"Before, there was darkness, an emptiness so vast and terrifying, it cracked the first egg where the first High Immortal sprang forth. Pangu drew his mighty axe and cleaved the rest of the egg into pieces, and from it, came the world."
The World—The Immortalist Lores
CHAPTER ONE
The day I returned to the Jade City, I saw a boy die.
The air stank of sweat and cheap wine as people converged into the square. Caught in the middle of the crowd, I had to stand on tiptoes to see him crouched on the execution platform.
Under the scorching coin of a sun, the heavy metal band around his neck faintly glinted.
My own neck burned. It had been five years since I had escaped slavery, but the coldness of a metal collar still choked. Phantom, but I shivered nonetheless.
The child was a tiny thing. His skin clung to his bones like barnacles on a rock, and his wrists were so slim, he could slide out of the metal shackles if his arms fell to the sides. Those were made for grown men, not children.
"That boy tried to poison the crown prince," one woman whispered.
"No, no." A man shook his head. "The Imperials caught him tryin' to escape the palace. Pity, he's so young."
The whispers rose and coalesced. To my side, mothers clutched their children close, young men and women clad in silks stood a short distance from the filthy poverty of the crowd. Most of the people present were silent, calloused hands clasped together in prayer.
The child didn't even bother to lift his head. He kept his eyes downcast, and he sat in the cage, as still as a statue.
As if he had accepted his fate.
Look at me.
I knew he couldn't see me, couldn't see my hope and compassion through the veil covering my face. I hoped he felt, somehow, that he was not alone.
"Sarna." Biyu tugged my hand, impatient. "We have a performance in less than half an hour. Do you want Mr. Long to dock our wages again?"
"You don't have to stay," I said, not tearing my eyes away from the execution platform.
I didn't need his reminder. I knew the consequences of turning up late for performances. Yet I was unable to turn away from the boy who was about to lose his head. In this wretched world of Imperials and slaves, we were all we had. I would rather lose my wages than let this boy die alone.
Because, I had escaped. He failed.
Biyu sighed but stayed.
The executioner stepped toward the cage. Garbed in a loose black robe with a cowl, the sight of him sent hot bile roiling in my stomach. He reminded me of Mama Ruga. I knew the disgusting owner of the Pavilion was far away, but I was instantly thrown back in the heavily perfumed rooms of the brothel. I flinched as the memory of a whip lashed across my legs.
I sank my nails into my palms. The pain banished Mama Ruga from my head, but the sickly scent of jasmine still lingered around me like a hungry ghost. Sweet, but ghastly.
As the crowd continued to whisper in both anticipation and fear, the executioner threw the cage door open, grabbed him by the steel collar, and tossed him out of the cage. The boy didn't resist. Arms flopping, head lolling, eyes still staring blankly ahead, he hit the wooden planks with a hard thunk. He allowed himself to be dragged toward the execution block, stained black with so many layers of dried blood. The executioner yanked his hair back, jerking his head up for all to see.
The magistrate stepped up, stared at the boy once, scoffed, and hoisted up the hem of his robe which the afternoon wind tossed toward the execution block. As if being close to an imprisoned slave would soil his silk and tarnish his skin.
"This slave has attempted to escape," the magistrate boomed. "The penalty for treason is death."
Lines of hardship made his young face old, and the circles under his eyes were dark against the sunlight burning his face. But, there was a smile on his tired face. A smile of resignation, one where hope had fled, the fight had bled out. All was left was a shell.
The executioner unlocked the collar, dropped it to the ground, and pressed the boy's head onto the stone block.
The urge to rush up the platform and throw my arms around the little boy scratched and howled inside of me, trying to tear its way out. But I couldn't. If I dashed up to the platform, my head would join his on the pikes, empty eyes staring at the skies.
The executioner picked up his axe from the ground. The blade glinted under the afternoon sun—so sharp, it cleaved the light into two.
