Ti’Lee rubbed sweaty hands against his tailored vest, trembling as he hurried across a carpeted hall. Calm down, he told himself. Breathe, Ti’Lee. Breathe! He felt like a leaf in a windstorm, dangling from the tip of a branch, fighting desperately to hold on. His sweaty armpits were soaking his undershirt, but the fresh, woodsy scent of his cologne masked the stench.

He pushed shaky hands into the pockets of his dark trousers, breathing according to the Lee Family Flow. With a deep breath, he cycled maqi from his dantian, through his meridians, and to his extremities. Mist-like heat haze trailed from his skin. When he exhaled, maqi flowed back to his core. He did this over and over again. It usually helped calm him down. Not this time.

The leather satchel dangling over his shoulder bounced against his leg, as if trying to get his attention. As he pulled the flap back and opened it up, he adjusted his spectacles. Inside lay the skeleton of a metal gauntlet. The palm was the most substantial part of the glove, as were the sharp fingers. A single symbol was etched into the palm: a ring with an overlapping triangle. Two characters were drawn at the center . . .

保卫

Bǎowèi

Defend. Guard. Protect.

His fingers twitched. With care, he closed the satchel back up. He tried another calming breath, but failed. If his parents knew what he was planning, they would kill him.

With trembling arms, he held the satchel close, focusing on the mahogany door at the end of the hall.

It seemed a massive, threatening slab of wood. Each step brought him closer to the portal, beyond which lay his destiny. Or his doom. His heart slammed against his ribcage, pounding faster and faster with each shallow breath. What would happen if I just fainted? Right now? He kind of hoped he did. No one would blame him for—

A door on his left swung open. “Whoa!” He hopped to the right, spinning to face the doorway.

A servant wearing a simple black dress, and a white apron hemmed with golden thread, stood frozen in the doorway. “Master Ti’Lee!” She was holding a closed platter. Behind her, servants bustled around a steamy kitchen. She dropped to her knees, bowing low. “Forgive me. I—”

“None of that.” He reached out a hand.

She eyed it.

“Take it.”

“Uh . . .” She looked to her left, then her right, as if expecting a guard to be around the corner.

He sighed, then took her platter. Holding it with one hand, he reached out with the other and helped her up.

She smoothed her apron, then fixed her black and white hair. It was up in a bun, held together by a golden comb etched with the Lee family crest: an open scroll, surrounded by beams of light. She took the platter back, then whispered, “Dinner started half an hour ago.” She nodded toward the mahogany door. “You better get going.”

“My parents asked me to arrive late.” He grimaced. “They . . . wanted to talk about my education in private, then bring me in.”

The servant, Roasha was her name, bowed at the waist. “I wish you Heaven’s blessings.” When she straightened her back, she locked eyes with him. They were brown, like his. “Truly. I do.” Without another word, she hurried across the hall, toward the mahogany door.

Ti’Lee’s mouth was open—he’d almost responded. But he wasn’t fast enough. He sighed as he watched Roasha scurry away. She knew more about his life than his own parents. He’d opened up to her about the pains of his childhood, the hardships with his father. They were supposed to be close. And still, she fled.

She’s stressed about the meal, he told himself. It’s not about you. It’s not . . .Why were all of the servants afraid of him? It’s not like they’d get in trouble for talking. He didn’t care if they were Tin. He just wanted a friend.

His heart was dipping, but he refused the encroaching grasp of self-pity. I won’t feel it. Last time he did, a depressive weight settled on him for weeks. I won’t!

He brushed fingers through his mess of dark hair. What would the elder think about it? It’s not like he was trying to look sloppy. No matter what comb he used, or how hard he brushed, his hair simply refused to cooperate.

Forget about. Get going.

He glared at the mahogany monster.

His stomach sank as he imagined standing before the leaders of Rising Sun. The gauntlet in his bag seemed to weigh a hundred pounds, and his legs wobbled like stalks in the wind. He bit down to stop his jaw from chattering, and he straightened his spine.

If he backed out now, it would be years before he got another chance to address an elder and his parents at the same time.

He marched toward the dining hall, feigning confidence. When he reached the large door, he stared at the emblem it bore. The Lee crest was carved upon its surface—a symbol of their intergenerational, scholarly pride. Everyone wore it as a badge of honor.

Everyone, except him.

With a deep breath, he grabbed the cold handle, twisted it, then pushed his way into the room. Silent conversation filled the air. Scents of every kind, from sweet wine to smoked herbs, played with his nose.

A narrow, polished table with gilded edges took up the center of the room. There were platters bearing a variety of fresh fruit, steamed vegetables, and cooked meat.

Father and Mother sat on the right side of the table. Mother’s kimono was a dizzying array of black, blue, and gold. Pearls adorned her ears, and a variety of black and blue crystals ornamented her well-set hair. Father’s vest was much like Ti’Lee’s—dark, with golden threads. His hair, a fading gray, was styled back, lending him a distinguished air.

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He was currently speaking with a man who was sitting near the other side of the room, at the head of the table. His wrinkled face drooped with age, and a short white beard hung from his chin. He was arrayed in a white robe. A golden sun, peeking above a horizon, was embroidered on his chest. Another one decorated his cylindrical hat.

When he noticed Ti’Lee’s presence, he held up a hand with long fingers. The conversation in the room stilled as everyone turned to face Ti’Lee. He stiffened, holding his breath as his cheeks reddened.

The old man’s weathered lips curled into a smile as he rose to his feet. Everyone else, including his own parents, stood up “Ti’Lee,” the man said, nodding in respect.

“Elder Shinye.” Ti’Lee placed his hands together and bowed at the waist.

“You may be seated.” He gestured to the foot of the table.

