Youxia stood before Abbot Channarong’s vast double doors, staring down the terrible face of a golden dragon. It must have taken years to paint, each brushstroke forming intricate details, like the thousands of scales beautifying her serpentine hide, and the millions of lines forming the flaming geyser spraying from her gaping jaws.

Youxia took a deep breath, trying to still his slamming heart. As air filled his lungs, vital aura flowed into his soul, mixing with the maqi pumping through his meridians.

His bondspirit hovered above his shoulder, giving him a sidelong glance. Dark essence, like flowing tendrils of fog, stretched from its shadowy form. Its one reptilian eye gazed into his face, as if uncertain.

“Why do you hesitate, child?” the abbot’s voice whispered to his mind.

The hair on the back of Youxia’s neck stood on end. He dropped to his knees, pressing his scarred forehead into the black jade floor. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat tightened, his chest clenching with the memory of his failure. The abbot had given him the responsibility to keep an eye on Mon-Jasmine. And now, he had no idea where she was.

“Arise and enter . . .” The vast double doors opened, and blade aura washed over him. It was cold as steel, scraping against his skin like millions of minuscule knives. It didn’t hurt in the least, thanks to his Ironhide Silver Body, but even an uncultivated soul could stand unharmed in the presence of this much aura.

Youxia rose to his feet, his black wraparound robe tight against his muscled body. He cast his one good eye into the room ahead, not bothering to peer through the lens of his shadowy bondspirit.

Abbot Channarong sat cross-legged at the center of the room, hands on his knees, eyes closed. His skin was the shade of polished platinum, his long hair white as snow. The folds of his robe were a mix of black and white stripes, the sleeves loose around the wrists. His expression was calm, and he didn’t look a day past thirty, though Youxia knew better. This man had seen centuries come and go.

He sat in the middle of a vast, circular mosaic of the yin and yang. Six katanas surrounded the edge of the emblem, their points driven into the floor. Blade aura, like heat haze, radiated from the weapons, permeating the air with its frigid, cutting presence.

A hooded man in white robes stood to the right of the circle, hands folded within the roomy confines of his sleeves. A hooded woman in black stood on the left of the symbol, sword drawn.

Wall mounts dotted the tall walls, each one bearing a unique sword. One blade stretched fifteen feet, glowing with the embers of a dying flame. Next to it was a saber in the shape of a wing. It hovered in place, flowing with wind aura. Another looked as fragile as glass, with hanzi characters climbing up the center of its transparent blade.

“Welcome, Mon-Youxia,” Abbot Channarong said, his pleasant voice carrying throughout the room. The door’s behind Youxia closed, and he dropped to his knees, pressing his face into the white jade floor.

“Abbot Channarong,” his words scraped out, sounding painful even to his ears. The toxins he’d inhaled as a boy scarred his throat for life.

“Arise. What do you seek?”

Youxia rose to his feet, straightening his back. His bondspirit rested on his shoulder, trembling as it slowly sunk into his spirit. “Guidance.” His jaw clenched. “Mon-Jasmine is . . . missing.”

A soft smile crept on the abbot’s metallic face. “You lost her?”

Youxia stiffened, and he bowed his head. “I did.” There was no point in lying. If he didn’t want a sword through the chest, he needed to be as transparent as that glass blade. “I walked the streets of the Rising Sun sect, Scanned for her spirit, called her name . . .” He shook his head. “I take full responsibility for my failure.” He dropped to his knees, opening his arms wide, as to embrace the coming punishment.

The scraping of a drawn blade sent Youxia’s heart pounding, and his maqi started surging in desperate loops through his channels. He took a deep breath, calming his heart, focusing his breathing, slowing the flow of his maqi.

When the scrape of metal sounded again, several more times, Youxia stiffened. How many swords were being drawn? Were there hidden monks and nuns drawing weapons?

Youxia peeked with his one eye.

No one had drawn a weapon.

The abbot was laughing, his mirth echoing like the cutting edge of a knife. “If I wanted you punished, I would have sent for you the moment you set foot on my property.” His smile broadened as his eyes opened. They were covered in a milky white film. “Mon-Jasmine’s absence isn’t as bad as you make it out to be.”

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Youxia frowned in confusion, lowering his arms. Do not let her out of your sight, the abbot had commanded. Guard her with your life.