The boy turned, took one look at the axe, and laughed. His laughter echoed throughout the square; a cold, hollow laugh devoid of the enthusiasm a child should have.
The executioner shared a look with the magistrate, clearly not expecting such a reaction from a person whose head would be separated from his shoulders in the next few minutes.
The magistrate shook his head, dismissing the laugh. He saluted the heavens and bowed deeply toward the banners heralding the crest of the Imperials, draping both sides of the platform—twin gold dragons reaching for a burning pearl in the green sky.
"May the death of this treasonous slave be a lesson to all of you. Long live the Emperor, long live the Imperials, and hail Erden."
The people chorused after him, repeating his words.
The executioner lifted his axe and swung it down in one clean blow.
I forced my eyes to remain open as the head dropped from the boy's shoulders like a rock and rolled into the basket at the bottom of the block. If killing was an art, then the Imperials were the greatest creatives.
"Hail the Emperor," I said softly. The words were bitter on my tongue. "Long may he reign."
#
Biyu threaded his fingers through mine and led me out of the crowd, but the boy's cold laugh still rang in my ears.
I stopped in my tracks and glanced at the execution platform. The executioner had retrieved the boy's bloody head and impaled it upon one of the pikes fencing the platform. His blank eyes were still staring at her, mouth frozen in laughter, but the lines of hardship finally relaxed to show relief.
The Imperials take care of us, Mama Ruga had crooned. They keep the savages out of Erden and stop them from taking our food and people.
But I knew, the only savages in Erden were the Imperials. No good ruler would enslave their own people. They preached peace and justice, but they wrenched children from their parents, set villages on fire, killed the elderly. They tossed men into gold mines and women into brothels, all in the name of building a stronger empire.
So much for peace and justice. I spat and shot one last glance at the execution platform.
Something white moved. I squinted, unsure if it was a refraction of sunlight or the sly glint of the many chains.
Biyu elbowed me. "What are you staring at?"
I narrowed my eyes. Underneath the many fly-infested and blackened heads prowled a cat with majestic white fur. In this part of the city where dogs starved for scraps, the sight of a clean, well-groomed, collar-less cat stood out like a sore thumb. It walked around the pikes, sniffing with its pink nose, and strutting its way through the drying pools of blood.
"A cat," I said. "I'm sure you've seen one before."
He shrugged. "Maybe it's lost."
"Maybe." I walked toward the platform and ducked through the fence.
"Sarna!" Biyu shouted. "What are you doing?"
The stench of rotting flesh was overpowering. Holding a sleeve against my nose, I stooped and held out my free hand toward the cat.
"Kitty," I said. "Are you lost?"
Biyu hurried after me, visibly uncomfortable being near severed heads. "Just leave it alone."
The cat glanced at me out of its one blue eye and meowed. From afar, it looked beautiful. But upon closer inspection, I noticed the left half of its face was disfigured, as though burned by fire.
Just like mine.
"First the execution, and now a cat," said Biyu. "We need to get back to the Theater. Mr. Long is going to skin us alive."
I lifted the cat off the ground and held it with both arms. Perhaps this was why it wandered the streets: it probably got involved in a fight and lost one eye. Then, its former owner cast it out in disdain, for who would love a disfigured creature?
I ran my hand down the cat's soft back. My brother had always wanted one, but Papa wouldn't let him, claiming it would eat all his ducks and chickens. No matter how hard Zhenjin had pleaded, Papa was firm in his answer. No meant no, and not even sweet-tempered Mama could change his mind.
"All right." I made up my mind. "We can leave now."
Biyu rolled his eyes. "You better keep him away from Mr. Long. You know how allergic he is to fur."
"I'm not going to rub the cat in his face. Don't worry."
The cat did not resist as I took him away from the execution platform and toward the inn.
"Seeing you're insistent on keeping that cat, what are you going to name him?" Biyu asked. "I am leaning toward Bai, or Yiyan, seeing that it has only one eye."
