The Burden of the Chosen

I crept in on tiptoe, only to find the room utterly silent.

At the doorway stood an old man, hair white as frost. Moonlight from the window poured in, casting its glow over him: a long golden robe, hair bound beneath a coronet, twin strands of beard falling to his chest. In his left hand, he held a peachwood staff, its handle carved into the head of a serpent. The serpent’s jaws gaped open, and within its mouth perched a single blue phantom moth.

At once, I recognized him—Yang Zhong, the same figure I had seen before in the memory-dream.

The moment he noticed our entrance, his body tensed. He lifted his hand ever so slightly, and above my head I heard rubble shift across the tiles. Clearly, men were hidden all around. Fearing battle might break out, I quickly said:

“Since you are here, I am relieved. Please—take this man back with you.”

I pointed at Kun Hong.

Yang Zhong froze. I continued, “I know you came from the Northern Ji Kingdom. I know, too, that you are illusionists. To tell you the truth—I am one as well. Not long ago, this man forced me into his memories, and I glimpsed his past. Within it, I also saw you, Yang Zhong… Steward Yang.”

I gave him a quick recounting of what had happened these last few days. By the end, it was Yang Zhong who looked ashamed. Bowing with deep apology, he said, “I have troubled the two of you. Since I am here, I shall take my lord away.”

He tapped the ground lightly with his staff. From above came the crisp sound of breaking tiles—the signal, no doubt, to the guards lying in wait.

But just then, Gongsun Bai raised his hand to block him. “You have not yet paid the price.”

My heart leapt. So it was true—this Gongsun Bai was born for business. He must have noticed what I noticed: the serpent-head of that staff. Though crude in craft, its eyes gleamed with gems of the highest quality—no ordinary trinket.

Yang Zhong’s voice sank low. “What agreement did my lord make with the young lady?”

Gongsun Bai drew something from his sleeve: a silver pendant. The very same pendant once given by Gongsun Yanshu to Wan Ling. “Do you recognize this, Master Yang?”

The moment Yang Zhong saw it, he staggered, then fell to his knees. “My lady—!” With trembling hands he received the pendant, tears flooding down his wrinkled cheeks. “This is my lady’s own possession. How… how could you have it?”

“The lady you speak of—is it Wan Ling?”

“Yes…” Yang Zhong’s eyes darted nervously toward the bed, full of fear and sorrow.

“Then it is as I thought.” Gongsun Bai let out a long breath. “I am Gongsun Bai. Wan Ling was once a cook at the Western Jin Prince’s manor. She made a vow of lifelong bond with my sworn brother. But when he found her, she was already dead.”

Yang Zhong let out a wail and collapsed in a faint. When we revived him, his face was gray, his tears endless. “My lady—my poor, doomed lady!”

Gongsun Bai simply watched in silence until Yang Zhong’s grief ebbed enough for him to speak again. “Tell me—what happened to Wan Ling? How did a girl of twenty become an old crone of seventy?”

Yang Zhong shuddered violently. Countless words trembled on his lips, but in the end, none escaped.

Bai pressed gently, “Master Yang, you need not fear. We are her friends. My brother was her lover—he would give his life for her. He only wishes to know who turned her into this, so that he may avenge her.”

Yang Zhong gave a bitter smile, his eyes drowning in sorrow. “My lady chose well in her heart. But revenge is needless. She was not destroyed by others—it was her own choice.”

He steadied himself, and began to tell us the hidden tale.

The Kun family carried many legends: the Twin-Born Lotus, the Cauldron of Asking Heaven, the Chosen One…

Twenty-one years ago, when Lady Wan Xuexin bore her children, fate decreed that two of those legends would manifest together. The Twin-Born Lotus… and the Heaven’s Chosen.

The first needed no more retelling. The second must be explained.

Illusion arts originated with the fox clans, with the fabled Nine-Tailed Fox itself. A spirit beast of legend, divine and rare. It was said that once every hundred years, the Kun family would birth one blessed by the Nine-Tails: a Heaven’s Chosen. A child favored by destiny, whose talent surpassed all others. What took ordinary men ten years to learn, they would master in one. Illusions of impossible difficulty became as effortless as breathing. Some said such a one could even lead the Kun clan to its greatest height.

At the birth of a Heaven’s Chosen, heaven and earth revealed omens. And so it was when Wan Ling and Kun Hong were born—white roosters crowed, eastern orioles sang, and thousands of phantom moths circled their chamber, shimmering in the aura of illusion.

Kun Buyu, their father, fell to his knees in gratitude, declaring the gods had granted them a Chosen One. Yet no one foresaw that fate’s blessing would come in twos—that the Twin-Born Lotus, the darkest curse, would entwine with the gift.

