his sister into the shadows as the front door was splintered by a single, violent kick.
Four men entered the cramped space. They wore uniforms of deep charcoal silk, the crest of a weeping dragon embroidered in silver upon their chests. At the center stood an official in high-collared lavender robes, his eyes holding the terrifying indifference of the nobility.
"Xiao Chen, son of the merchant Xiao Feng?" the official asked. His voice was cold, possessing the edge of a ritual blade.
"I am," Xiao Chen replied. He stood with the brittle dignity of a man who possessed nothing but his name. "If this is about the debt, I beg—"
The official raised a hand, silencing him. At his gesture, a guard dropped an iron-bound chest onto the floor. The lid was thrown back, and the dim room was suddenly flooded with a light that made Xiao Ling gasp.
Gold. Not thin coins, but solid, rectangular ingots stamped with the seal of the Imperial Mint. It was a king's fortune, piled high enough to buy the entire street and everyone within it.
"Ten thousand gold taels," the official declared. "And a decree from the Li Clan of Kunlun. Your father's name shall be restored to the Imperial Register. Your sister shall be granted a dowry and the title of Lady."
Xiao Chen stared at the shimmering hoard, his mind reeling. The Li Clan was a name whispered in shadows—the "Hollow Peak" that hid a three-hundred-year-old secret. "Why? I am a nobody. I have nothing you could desire."
The official stepped closer, scanning Xiao Chen's frame with a clinical, disturbing gaze. "You were born on the third hour of the third day. You have the 'Pure Yang' alignment required for a ritual of balance at our ancestral manor. We need a man of learning to sit within the Abyss and maintain the spiritual anchors. You will be a guest of the First Prince."
Xiao Chen looked at the gold, then at his sister's hollow cheeks. He was a scholar of texts; he knew "Pure Yang" only as a term from ancient alchemy. He believed they sought his mind—perhaps to decipher old seals or chant the sutras that held the mountain's spirit in place. He did not know the term referred to the physical essence of his blood and marrow.
"I must go with you?" Xiao Chen asked, his voice barely a breath.
"Tonight. You will leave with nothing. Not even a brush," the official replied. "The Prince is a man of vast appetites. Do not keep him waiting."
Xiao Chen looked at Ling'er. He saw the hope igniting in her eyes—the chance that she might live to see another spring. He did not know of the Beast. He did not know that the "anchoring" involved being shattered upon a bed of obsidian stone. He thought he was being hired as a high-level secretary or a priest for a cursed royalty.
"I accept," Xiao Chen said.
The gold was louder than his fear. He was ushered into a carriage lined with black velvet, the wheels beginning to turn before he could even whisper a farewell. He was a human, a scholar, a brother. He believed he was moving toward a life of prestige. He had no inkling that he was being delivered as a living meal to a monster that had been starving in the dark for three centuries.