Shadows, Dreams, and a Thief Named Kun Hong

The wine had circled three times, the dishes five. We were just beginning to eat with true pleasure when Gongsun Yanshu returned. His face was pale, his robes in disarray, as though he had wrestled with a storm. He grabbed the jug, gulped deeply, then muttered between breaths:

“Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.”

Su Yue propped her chin on one hand, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What was so terrifying? Did Lady Mingzhu cause another scene?”

Yanshu sighed and explained.

A woman had presented incense. The fragrance was so rare that anyone who inhaled it would see their heart’s deepest longing. Lady Mingzhu had collapsed on her cushion, drifting into a dream. When she woke, eyes bloodshot and lips trembling, the first words out of her mouth were: Throw her off the fifth floor.

The poor woman wept and begged, others pleaded on her behalf. The spectacle grew uglier by the second. Yanshu had rushed to intervene, coaxing and cajoling until Lady Mingzhu’s fury dimmed.

His brow furrowed, resentment smoldering in his tone. “That woman has grown arrogant in Dongyi, pampered by Wushuo King’s lawless indulgence. She forgets she stands in Nanchuan now, not in her homeland.”

Su Yue muttered, “She’s courting disaster. Retribution will come.”

“I believe it’s already here,” Yanshu said darkly. “When I looked into her eyes, they were blood-red. She hasn’t slept for years, not days. Ordinary folk collapse after three sleepless nights. She looked as though she hasn’t closed her eyes in three years. Her rages, her whims—it’s all from sleepless torment.”

They continued gossiping, whispering secrets about the East. But my head throbbed, my chest tightened. I excused myself, pleading frailty. No one stopped me. Only Gongsun Bai insisted on escorting me out, going so far as to hail a carriage.

As he lifted the curtain for me, his eyes glinted under moonlight. “Take care on your journey, miss.”

I nodded, urging the driver to move on. But Bai leaned closer, his smile lingering. “Forgive me, but… don’t you feel familiar? As if we’ve met before?”

His gaze pierced too deep, too knowing. My pulse quickened. I barked a sharp order, and the horses leapt forward, wheels splashing through the mud.

That night, horror chased me into sleep.

I dreamed of wandering a lightless road, clutching a paper lantern whose skin shredded in the wind. Two ruffians loomed ahead. One bore Bai’s face, the other Yanshu’s.

In the dream they did not know me, though I knew them. I approached with relief, only to hear Bai’s voice drawl, “Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

“Not bad,” Yanshu said coolly. “Interested?”

“Maybe a little.”

The two closed in. I shouted, fought, claimed I was a man. Bai’s dream-self snorted, running a hand across my cheek. “What man looks like you?”

Yanshu chuckled, teeth gleaming. “If every man looked like this, women would vanish from shame.” Then he bent to help Bai tear at my clothes.

Despair clawed through me. I looked up to a starless sky, praying for escape. Cold air hit my skin—their jeers froze.

“Damn, he really is a man!” Bai recoiled, disgust twisting his face. They tossed me aside like garbage. Rage flared—I opened my mouth to curse their ancestors. But Bai lunged again, clutching my throat, weeping furiously.

“You liar! Pretending to be a woman, tricking my feelings—I’ll kill you!”

The pressure crushed me. I woke gasping, clutching my throat, certain it had snapped. Sweat drenched me. Relief came, fleeting.

Then I saw it.

A shadow at my window, tall, motionless, gazing at the moon.

“Who’s there?!” My voice cracked. My heart thundered. A thief? Likely. Aunt Zhang’s manor was rich enough to tempt them.

“I’ve a drawer of coins,” I called, forcing calm. “Take them. Spare my life.”

A low laugh answered. “Coins?”

Not here for money, then. My blood froze. If not coin, then what? My fingers groped beneath the blanket, seeking the bamboo scroll I had read before sleep. If he came for… other purposes, then I would fight to the death.

“I don’t want money.” His voice was cool, sharp as frost. Then a proud nose emerged from shadow.

A rope dropped from the rafters. It looped my throat, wound my wrists, bound me tight. Five-flower knots, expertly tied. I sighed bitterly. Tonight was cursed.

At last his face came into view. No crude bandit—he was striking, refined, almost delicate. A pity, then, that such a face belonged to a thief.

He prowled the chamber, eyes restless, until they landed on my purple-gold incense burner. Leaning close, he sniffed.

“Not here.”

“What isn’t?”

“The fragrance you offered at Bai Xiang Pavilion. It was rare. I liked it. Give it to me, and you live.”

So it was for the Fanghua Incense. My greatest mistake—showing it in public. I cursed myself. That incense was my key to the Bosuo Art. Without it, I was crippled.

“It’s… important to me,” I stammered. “Surely you desire something else? I can part with anything but that.”

Steel flashed. He toyed with a dagger, light glinting off the blade.

I swallowed. “Fine! Take it. But at least tell me—why do you want it?”

His gaze grew distant, clouded by memory. “It feels… familiar. As if it will help me recall something lost.”

“…That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

Excitement surged. I squirmed against the ropes. “Then I can help! Truly, I can. It’s my gift—to guide others into memory. Free me, and I’ll show you!”

“As if you’d dare charge me.”

“…Fair.”

So he stayed, lounging at my table, sipping my tea, crunching my seeds, while I remained tied like a fool.

He rolled a grape between his fingers, eyes never leaving it. “You say you can see into another’s memories?”

“In theory, yes—”

“There are only two arts that can. Bosuo, and Futu. Both fox-spells, recorded only in ancient texts. You’re no fox-spirit. How do you know them?”

I stiffened. He knew too much. Still, I answered. “My master taught me. His name is Tu Xin. Perhaps you’ve heard of him.” I painted Tu Xin’s glory in bold strokes, yet the man’s face remained doubtful.

“Tu Xin… such a sorcerer exists, yet I’ve never heard the name.”

“That’s your ignorance.”

His eyes cut to mine. I flinched. A smirk tugged at his lips. “Boasts won’t hide your secrets. But tell me—do you know who I am?”

I shook my head.

“My surname is Kun.” He paused, eyes narrowing. “My father is Kun Buyu. We are of Beiji.”

I blinked. “And…?”

He faltered, incredulous. “You mean you don’t follow the affairs of kingdoms?”

“Why would I?”

His face reddened with anger. “Kun Buyu is my father! I am Kun Hong, High Priest of Beiji!”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Relief softened my tone. “Now that I’ve heard of.”

For even I, half-outcast, had heard whispers of Beiji’s High Priest.