"Those are ghastly names."
"Sarna! Biyu!" Mila appeared at the foot of the staircase. "Where have you two been? Mr. Long is worried sick!"
"They executed a slave today," I said quietly.
Mila's face softened. "Another one? It's no surprise around here anymore, is it?"
She strode down and gave me a squeeze on the shoulder. "Regardless, you two need to get prepared immediately."
Mila was right. Mr. Long would throw a fit should we miss the opening act. I patted the cat's head as he stared at me with one doleful eye and meowed.
"I'm going to name you Pooj."
Zhenjin would have approved of the name. Pooj was the faithful companion of the High Immortal Yanxun, who was sentenced to a lifetime of solitude guarding the lotus ponds of the Nine Heavens as punishment for stealing the Jade Emperor's seal.
I handed Pooj to Mila. "Take care of him for me until I get back, please?"
At first, Pooj hissed at the change of hands, but Mila was good with animals. A few soft whispers and pats later, Pooj snuggled contentedly in her arms. Before Mila came to Zichuan Theater, she handled circus animals, but an episode between her and the ringmaster's son caused an uproar, and she was cast out into the cold until Mr. Long picked her up.
Mila looked thoughtful. "I never took you as a cat person, Sarna."
"Well, I am now." I dug into my pockets and gave Mila a copper Credit before I walked up the stairs. "Get him some milk for me."
"For our little Facechanger." Mila winked and walked off with a purring Pooj.
Biyu followed me into the room we both shared. "I still don't understand why you would want to bring back a cat, though. We move around so much."
Choosing not to answer, I sat in front of the dresser and removed my veil.
I sucked in a breath as the cool air hit my face. It had been five years, but every time I peeled the muslin cloth back, those memories were there, sneering at me like Taotie, the ugly monster of gluttony. The laugh of my dissatisfied client—a hateful laugh, laced with sadistic joy—filled my mind, followed by intense pain on my face, burning and burning until there was nothing left but humiliation and agony.
I gave my head a little shake, then pulled out my cosmetics. The preparation process of becoming a Facechanger helped me drown out the past and image of a head rolling off the execution block. It was like putting on a new identity. I could be anyone—a High Immortal, a High Demon, a peasant, even the Jade Emperor of the Nine Heavens.
I started painting my face. The heavy white paint covered the uneven scars and lumps until it was as smooth as the bronze mirror in front of me. My lips a vibrant shade of red, my eyelids dusted blue. Brushing on a bit of blush, I slipped into my costume of silk and metal wires. Then, I re-adjusted my wig and braided it. Mr. Long had it made especially for me from horse hair, but it was itchy on my shaved head. A red-plumed headdress covered most of the wig, but the braid was still visible.
Finally, I picked up the four ornate metal flags leaning against my dresser and slid them into the sheaths on my back. The flags weighed a ton. Even after years of practice, standing up required Biyu's help, or I had to latch onto furniture for extra momentum.
"Is everything in place?" He was sitting on the bed, fully-dressed in his costume and waiting for me.
I checked the wooden contraption on my belt hidden beneath my cloak, then I attached the many layers of painted masks onto my face.
This was what I was trained for—Facechanging.
"Yes," I said. "Let's go."
An enormous tent was erected outside the inn with a makeshift stage mounted underneath. Members of Zichuan Theater bustled around, shouting orders and carrying props. Shao, one of our Opera singers, was warming up by singing several chords. Yuxian, the drummer, was busy polishing his drums. Lin and Fang, our most skilled Devil Wheel performers, sat on a long stool and knotted their batons. Life went on as usual here, even after the horror the city had witnessed.
Mr. Long sat next to the stage in his wheelchair, a worried frown upon his weathered face. He glanced around the tent, took in several deep drags of his pipe, and sighed.
Biyu gave him a hearty wave and a huge cheery smile.