A lotus may bloom a single bud, strong and radiant. But if two grow upon the same stem, they war with one another, draining life until one withers, or both perish.

To protect the Chosen One, Kun Buyu would have to choose which child to sacrifice.

“All assumed, without question, that Kun Hong was Heaven’s Chosen, and Wan Ling but a useless twin. But I—” Yang Zhong’s voice shook. “I knew otherwise. The young lord was clever, yes, but all on the surface. The young lady… she was silent, reserved, hiding herself. But I have judged men all my life, and I could read it in her eyes. She was concealing her true nature. She—was the real Chosen One.”

At once, much was explained. In the visions I had witnessed, Wan Ling’s gifts had far outstripped Kun Hong’s. Her progress, her mastery—all were unmatched. Before, I thought it my misunderstanding. Now, with the title of Heaven’s Chosen, it became clear.

Yet in the manor, Wan Ling veiled her light, while Kun Hong displayed his cleverness. No one doubted him. Yang Zhong alone kept his suspicion unspoken.

And then the Kun family’s disaster struck.

Seven years later, Emperor Xue Ning rose to power. He restored the Kun clan’s honor, summoned Yang Zhong, the last loyal servant, and set him to rebuild the priestly house. He welcomed the new Grand Priest—Kun Hong.

But the one who came was Wan Ling.

She revealed everything to Yang Zhong: the soul-vessel, the curse, the Emperor’s wolfish ambitions. No game, but a deadly web of politics. Kun Hong’s pure heart would never survive—it would be ground to dust.

Kun Buyu’s words had been true: Wan Ling was the stepping stone, the ladder. Her life was the blade clearing his path, the blood paving his road.

So Wan Ling cast a spell of silence upon Kun Hong and imprisoned him in the dungeon of the priestly house, leaving Yang Zhong to “care” for him. Care, in truth, meant captivity.

In that darkness, Kun Hong raged and cursed, yet also trained, driven to surpass Wan Ling. He could not leave unless he bested her illusions. She forced him to grow—or perish.

Meanwhile, Wan Ling herself waged war. Within, she fended off Emperor Xue Ning’s schemes; without, she fought the tribes of Guokan and Chaoxi.

She won many battles, but not all. No general ever does. In Taixi Year 30, she led fifty thousand troops to war. For half a year the fighting raged, brutal and bitter. In Year 31, she returned triumphant, reclaiming lost lands, forcing the tribes into submission, and securing the borders with tribute.

Her glory soared higher than any Grand Priest before her, higher even than Kun Buyu. She was the Black Oriole, vengeance incarnate, feared by all.

And then came the reckoning within. One by one she hunted down every soul who had harmed the Kun clan. None escaped.

At last, Emperor Xue Ning, terrified upon his throne, abdicated. He yielded crown and scepter to Wan Ling. Thus was power united—kingdom and priesthood as one. Never again would the Kun clan face ruin.

Wan Ling had done it. She had paved everything for Kun Hong.

Until the day of the abdication ceremony.

On the great Sky Platform, before the crowd, with the Cauldron of Asking Heaven at her back, with carpets of crimson and garlands of blue gentians at her feet, Wan Ling ascended in royal robes. Step by step, she reached for the jade seal of rule.

And then Kun Hong appeared.

Yang Zhong’s hand trembled as he lifted his teacup, sipping to steady himself. At last, he spoke again.

“The young master was kept below for three years, while I tended him. At first he despaired, cursed the lady, cursed his prison. But soon he recovered, and trained without cease. His progress was astonishing—even my lady admitted surprise. Yet she said, it was not enough. So she secretly taught him to practice the ‘Sundial.’ He trained day and night until, at last, he succeeded.

That day… was the very day of my lady’s coronation. He broke free, stormed the Sky Platform, and battled her before all. He won. Her disguise was torn away, and she was thrown into prison.”

Two masters of illusion—could it truly have been so simple? Surely the heavens themselves must have shattered in their clash. But his claim—that Kun Hong learned one art and defeated her easily—I doubted. Illusion was not like martial skill, earned by sweat and toil. No, it was ninety-nine parts talent, and one part effort.

And Wan Ling had both. Talent and effort. Far beyond Kun Hong.

No… she had chosen to be defeated.

From the day Kun Buyu placed that burden on her shoulders, ten years had passed. She was weary.

Yet none of this answered what haunted me most: how Wan Ling had aged fifty years in a single night.

“And afterward?” I pressed.

Yang Zhong’s gaze flickered, evasive. He whispered at last:

“…Afterward, my lady was forced to drink the blood of the Candle Dragon. And with it, all her illusions were burned away.”

The blood of the Candle Dragon—the nightmare of every illusionist.