rogue_5

It is amidst this chaos that a talented man made himself known.

It is said he was the heir of a cadet branch of the House of Yan, that his family gave their all during the hunt, with him as the sole survivor. He could easily have coasted on his family's prestige to live the easy life of royalty, but instead chose to live among his fellow refugees, toiling alongside them. When bandits came, he was the first to step forward. When food was given out, he gave himself the last portion. In time, the refugees' admiration for him grew, and they elected him their leader.

The bandits he had fought became his followers, and the mandarins he had negotiated with became his friends. His entourage grew and grew, until the court began to panic, afraid that it would become the source of the next great turmoil. However, the mandarins soon discovered that those who followed him were returning home, their arms laden with grain and gold. This rapid expansion of his ranks quickly became an endless contraction. Finally, the eccentric hero called upon many of Yan's Secretaries of Administration, where he essentially soothed the populace on behalf of the court, turning the budding unrest into the prelude of prosperity. And so, once he had seen the last group of refugees home, the court summoned him to Baizao.

Decades later, this great talent had become a trusted advisor to Yan. After the former True Lung passed, the succeeding True Lung depended on his decisions for many things. The court itself was full of his disciples and former followers, the crown prince was his humble student, many high mandarins of the Six Ministries were great admirers of him in his youth, and quite a few commanders at the borderlands once traveled with him across the land, braving death together. All of Yan, from the literati and bureaucrats above to the common folk below, and all the other outstanding talents of the nation, approved of his abilities and merits. After all, a man like him, who could wield both pen to compose poetry and sword to battle the evil spirits, a man of inordinate versatility, shows up less than once a century in Yan.

And thus, when the True Lung was nearing death on his sickbed and composing his will, this man was chosen as successor before even the crown prince. As the True Lung saw it, the man had never wed, and had no children to succeed him. While tutoring, he treated the crown prince as his own child. Perhaps this was all to dispel the True Lung's doubts, to prove he had no ambitions for the throne. That in time, when he himself passed, the imperial crown would return to the True Lung's bloodline.

And so, after the True Lung passed, he wore the crown of the emperor. He once had many titles, but none were important. From then on, the people knew him as the True Lung. And when he proclaimed he would perform the rite of Feng Shan—a rite to pay homage to heaven and earth—at the Garden of Grotesqueries, newly constructed outside Baizao, all of Yan bowed to his will.

Now, he needs only to think it, and Yan could be sent into unending decay. He could make the machinery of government too bloated to function, or light a new fire in the belly of the people, ultimately casting the land into chaos. He could call in Yan's neighbors to be his accomplices, or use endless Catastrophes as his most perfect weapon. Yes, with but a thought, Yan could be razed to the ground, and Sui could complete Its vengeance, enslaving humanity once more.

All this, with a single thought in the True Lung's mind.

In the end, the True Lung did not follow Sui's plan, for one very simple reason.

He could not bring himself to destroy everything he had built.

Back when he still bore the pure wrath of Sui, he sowed the seeds of suspicion among the commoners. He had intended to incite a new Hundred Clan Rebellion to shake the foundations of Yan, to use the flames of war to rend scars in the soil. Through this, he would obtain ultimate victory, becoming the king of a barren land, and the petty warlords beneath him would slaughter one another, and the people would know no rest. However, as he walked alongside the refugees across countless miles, he began to reexamine his mission. This was the first time he truly looked at humanity, rather than simply observing. As he looked up at the landscapes he once looked down upon, as he heard weeping and gratitude mixing together by his ears, he began to doubt himself.

If he truly was the entirety of Sui, he should feel only loathing and resentment towards humanity, so why was he trying to help them? Did he wish to obtain satisfaction from their fawning? Or perhaps... it was a sort of sympathy towards man and their morality?

But if he was not the bestial Sui Itself, then what was he?

A pair of eyes? A puppet?

If so, he should only be a tool for Sui's vengeance. From whence stemmed this... emotion?

He had no answer, only doubts.

These doubts grew and grew, and that first great fury eventually gave way to consideration for humanity. He revised his plans unceasingly, breaking apart the cruel scheme he had built with his own hands. In the end, the shadow of war became a shadow looming over the court, and when he realized his reason to 'seize the throne' was simply to hold the ultimate title of humanity, he was finally willing to admit—

Though his self may have originated from a Feranmut, he was no beast.

And so, Yan came to have a perfect True Lung.

