‘And the sky was stilled black, stripped of colour’s breath. His creation gazed upwards in horror — like a child before a television screen staring at the static of a cold, dead channel.’

-The Book of Lumen, Chapter 1, Verse 2:1

The two old friends blew on their drinks. Zhao Fagun’s tea shop, a tranquil oasis on the 27th level of the Gujin complex, offered Rui and Fung a brief respite from the chaos of life in Kowloon.

They settled back into their seats in the outdoor balcony area as they discussed the struggling economy. The wind darted like a thief over the railing beside their table, carrying scents of cooked mushrooms, incense, wet clothes, and rubbish.

‘Have you seen all the flashy new tech?’ Rui traced the rim of his teacup with his finger.

Fung nodded. ‘My doctor said that new healing stuff moves through the air like a ghost. I swear on my ma’s life, he did.’

‘What? You’re pulling my leg, Fung. That’s how those new medical machines work? My doctor lost his job last month. Even the nerds aren’t being spared. We’re next, I’m sure of it.’

Fung clicked his teeth. ‘Can’t the Emperor see the damage he’s causing? Countless people jobless…’ He snapped his fingers in the air. ‘Just like that.’

As the two friends continued talking, their focus suddenly broke when the sound of crockery crashing to the floor came from the quiet interior of the tea shop. The two friends barely turned an eye to look inside, no one acknowledged the break in normalcy, despite Zhao shouting at a worker.

Everyone knew better and minded their business. Whispers circulated that the tea shop transformed into a pleasure den for the Luen boys after the dimming, when Kowloon’s 14-hour sleep-cycle commenced. Of course, no one could confirm this, but the floor-to-ceiling poles in the backroom of the shop kind of gave it away. And so, most customers wished to stay clear of Zhao’s affairs.

As the commotion died down, Rui continued. ‘Emperor Puyin is one thing, but the Yangs… they’re next level.’

His friend was momentarily distracted by a young woman walking past their table. ‘Sorry, I missed the last bit,’ he said as he faced Rui once more. ‘What was that?’

‘The Yang. They’re next level,’ he repeated. ‘Rumour has it the Emperor’s been bolstering his Zhaisheng with secret tech from surface civilisations. If you can believe it.’

‘Hah!’ Fung scoffed. ‘I’d sooner believe our prophet rose from the dead and was standing behind me, than people still living on the surface. The Yangs will say anything for the sake of their agenda.’

‘Yang or not, I’m up to my neck. Food prices are soaring, and now taxes are going up again. Emperor Puyin’s Zhaisheng isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. What good is a so-called renaissance if we all starve to death first?’

Fung pursed his lips as he looked at the temperature on his teacup: 60 °C. He took a sip, grimacing under his breath. ‘Shit, that’s hot.’ When he flicked the temperature display, it glitched to an altogether different reading of 121 °C.

‘I… I might start scalping food, Fung,’ Rui fidgeted in his chair. ‘Sell it for a profit down the line. I know it’s forbidden, but I’d rather get some money together now before things become desperate.’

Fung whistled. ‘That’s risky business. If the Ji Sia find out, they’ll starve you.’

‘I’ll be careful. News of an incurable virus on the doorstep of the Huang Wildlands, famine ravaging the east, and the Yang more popular than ever before… When everything collapses, and trust me, it will, I want to be ready. I suggest you do the same, brother—’

BANG!

The boom of heavy gunfire tore through the quiet ambience, bouncing between the cramped groundscrapers as people from nearby tables whipped their heads around. The two friends followed suit, searching for the source far beyond the tea shop’s outdoor area with concerned expressions.

‘What in the Light’s name was that?!’ Rui shouted, half out of his seat.

****

‘ARGGGHHH! FUCK! MY LEG!!’

Blood and flesh were splattered in a garish tableau across the rough terrace ground. Keung advanced towards his quarry, watching him crawl away, as blood pumped from his knee, barely attached to the thigh.

What a sorry sight. The great Jian…now just a crying, dying rebel.

