The boy gazed at the thousand-step staircase wreathed in incense smoke and once again knocked his already red …
The boy gazed at the thousand-step staircase wreathed in incense smoke and once again knocked his already red and swollen forehead heavily against the ground.
A great plague had struck his homeland; no medicine could cure it. He had trekked a hundred miles alone just to reach the most popular Daoist temple, to beg for something—anything—for his parents and elders.
Talisman water, elixirs, spell scrolls... anything that could save people would do.
Moving on long-numbed legs, gritting his teeth, he bowed with every step. His tears had dried, his blood had scabbed. But he couldn't stop. He knew that at the end of the long staircase lay the hope that could save his hometown, even if that hope was one in a million.
Step by step, the sun sank in the west. Hallucinations appeared before his eyes; the ringing in his ears stabbed through his mind like a sharp blade, stirring up agony. Finally, the boy collapsed powerlessly before the mountain gate. Before his eyes, only a wisp of clear light remained.
A young Ice Wheel Palace acolyte, yawning, emerged from the gate and found the unconscious boy who had come seeking medicine.
When the boy awoke, he was lying in a plain, clean room.
He received a new name and learned the ending he hadn't dared to contemplate—the plague had been faster than the boy's legs. His homeland was no more, its people gone.
That day, the Ice Wheel Palace's bell tolled with unusual heaviness. The boy's hoarse wails were like the cry of a blood-weeping crow in the cold.