The owner of Zichuan Theater puffed a smoke ring in our direction as we neared. "I can't believe after all we've been through, you two still cannot understand the importance of punctuality. How much do I have to cut from your wages before you will get the message?"
"Sorry," I said. "It won't happen again."
Mr. Long raised a warning finger. He hated it when we talked back, but there was a smile in his gray eyes.
I knew the owner of Zichuan Theater loved Biyu and me, but at the same time, he viewed us as assets; young performers who could bring him fame and riches. Because of that, he used wages to hold on to us for as long as he could. He knew when Biyu and I accumulated the money needed to buy a Visa, we would leave Erden as free people. But by giving us a job, he was putting his life in danger. If the Imperials ever caught him housing fugitives, he would lose his head.
"Enough," Mr. Long said. "Get on the stage. Everyone is waiting."
A crowd had gathered at the makeshift stage, all chattering excitedly. The atmosphere teemed with anticipation and enthusiasm. Biyu and I stepped into the spotlight, and they erupted into applause.
The dance of the Facechangers was intricate—told in forty-nine chapters in separate texts, intertwining an author's imagination and the lores of the High Immortals. Every chapter demanded a difference dance and a different tone. I bowed my head and swished my cloak, hiding my right hand which held the contraption. When the trigger was released, the translucent elastic lines holding each individual mask pulled them down my collar at lightning speed. No human eye could catch the split second in which the painted mask disappeared and revealed the next.
Biyu made a purposeful step toward my direction. Unlike the dark colors of my outfit, his was sky blue with white plumes, black metal wiring on his breastplate, mask shades the color of spring. His represented the High Immortals, while mine represented the High Demons, locked in an eternal battle with each other.
He darted forward, swinging his wooden sword. I pushed the trigger again. My mask switched to a snarling red face with black stripes—the High Demon Bazhe. Bringing back my elbows, I knocked Biyu on the chest. It was a rehearsed blow, but given the events of the morning, I hit him a bit harder than I'd intended. The force of my blow caught him off guard, and he stumbled. The sword lifted from my throat as he grasped the pillar to regain his balance.
The sheen of a grimace shone in his eyes, visible in the holes of the masks.
I walked across the edge of the stage, the tips of my pointed shoes grazing the soft, red carpet. I bared my fierce mask to the crowd and raised both of my hands in the air. Biyu called it the "evil laughter" act, which was a must when it came to portraying villains.
Drums sounded. The thunderous roar of batons on taut animal hides reverberated through the air, ran down my spine. I unsheathed my other sword and faced him. Biyu had snapped into another mask: High Immortal Nezha.
We circled each other, like two hungry wolves locked in a battle for territory. Biyu attacked first. I blocked his blows while delivering my own.
The shiver as our swords collided rattled my arms. It was like how we practiced. If I closed my eyes, I could picture myself standing in the chalk circle with him, both of us holding wooden swords, eyes intent upon each other.
There was not much shelter from the merciless summer burn. The heat simply diffused through everything—underneath the cloak, the many layers of silk robes, the metal frame interlacing the entire shoulder pad, and the jeweled hat. The smell of perspiration, perfume, and sawdust from the tent was overpowering, but no theater was complete without those.
You are the High Demons, Sarna. Feel their passion, their hunger, their conniving thoughts. They are you and you are them.
The crowd's cheers rose into a frenzy as our dance grew more energetic, powerful, deadly.
The battle between the High Demons and the High Immortals lasted for a century. When horns from both sides sounded, the skies quaked, and a hole opened when one of the four pillars holding up the Nine Heavens crumbled. The High Immortals almost lost, but one of the Sky Marshals, Wangshan, blinded the king of the High Demons and sealed him within a rock, so he would never escape and harm the humans ever again.
Blue mask changed to red. Biyu rammed the tip of his sword into my chest.
The blunt end of the wooden sword bounced off my metal plate, but it still smarted. I fell, just how Mr. Long taught me—a controlled fall on my hips to prevent myself from breaking a wrist should I have thrown it out, and I rolled to my side to face the audience.