Ti’Lee hurried to the plush chair, his dress shoes clacking against the marble flooring. When he reached his appointed spot, he remained standing, waiting for Elder Shinye to sit. As he did, Ti’Lee and the rest of the company followed.

Ti’Lee glanced to his left.

Two teachers from the School of Rising Sun were present. They were probably as old as Father—one was bald, and the other wore a black braid. This one watched Ti’Lee with a twinkle in his eye.

As a servant poured Ti’Lee a cup of red wine, another placed sliced ham on his plate. While they set the table, he spared a glance for his father.

Dra’Lee’s expression was dark.

His eyes were daggers placed at Ti’Lee’s throat—a warning not to mess this up. If everything went according to plan, Ti’Lee would win the favor of the elder, and walk straight into the School of Rising Sun without taking the entrance exam: a test that strained even the brightest of minds. It happened once every four years. Fail that test, and he’d be twenty before he could take it again.

Ti’Lee swallowed, lowering his eyes. He wanted to enter the school. He did! That’s where he and his father saw eye-to-eye. But . . . that was the extent of their unity.

Ti’Lee slid the satchel off his shoulder, placing it on the floor. The gauntlet clinked. What he wanted to study conflicted with what Dra’Lee expected him to study. Father didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t! It wasn’t safe to speak of such things, not with his father. Which is why he brought the gauntlet here. To this meal. With the elder present.

When do I show it, though? He couldn’t reveal it now. It was too early.

As the servants backed away, leaving him to deal with a mountain of sliced fruit, seasoned vegetables and smoked ham, Elder Shinye cleared his throat, patting his lips with a napkin.

“Ti’Lee,” he began, folding the napkin and placing it down. “I am . . . impressed by what I’ve heard about you thus far.” He folded his hands on the table. “Not that I doubt your father, but I have to ask: did you really read everything our library has to offer?”

Ti’Lee nodded, squeezing his fork with a sweaty hand. “Yes.” And everything from every other library. There were four in total, one for each sect.

“Really?”

Ti’Lee nodded. “Really.” His heart was still drumming. He could see Dra’Lee and his mother, Lin’Lee, trying to eat as casually as possible.

“Why?”

Ti’Lee hesitated. That caught him off guard. He scrunched his face, searching his mind . . .

At a young age, his father took him aside and spoke to him. You’re going to be a scholar, Ti’Lee, he said. Or a failure. He jabbed a finger into his young face. No other career will bring honor to the family. Grandpa Lee was an imperial scholar, serving his Majesty Emperor Taozong, Slayer of the Gods.

You will follow in your grandfather’s footsteps, just as he followed in his father’s, and how his father followed in his father’s and so on.

To do that, Ti’Lee needed to become a living, breathing encyclopedia. Thus, at a young age, he forsook his social life in deference to the pursuit of academic knowledge, determined to live the life Father expected of him . . . Until, one day, he came across a book on spiritsmithing.

Elder Shinye cleared his throat. Ti’Lee blushed.

He’d gone too long without answering.

“I want to be an imperial scholar,” he said, voice cracking, “serving his Highness, Emperor Taozong.” He grimaced, a sour taste in his mouth, his stomach grumbling in pain. Heavens above! It was as if own his body was rejecting the lie.

Elder Shinye cocked a white brow, observing Ti’Lee with a scrutinizing gaze. It sent a wave of prickles across Ti’Lee’s skin. Sweat dripped down his back. He stabbed a small slice of ham and placed it in his mouth, not sure if he should speak, worried he said something wrong. But why should he be?

He said exactly what his father expected him to say.

That’s the problem, he thought, sparing a glance for his satchel. The coward in him demanded he forsake his master plan—showing off the gauntlet was too risky. Even if he succeeded, what then? Was it worth crushing his father’s dream? Shaming the family? Polluting our—

Stop thinking like that! he thought. There had to be a way for him to become a spiritsmith and please his father. Ti’Lee wanted to sit down and talk with his father, and reason things out with him, but the man would never do that.

But with the elder present, he’d have to.

Ti’Lee’s heart pounded in time with his dantian. Blood surged through his veins while maqi sped through his meridians.

“How long did the Māng dynasty last?” Elder Shinye asked.

Ti’Lee blinked.

The question was so sudden, it left him silently stunned. For about two seconds. “Eight hundred and twenty-four years.”

“What caused their downfall?”

“The rise of the God-Cultivators.”

“Which was?”

“Exactly five hundred years ago.”

One corner of Elder Shinye’s lips stretched into a lopsided smirk. His next question had to do with complex mathematics, algebraic formulas, and quantum physics. Ti’Lee answered each inquiry with relative ease.

Elder Shinye then asked him to relate scientific theories, astrological signs, the anatomy of highly developed spirit-beasts, and so on. After breezing through a myriad of questions, the elder asked if he could draw out an advanced spectrum of hanzi characters. This gave Ti’Lee pause.

He’d etched hanzi on the palm of his gauntlet.

He glanced down at the satchel. He needed to present the gauntlet and prove its merit to Father. That, and convince the elder of his proficiency as a spiritsmith. Then, and only then, would he ask if he could enter the School of Rising Sun to study what he yearned to study.

But first, he needed to pass this test.

A servant handed him a blank scroll, a quill, and an inkwell. He dipped the point of the feather in the inkwell before scratching characters onto the blank parchment. He’d practiced calligraphy for years, so sketching hanzi was a breeze. He went as fast as he dared, unable to enjoy any of what he was doing with the thought of his presentation looming overhead.

When he was done, he placed the quill aside. As a servant took the scroll away and presented it to Elder Shinye, Ti’Lee reached for his satchel and placed it on his lap. The elder held the scroll with both hands, his smile wide with delight. His aged eyes scanned the page, the air still.

Ti’Lee’s grasp on his satchel tightened. He had to show the gauntlet. It was now, or never.