As Keung drew nearer, his hand cannon gripped in both hands yet pointed downwards in a gesture of mercy, the air grew heavy. The fatally wounded man, in a last act of defiance or perhaps a plea for recognition, rolled over to face him. It had been almost two annui-cycles since they’d laid eyes on one another.

Jian’s gaunt face no longer had the strong, angled planes of a proud general. The patchy stubble and fuzzy moustache were at odds with the well-groomed man Keung remembered.

‘They don’t know… You don’t know, Keung. God himself, I’ve touched His Light. It was so beautiful. The sun… It was just as Dong said it would be. Warm, full of His love. We…we need to return to the surface.’

‘You know that’s not possible,’ Keung replied as the muscles of his jaw tightened with anguish.

Jian’s face fell. Sweat dripped from his hairline as his breathing turned sharp. ‘You know your man missed my head on purpose, right?’ he wheezed, gazing past Keung into the vast horizon of District Yau’s groundscrapers.

But Keung didn’t offer any response.

‘They still don’t trust you?’ Jian rasped again.

Keung knew he was trying to provoke him, so he remained tight-lipped, his breathing shallow as he warred with what came next.

‘Get on with it, Kingmaker,’ Jian muttered, staring at Keung’s unmoving hand.

Keung willed his arms to rise, but all they did was tremble.

Gritting his teeth, Jian propped himself up on his elbow. ‘You’re going to leave me here to bleed dry, aren’t you?’

There was no answer.

‘… You’re all fucking tyrants after all,’ Jian sneered as his face contorted in agony, his eyes growing more weary and unfocused with each passing second.

Keung took a deep, steadying breath and raised his weapon towards Jian’s head, his knuckles white. ‘I guess I’m still trying to fit in.’

With a deep exhale, Jian slowly closed his eyes. Keung turned his face away, clenching his fist tightly. The trigger felt tighter than it ever had before.

After hearing the dreadful crack of Jian’s skull hitting the ground, Keung braved a look. Watching Jian’s fingers unfurl, he wrinkled his nose at the putrid smell of gases and liquids leaving his quarry’s body. This was his first time seeing a corpse grow cold right after death.

Suddenly, a familiar voice came from behind him.

‘It’s done. Let’s return to the tower, sir.’

Cheng, Keung’s trusted partner and a Kingmaker of Tribunary rank, approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. They shared a moment of silence for the battered man sprawled in front of them. Cheng’s pale, clean-shaven face was haggard and glistened with sweat. Despite his clear exhaustion, his hair remained tucked under his peaked officer’s cap and his dark trench coat showed no signs of exertion, the epitome of an exemplary, composed Kingmaker.

Shrugging off Cheng’s hand, Keung strode towards the open doors at the other end of the terrace, the ones he and Jian had burst through minutes earlier.

Cheng jogged to catch up. ‘Whatever comes of this, I have your back, sir. As always. Don’t forget Jian was a traitor and a mass murderer. You saved many lives by making sure his ended today.’

Keung continued walking in silence.

‘Is there anything you wanted to talk about, sir?’ Cheng asked as they navigated over loose pipework and abrupt elevations in the terrace towards the exit.

‘Yes, what will they do to his body?’ Keung asked.

‘Well, sir… It varies from region to region. We’re in Yau country, and they have a special case for executed Yangs. They’re going to tie Jian’s body to a crucifix for everyone to see. Until the first signs of rot. But that’s not our concern; our job is done. After our team reports back, let’s all have a round of drinks at The Crescent. This is cause for —’

‘Drinks? I’m thinking about how we should mourn Jian, not partying!’ Keung removed his officer’s cap and ran his hand through his sweaty hair. ‘Jian was a devout Dongist; he would want us to float him down the Memorial Pipes and into the Light! Not have Kowloon become his audience as he decays!’

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Cheng nodded. ‘You’re right, sir. It is a perversion of Dongism, but by design. The Luens will take every opportunity to punish Jian, even in the afterlife. There’s nothing we can do about it now. Unless the Emperor says otherwise, they get the final say.’