Together, Biyu and I flicked off our last masks, revealing our real painted faces.
The crowd cheered and showered us with flowers. Aida, one of the theater helpers, held out a wicker basket to the audience, who in turn, filled it with bronze and silver Credits.
"You all right?" Biyu offered me his hand.
"I'm allright." I grasped his hand and pushed myself off the ground as he pulled me up. I needed that extra momentum to move about in the costume. "Sorry about earlier."
"It's alright. You didn't break anything." Biyu's brown eyes swept across the roaring crowd. "Yet," he added.
I scoffed, surveying the crowd beside him. From the clapping adults to children throwing red confetti into the air, I knew running away from the Pavilion was the right choice. This—the hot sun simmer on my skin, the smell of sawdust and sweat, the sight of smoke rising from the crackers children had thrown into the streets—was what made me happy, and what made me safe.
No one would suspect the performers of a renowned theater to be fugitives. Not even the Imperials.
Sure, Mama Ruga would have searched high and low for both Biyu and me. She could have sent out scouts to comb through the deepest alleys and the vilest slums, but never would she think of a famous theater. It was the last place anyone would expect to find runaway slaves.
A sudden slow clapping cut through the silence. All heads turned toward the man who slowly made his way toward the stage. I squinted, the glare of the sun marring my ability to see anything at a long distance.
Gray robes, a red folded collar, and a high-ranking officer's hat too large for his small head.
Biyu and I shared a glance. The Imperial Eunuch, who sent us a dove requesting that we perform for the crown prince's twenty-first nameday.
The Jade City was the last place I wanted to return to, but no matter how much I protested, Mr. Long couldn't reject an Imperial invitation. It was a huge risk: the Imperials might see through our masks and heavy facepaint, that we were runaway slaves in hiding. At best, they would grant us a quick death. Worse, I would be thrown back into the Pavilion.
Mama Ruga's shrill laughter brought a chill up my spine.
Three gold Credits as the starting price for her maidenhead! Step up now, gentlemen. Let me hear your bids!
Cold sweat broke across my forehead, gathering in my palms. Red exploded before my eyes, covering every inch of the city, as if the sky had started raining blood. My teeth chattered. The red spiraled violently downwards, taking me down with it, but a warm hand closed around mine, a thumb drawing circles in my damp palm.
I'm here, the sensation seemed to suggest. Don't be afraid.
The tightness on my chest loosened by the slightest bit, and I could breathe. I squeezed Biyu's hand back.
Thank you.
The eunuch stopped at the bottom of the stage, tiny eyes swiping from Biyu to me, and finally to Mr. Long who had wheeled himself out of the tent. The eunuch was a short man. If he stood up against me, he would barely reach my chest, and I wasn't a very tall person. Biyu, on the other hand, dwarfed him even where he stood. A large jade pendant hung from his tight belt where a golden SeaDragon was embossed on the surface, announcing his affiliated court. I had seen the twin pheonixes of the Emperor, the crane of the crown prince, but never a SeaDragon. I wondered which court he pledged his loyalty to.
"Very impressive performance," the eunuch said. "One of the best Facechanging acts I have seen in a long time. Believe me, I've served the empire for almost my entire life, and I've seen many theater performances."
"That's very kind of you." Mr. Long's voice was sharp. "I do hope you found our performance to be on par with the Imperials' standards."
"Indeed," the eunuch said in an oily voice. "In fact, I look forward to seeing all of you again, three days from now. I knew Zichuan Theater would be the perfect choice for the crown prince's birthday. We don't want to displease the crown prince on his nameday now, do we?"
Mr. Long's face was emotionless, as though wiped away by a piece of cloth.
I, on the other hand, tightened my grip on my sword. Years of experience burned within the eunuch's eyes. His confidence was unchallenged, his status higher than most of the officers working in the Jade Palace. He may be short, but his authority loomed behind him like a giant's shadow.