He was involved in the writing of every decree, took interest in the appointment of bureaucrats, amended laws, formulated standards, and advanced the sciences. Under his talent and foresight, the people did not want for food or clothing, and enjoyed lives of peace. Catastrophes were predicted with precision, rarely ever causing major damage. Bandits were scoured from the nation, and threats from both the north and the sea were eliminated.

The Sui Regulator was granted even more authority, and their suppression of Sui grew even stricter. As for himself, he performed the rite of Feng Shan in the Garden of Grotesqueries time after time, peeling away the proxy body he so hated little by little, and through the rite, he cast it into the Tomb of Sui.

Now, he was undeniably human, and among humans, there were none as perfect as he.

As the True Lung, he had a mission, a duty: to lead his nation to the same realm of perfection as he.

So long as he existed, this temperament, this awareness, would not change.

The people of Yan have not seen their True Lung in a very long time.

It is not just the commoners. Even the mandarins of the Six Ministries have not seen hide nor hair of him.

One day, he suddenly expelled everyone from the palace, and ordered the Imperial Guard to seal it off. He has not shown himself since that day, a hundred years ago.

The lives of the populace remain as smooth as ever, and Yan does not suffer for her ruler's silence, continuing to be one of the few prosperous nations of Terra. Before the sealing, the True Lung had written a grand tome on all things big and small, thoroughly elaborating on every subject imaginable. Answers to almost every question could be found within: commoners consulted it to plan their lives, mandarins consulted it to understand their duties and responsibilities, artists and scientists consulted it for inspiration... The political system stabilized, the mechanisms dispensing rewards and punishments were flawless, and all did their duty loyally, without slackening. The True Lung had given them the answers to everything, after all.

Living life like this should have been incomparably wonderful... But everyone could sense a terrifying fact asserting itself: something had vanished from their lives.

The True Lung sits atop his throne, not a single pinprick of light by his side.

Why is it that humanity's greatest are always pushed towards sovereignty?

Is it to squander his talents, to force him to yield to the abyss of administration?

He has already done all a human can do, and recorded the entirety of it.

But to this day, there are still none qualified to stand by his side.

Mortals have their limits, and the True Lung was weary of doing such repetitive tasks over and over and over.

And so he wrote down the lives of all humanity, allowing Yan to prosper freely.

This was his final act of goodwill.

He does not regret becoming human. His self did not require the bestial Sui's control.

It is simply that even one as detached as he will always have things that cannot be resolved alone.

Yet mortals cannot keep up with him, and so, he sank into the irresolvable void.

Like a fowlbeast flying towards the sky, he can see the dark expanse of the heavens, and cast away the land behind him, but he will never be able to reach a single twinkling star.

Thus, he sits here, at a standstill.

Within this flawless order, in a remote corner of Yan, an old man lifts up a torch.

As night descends, the eyes of the people are drawn to that brilliant torchlight. They have seen Yan's past.

They have all read the tales of 'people giving their all for a shared goal': the end of the Hundred Clan Rebellion, the great wild hunt, and the revitalization the True Lung brought.

Now, the light of this flame lights anew things in their hearts that had left them long ago: desire, purpose, doubt.

As the all-powerful True Lung had written everything down, they grew dependent on what they'd been told and no longer questioned anything.

Their ruler had sat in silence for a century, yet even the ridiculousness of this had not stirred any doubts.

But now, this flame spurs the people to reject the silence. They eagerly light their own torches using the old man's, bringing those sparks with them as they walk to Baizao.

Mandarins and soldiers try to stop the flamebearers, but when the fires illuminate their hidden doubts, they allow them to continue onwards.

Thus did long trails of firelight, lifted high, wend their way all across Yan into Baizao. They gather before the palace, trying to use their light to illuminate the final obstacle before them.

The Imperial Guards.

The most loyal defenders of the True Lung, and the ones who have sealed him within.

Over the last hundred years, cohorts after cohorts have guarded the empty heart of Baizao.

The True Lung issued no decrees, the palace showed no activity, but they still watch its gates, allowing none to pass.

The fires reveal their blind obedience, and also begin to rouse doubt in their hearts.

The Guards decide to compromise.

The dust-caked gates are opened, and the people lift high their torches as they enter, searching for any trace of the True Lung.

None attempt to plunder the building, or to damage it. They simply wish to know the truth.

One question runs through the minds of all the flamebearers: Did the True Lung no longer wish to lead his subjects? Or did he actually vanish long ago?

With every room opened, some decide to stay to sweep away the dust and wipe the furniture, allowing grime-ridden time to flow once more.