Death should be the final sanctuary for every soul tormented by the cruelty of life. Not whatever this is.

****

After descending several flights of stairs, the two Kingmakers came to a rusty green door ajar on their right. Cheng shouldered it open for his superior, and they emerged into the bustle of Kowloon – an overpopulated underground society plagued by poverty.

Wide corridors with low ceilings layered with pipes, wires and yellowed halogen lights stretched before them in an impossible mesh. People walked shoulder to shoulder in and out of corridors of different widths bordered by storefronts. The flooring, once clean, white tiles, was now a pitted, brown path eroded by hundreds of years of pedestrian footsteps.

Keung and Cheng were on the 91st floor, the highest in the current building, called “groundscrapers” by Kowloonis. The air was filled with a cacophony of sound—sparky, eager vendors, laughter and yelling from the massive, bustling crowd, and the relentless noise of construction. Homeless children darted everywhere, disguising their pickpocketing as games of tag. Dongist preachers attired in reflective silver robes called for penance. Mobile street food vendors carried large trays of street food supported by ropes slung around their necks, their makeshift stalls bouncing against their bodies as they responded to customers calling them over. The smell of sizzling spices in oil mingled with the stench of garbage and sweat. Keung noticed a few individuals slipping masks over their noses and melting into the shadows, their eyes tracking the two Kingmakers.

This wasn’t some busy office building, apartment, or shopping centre; the long corridors of these buildings were the actual streets of Kowloon. Most pedestrians travelled through groundscrapers due to the overcrowding in the narrow, ground-level alleys.

The sprawl of Kowloon meant there were almost no gaps between its groundscrapers. Walls were often knocked down and bridged onto their neighbouring buildings, connecting hundreds of different groundscrapers into a single, intricate network of streets and highways.

The constant flow of people made for an oppressive atmosphere, but Keung and Cheng moved undeterred. Their Kingmaker status, signified by their dark trench coats with golden-yellow accents, peaked officer caps and air of authority, parted the sea of people before them.

Eventually, they arrived at the entrance for the King Rail docking port. An inconspicuous locked door with no handle, right in the middle of the busy corridor. Keung swiped his King Rail key fob near the door, and it swung open for them. They slipped in before anyone took notice, as the entrances to these ports were a close-kept secret. Inside was small, nondescript room with nothing but some storage cabinets, a small computer and glass sliding doors leading to the suspended tracks.

This monorail system, called the King Rail, carved a path through the groundscrapers and into key areas of Kowloon. Constructed less than two decades ago, it was the first of its kind and granted speedy travel into some of the most densely populated areas ever known to humanity. Despite its efficiency, it remained locked away from everyone but the Kingmakers, earning the loathing of Kowloon’s public.

‘Will you, or —?’ Keung indicated the small screen next to the sliding glass doors.

‘Let me, sir.’

Cheng entered their destination. They only waited a few minutes until their monorail arrived at the port. First, the glass dock doors opened, followed by the carriage doors. They boarded the carriage, which glided into motion after the doors closed, travelling in silence. As the carriage sped through the city of Ji Sia, District Yau’s capital, glimpses appeared of the thousands of people below navigating the narrow ground-level streets, illuminated by street lamps and lanterns that were strung between buildings hundreds of metres high.

The carriage shuddered, causing Keung to look at Cheng. ‘Did we run over someone again?’

‘Don’t think so. People have gotten good at avoiding the rail when they feel it coming.’

Keung nodded to himself as he settled back into his seat. He disliked using the King Rail. These trains carved through groundscrapers and sped right into densely populated streets. Communities that had existed peacefully for hundreds of generations now bore the scar of the King Rail cutting through them, the locals learning to move away if they felt the subtlest of vibrations.

The monorail glided into the heart of the underground world as it neared their destination of District Yu. It was the smallest but most affluent of the sixty-six districts of Kowloon, the Emperor’s personal domain. At its centre stood the Yu Tower, a thirty-story building reserved for the elite Kingmakers, the Yaozhi family, and their throne.