The eunuch brushed his sleeves and walked off. Once he left, the crowd dispersed. There was supposed to be another performance later by the opera singers, but the merry mood had been dampened by the presence of someone from the Jade Palace.
"Well, wasn't that rejuvenating." Biyu removed the flags from his back and lopped over to Mr. Long's side. "Once again we are reminded how big an honor it is to perform for the Imperials."
"Indeed." Mr. Long sighed. "You two run along now. We'll go over our performance schedule after dinner."
The owner of Zichuan Theater then pulled out a small pouch of coins from his pocket and handed it to me.
"Your wages for today's performance. Split it evenly. There will be a feast tonight at the inn. Don't be late." He gave us a knowing look.
"We won't," Biyu and I said in unison.
The moment Mr. Long left, Biyu pounced on me and made a grab at the pouch.
"Give me that!"
"No. It's mine."
"He said split it evenly.
"You and I know your calculations are terrible."
I shoved him off and lunged forward at the stage stairs. Biyu may be taller and stronger, but I was faster, even in our costumes. I beat him to the inn with a silly grin on my face.
He reminded me painfully of Zhenjin. Although Zhenjin was all muscle and Biyu could pass as a stick, both shared the same playful personality. When I was a child, Zhenjin would chase me all over the paddy fields, then pretend he lost me among the tall golden stalks. I held my breath when he announced he was going home alone and would leave me at the mercy of the paddy monsters. That brought me running out of my hiding spot, crying and screaming as I dashed into his arms.
Trees so tall.
Leaves so brown.
Mama's here to rock you to sleep.
Leaves so soft.
Sky so blue.
Papa's here to sing you a song.
Zhenjin wasn't much of an artist, but he could sing. When Mama and Papa were too tired from an entire day of work, he would tuck me into bed and sing me the song mama used to sing to him.
I missed my brother so much. Papa and Mama toiled in the fields all day, so they had little time for me. Zhenjin, on the other hand, taught me the Erdenese letters, how to catch carps from the river, and to write my own name.
After his death, I'd thought I was alone, but Biyu gave me back a piece of that joy I thought I'd lost forever.
"Not. Fair." Biyu grabbed the door frame, trying to catch his breath. "Short people run faster."
"Hmm, and I thought height equaled speed?"
"You're mean."
"I'm not mean." I smiled. "I'm just not very nice."
"Whatever you say." He waved me down. "I know I can't beat you so I'm going to change."
I entered the room and sat in front of the dresser. Pulling out my rounded bronze mirror from the drawer, I sproceeded to remove the heavy layers of makeup. I felt a twinge of pity as I watched the makeup smudge and then fade into the wet cloth. I loved the embellished look of the Facechangers.
But what I loved more was how I could slip into the identities of any High Immortal. I could wear a thousand faces, and all of them were beautiful and powerful, unlike my ruined one. What wouldn't I give to possess the face of a High Immortal. I wouldn't have to fear anyone ever again.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Once, I had thick and glossy hair which fell to my waist. Mama Ruga told me it was my greatest asset—men loved girls with tiny waists and long hair. After escaping the Pavilion, I shaved my head bloody. No one could grab me by the hair ever again. Now, it was still sheared close to the scalp, hidden beneath my wig, never to dance to the wind or to shine underneath the sun.
I blinked the image of the people who had hurt me from my vision.
They can't hurt you. You're safe.
I put away the bronze mirror, pinned the veil over my face, and exited the room.
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A/N
Welcome to the rewritten and edited version of ATBM, where death lingers in the air and Imperials reign. If you liked this chapter, remember to drop a comment and hit the little star!
Meat buns,
Stef
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This story is inspired by Beijing/SiChuan Opera and Bian Lian. For those who have no idea what Bian Lian is, I've included a pin of a Bian Lian artist and a Peking Opera singer below.
Bian Lian
Peking Opera singer