Lu Qixian

The scent of spilt wine and blood clung to the emperor’s fading consciousness. His vision blurred as he struggled for breath, the words of his most trusted advisors ringing in his ears—promises of aid, assurances that all would be well. But the cool trickle of poison burned through his veins, the sweetness of the wine now bitter with betrayal. His hand pressed against his throat, a fleeting thought slipping through his mind: Were they always this kind? The last thing he remembered was the concerned look in their eyes as they urged him to drink. Then… darkness. Or so he thought. When his eyes fluttered open, he was no longer in the palace, nor in the realm of the living. He lay on soft moss, surrounded by the thick scent of rain and ancient trees. A mist clung to the air like a forgotten dream. A serene pond lay still before him, its surface reflecting the faint glow of sunlight breaking through the dense canopy above. Water meandered through scattered stones, a path of large, smooth pebbles leading to a small island at the centre. And there—untouched by time and the cruelties of his world—sat a lone figure beneath a towering tree. The god. Their robes shimmered like the mist itself, flowing and shifting, never quite still. A flute rested against their lips, and the haunting melody they played seemed to echo through the very fabric of the air. They did not glance in his direction. They made no move to acknowledge his presence. The emperor’s body trembled as he sat up. The pain of his death still clung to him, but the weight of it seemed distant, far away. Was he dead? Or was this simply another dream? A rasping breath broke the silence. “…Where am I?” The god’s fingers brushed the flute, the notes continuing without pause. No answer came, as though the emperor’s question had never reached them. As though he was just another lost soul drifting into a world that was never meant for him.