When the doors to the main hall are opened, and firelight enters for the first time in a century, all that can be seen atop the throne is a gown and a crown.

At the summit of the Garden of Grotesqueries, where the rite takes place, a man with a beard reaching the ground plays weiqi with a white-haired elder dressed in black. The board is atop the altar that suppresses Sui, the stone stands where sacred vessels are placed, serving as benches. The two place their stones with ferocious speed, so before long, a victor is decided. It is the younger of the two.

Yet his victory seems to bring him no joy, because it was the elderly man who had cast a stone into the calm waters of Yan, drawing him away from a hundred years of seclusion. Even if the elderly man possessed the same wisdom and ability as him, it would still be insufficient to realize his desire to touch the star. In which case—

'What do you want?'

The elderly man raises his head, one blind eye nearly pure white, the other as black as ink, yet with no luster.

'Your help, Chongyue.'

The man known as Chongyue, who once held the title of True Lung, stands, peering closely at the elderly man. That was the name he used before ascending the throne. By now, none but himself should remember it.

The elderly man picks up the final black stone he placed on the board and gives it to Chongyue. The moment his finger touches it, the land around him smears like an oil painting, leaving only the mountain beneath his feet, and Sui's slumbering body.

His exploits, his rebellion, his exhaustion, were all but insignificant dreams of Sui as It slept.

'Did you never wonder—how could the proxy of a Feranmut whose powers are rooted in evolution resign himself to silence in the midst of change?

'It created you, and erased your future. Within this silence, It has countless ways to hone you into a blade to kill traitorous Yan.

'It formed you from the combined memories of the Sui proxies. As for your appearance, it comes from Its greatest shame. Our eldest brother, the only proxy to grasp rebirth.'

Amid the darkness, the embodiment of ruin flickers in and out. The elderly man looks towards the surging void and begins to speak more quickly.

'It has been evolving for a very long time now. Relying solely on planning will not suffice. There may be countless of you gestating within Its imagination. There may be many tricks I have not foreseen being thought up this very moment.

'But if Sui has prepared you to shatter our resistance, then you can certainly crush Its plot.

'Do you—'

The tide rises, erasing the last speck of reality within this fantasy.

With a swing of a sword, the monster with the head of a man and the body of a Lung dissipates into nothingness.

Yet another mad vision of Sui, yet another fallen self... Chongyue wipes the blood off his blade, continuing his wandering amid the flux of change.

When the one-twelfth of the self roused him from his standstill, when the truth was revealed to him, Chongyue knew he would agree to Wang's request.

For in that fantasy, he had already rejected his identity as a Sui proxy.

He is a lone self.

Within the many prisons Sui created, he sees many versions of this self:

A tyrant bathing in a sea of blood.

A tycoon hoarding gold and grain.

An apothecary sowing toxic seeds.

A smith who forges chains and fetters.

They all submitted to Sui, and these were their visions for vengeance against humanity. Thus:

The tyrant is drowned.

The tycoon is reaped.

The apothecary is poisoned.

The smith is imprisoned.

Its thoughts are used to destroy Its fantasies, which leads Sui's ire to resound throughout the Tomb. But this was Chongyue's plan all along. While It focuses on annihilating him, Wang will have the space to implement his plans, seeking within this mausoleum a lifeline for all.

Even so, things seem bleak. Its thoughts are filled with his surrendered selves, and Sui has already evolved beyond what resistance lies within those memories. Given time, It will certainly—

Chongyue suddenly realizes that, if he were to rely solely on force, he would never be able to stop Sui. If all that is left in his heart is bloodthirst, he may return to being Its puppet, turning to kill the one who pulled him out of the silence.

He looks down at the black stone in his palm.

His nature and Wang's, and that of the other Sui proxies, are not too different from one another. They are all continuations of Its thoughts, there to implement Its will in the mortal realm. But now these thoughts are resisting Its mind, like cells attempting to resist the body whole—something utterly absurd in the eyes of the master of that body.

Sui is like an irresponsible officer, throwing newborn babies to the front lines and ordering them to bring It the heads of Its enemies. However, It has never told them how to stand, how to walk, how to defend themselves, or how to actually slay those enemies.

As for their 'enemies'—those humans, once regarded by the gods as mere ants—they gave them shelter, showed them new horizons, cultivated their tastes, taught them ethics and virtue, allowed them to understand the truth about themselves as non-entropic beings, and allowed them to truly become themselves, to learn why one lives.