No other building in this district could exceed eight stories, a visual reminder of who held power. Yu Tower, an architectural marvel inspired by the ancient surface civilisation of Zhongguo, featured sloping ceramic-tiled rooftops at every floor, raised pavilions, and emerald-shaded pillars adorned with golden dragon prints, giving the tower an air of ancient majesty. Very few places in Kowloon featured this unfamiliar style of architecture.

Despite being the tallest building in its district, Yu Tower was overshadowed by the surrounding areas, where groundscrapers at its borders abruptly rose beyond seventy levels. From above, this stark contrast gave the capital district a fragmented appearance, its perfect circular border and uniform terraces clashing with the chaotic, greebled textures of Kowloon’s rooftops.

The only physical connection with the outside world consisted of the four King Rail tracks. Emerging straight from the shadows of Yu’s neighbouring buildings, they stretched high above the district from all four sides, soaring across the airspace until they disappeared into the docking bays of the tower at the district’s centre.

The carriage granted Keung a rare bird’s-eye view. It felt like flying, a sensation he could only experience here with Yu’s low buildings, away from the chaos in the rest of Kowloon.

Cheng and Keung’s bodies swayed from inertia as the carriage halted inside the mouth of the tower’s docking port, fifteen levels high. The doors slid open, and they both walked outside to the port, where their fellow Kingmakers were departing and hailing other carriages.

‘I’ll wait for the others in the changing rooms, sir,’ Cheng said as they briefly shook hands. ‘Will you be going up to General Denzhen’s office now?’

At the mention of his father, Keung’s gaze faltered and fell to the floor. ‘I forgot I still have to inform him,’ he sighed. ‘They once called each other brothers.’

‘Do you want me to come with you, sir? I can help.’

Yes, I wish you could, but only if I didn’t have to ask for it.

‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ Keung said softly.

They parted ways, and Keung headed to the nearest lift. The pristine, gleaming tiles and soft lights in the halls of the Yu Tower were a stark contrast to what the rest of Kowloon looked like. The corridor he was walking down featured breathtaking murals from The Book of Memory, its sacred scenes spilling off the ceiling and onto the walls, as if the artist responsible had thought its beauty too great to keep the art contained to a single surface.

Busy Kingmakers rushed by; the lower rank centurions wore a plain uniform of a dark collared shirt, baggy trousers and a red sash tied around their waist, while their superiors strutted around in golden-striped trench coats identical to the ones Keung and his team wore. As had been the case since his birth, he felt eyes following him. This came with being the son of the legendary Dragon, General Denzhen, and the nephew of Emperor Puyin.

Keung quietly slid open the grain-paper doors of the dojo, intending to take a shortcut to the lifts. Inside, a Kingmaker captain was leading a class of centurions through advanced martial forms, all twenty students wearing singlets and loose-fitting training pants. Keung padded around the perimeter, walking past jade emerald pillars and ornate dragon statues, doing his best to avoid drawing attention. However, the presence of the Emperor’s nephew was hard to miss, and almost everyone’s attention shifted towards him.

As he neared the dojo’s exit, the sergeant’s voice boomed: ‘Training is still in progress, and I am still here!’

The class snapped back to their forms—horse stance, left fist, right fist, neutral stance, and then a round-house kick. The sound of fists whipping and thick cotton pants ruffling made Keung miss his days as a centurion. Life had been so much simpler.

At the other end of the training dojo, Keung reached a sliding paper door that led to the lift. He pressed the button to call it and a minute later, it rose to his level. Inside were two other Kingmakers.

The lift rose and stopped once, offloading the two Kingmakers before continuing towards the twenty-fifth floor, where Keung disembarked and made his way to his father’s chambers.

The level containing the generals’ offices echoed with his footsteps. It was rare to find the generals there due to their packed schedule and many responsibilities. Unlike the lower floors, level twenty-five was sterile and utilitarian in design, washed out by cool white lights and plain, square ceramic tiles.

