In the age of the Four Great Empires, the world was a balanced square of power, each corner defined by a different destiny. To the North lay the frozen iron plains of Běi Dì, where strength was the only law. To the South, the fertile river valleys of Nán Dì, where the "Shadow Emperor" Zhang Liu ruled with cold, analytical tradition. To the West, the graceful, matriarchal valleys of Xī Dì, shielded by a veil of neutrality and silk. But it was the East Empire, known as Dōng Dì, that held the worl
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The sky over the borderlands was a bruised purple, torn apart by a relentless monsoon that the ceorl of the South called the "Dragon’s Tears." It was the Hour of the Rat, the deepest belly of the night, when the veil between the living and the dead was thinnest. General Lu Kuan did not run; he lunged through the mud, his breath coming in ragged, freezing stabs. His magnificent naval armor was gone, ditched in a ravine miles back. Now, he was clad only in a soaked pǔyī—the rough, hempen robe of a
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