Keung stood outside the door to his father’s office before buzzing its ringer, a small circular button on the side of the frame. The crest of the Yaozhi family at its top edge reminded him of his significance; without his ancestors, Kowloon would be nothing more than millennia-old rubble.

There was a lengthy thirty-second wait before the door slid open, beckoning Keung in.

Inside, the wait made sense. General Denzhen stood with his back to the door, bent over the disarray of papers and hologram readers on his desk. Keung wondered how his father maintained order amidst such chaos. Denzhen still wore his olive-green, baggy trench coat, reserved for generals, distinguished from the well-fitting Kingmaker officer coats by its dark red arm stripes.

On the right-hand wall of the small office were three weathered visitors’ chairs. Keung settled into one and it creaked under his weight.

‘Jian is dead, Ba,’ Keung revealed, his gaze distant, fixed on the wall ahead.

At this, Denzhen spun around and gaped. ‘What do you mean? You found him? I thought you were following a cold trail?’

‘Wasn’t as cold as we thought. When Jian ran, Shing mortally wounded him. I only offered him mercy.’

Denzhen approached Keung and sat beside him. ‘I’m so sorry, son. I didn’t think your team would find him so fast. Had I known, I would have gone myself or sent Captain Aiguo or maybe Shen—’

‘It’s okay, Ba. I’m as capable as any of them.’

‘You misunderstand me; it isn’t about capability. Dealing with Jian wasn’t your burden to take on. Until now, I’d imagined one of us Dragons would end up confronting him. Not my own son.’

Keung studied the man who’d raised and trained him for as long as he could remember. Denzhen’s curly hair and short beard had been increasingly unkempt for the last few months, which coincided with the Kingmakers getting closer to finding Jian. The scar on his cheek, a trophy from a war fought by the elders many annui-cycles ago, seemed more prominent than usual as well.

‘I knew and cared for him as much as anyone else; this is a burden we all share.’

‘Not true, Keung. You don’t have the hands of a killer. How many people have you had to shoot? And of those few, how many did you know personally? No, it’s not your burden to take, and damn me for not being careful and sending you anyway!’

Denzhen shot up from his seat. ‘I’m sorry, son.’

Although Keung found some solace in his father’s words, they reinforced why so few fellow Kingmakers had ever attempted to befriend him. His father’s unwavering protection had always been a comfort that Keung accepted without question in his childhood. However, as he matured, he realised he had the autonomy to reject this overprotectiveness when it became excessive. Now, Keung questioned whether he should embrace his father’s consolation.

‘Oh, shit…’ Denzhen suddenly said to himself. ‘Keung, do you know what it means to be General Jian’s executioner?’

‘What?’

Denzhen pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Should’ve sent…’

‘Ba, what are you trying to say?’

‘What you did to Jian isn’t going to sit well with the other Kingmakers.’

At that moment, his father’s point hit him with full force. Keung hadn’t considered how others in the tower might react. He hadn’t just killed a prolific Yang terrorist, he’d killed a father figure to many Kingmakers.

Denzhen continued. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been me or the captain who ended him. But you’re young, Keung, so incredibly young. The love many have for Jian is almost as old as I am.’

‘Thank you for warning me.’ Keung’s face tensed in an effort to appear indifferent. Yet, he couldn’t suppress the subtle tightening of muscles along his jaw and a faint frown.

His mind raced. Am I on the path to becoming every Kingmaker’s enemy?

‘Be careful, son. Emotions run high while people mourn. They’ll be eager to point the finger. I’ll do what I can to maintain discipline for the next few menses-cycles at least.’

Keung shook his head. ‘No, please don’t. Nothing will happen to me. If anyone has any grievances, let them come to me,’ Keung rose from his seat and faced the door.

‘Son—’

‘No, I have to go! I need to walk this off. Thank you, sir.’ Keung exited his father’s chambers as Denzhen looked on helplessly.