They were to keep Mon-Jasmine contained, but not imprisoned. Struggling, but not tortured. Cycling, but never advancing. If she managed to break through to Tin, and make her way to Gold Core—or even worse, the Bond realm—Fate would not be happy.

And neither would the abbot.

“All is as it should be,” Channarong said, metallic skin gleaming in the light of several hanzi characters. They were etched in the rafters, glowing steadily. “The strings of Fate stretch continually before mine eyes. If we do nothing, the girl will return.” He took a deep breath, then exhaled, but his chest didn’t so much as expand. If Youxia didn’t know better, he’d think the man was a statue.

Youxia pushed his fists together and inclined his head. Despite the abbot’s reassuring words, his heart acted out again, pounding like a drum. When he imagined Jasmine wandering the Rising Sun sect alone, his chest tightened with worry. She was a lamb among wolves. Even if she managed to get out of the sect, wandering through the woods was just as dangerous. There were spirit-beasts with the cores of a Bronze, and some were even Silver. How would she make it back in one piece if—

“Would you look at that?” the abbot muttered.

Youxia glanced up at him. His eyes were closed, but a tangible force of perception flowed from his soul, undoubtedly stretching to envelop the entire monastery.

Youxia wanted to ask what he sensed, but he kept his mouth shut. In the last territory, his master Abbot Shiu would beat his pupils senseless if they spoke out of turn. That man was an infant compared to Channarong, and Youxia didn’t want to imagine what the man would do to him if he acted out.

“Mon-Jasmine has returned . . .” the abbot whispered.

Youxia shot to his feet, spirits rising.

“. . . Faster than expected.”

“Where is she?” Youxia crouched and the muscles in his legs tightened like a couple of loaded springs. “I’ll catch her, berate her, discourage her from ever—” The air around his throat tightened. He gagged, grabbing his neck as an invisible weight settled on his shoulders. He dropped to his knees, slamming them against the floor.

“You will do no such thing,” Channarong whispered, his words ringing with a dangerous edge.

Youxia’s cheeks burned. In his excitement, he’d completely lost any sense of propriety. It was an offense to rise without a superior’s consent, and to add insult to injury, he’d asked where the nun was without even consulting the abbot about his plans. “Forgive me,” he thought, trying his best to transfer his mentally expressed words to the abbot.

The grip around Youxia’s neck loosened, and he gasped as a weight lifted off his shoulders. Shadow-maqi pulsed from his spirit core, but he pushed it back in, stuffing it away.

“You will not interfere with Mon-Jasmine until I give the command,” the abbot said, eyes closed. “Fate is not to be interfered with, Mon-Youxia. Do you understand?”

Youxia nodded, bowing with his forehead pressed against the jade. “I understand,” he said, just in case the abbot missed his nod. “I will not interfere unless you say so.” His words were stale, void of emotion. It was how he kept from revealing the murderous rage boiling in his chest.

Master Yī, the man who introduced Kaithism to Tianhai, would never have treated him like this. He was a Sage, like Channarong, but he acted like everyone was his equal.

Why did he have to leave?

The abbot was chuckling, sounding like two blades scraping against one another, sharpening for the kill. “We walk a dangerous edge, my disciple. If we succeed, Mon-Jasmine will become one of our greatest allies. But . . .” The air grew chill, causing goosebumps to pucker on Youxia’s skin. “. . . if we fail, she may very well destroy us all.” Those words seemed to cut through the chill air, piercing Youxia to the core. He’d seen the vision. Channarong showed it to him. And the woman Jasmine could potentially become was terrifying.

“Stand,” the abbot ordered. Youxia straightened, then hurried to his feet. “Watch Mon-Jasmine from a distance. Keep her from spotting you. When she leaves the monastery again, you will be my eyes.”

Youxia pressed his fists together and bowed at the waist. The abbot said nothing more, which meant he was excused. He turned his back on the man and hurried to the vast double doors. The golden dragon was painted on this side too, her roaring face a terror to behold. Cities burned beneath her impossibly long, serpentine body. Men and women ran from the destruction, most getting struck by lightning.

The mural was but a shadow of what might be. If Youxia failed to balance the tightrope of Fate, the destruction was inevitable. Why not kill her? he thought, though he stiffened, knowing of the abbot’s disapproval. To do that would only force her down a path that would lead to their eventual annihilation, though he didn’t completely understand how, or why.

As the double doors opened, his resolve to keep that future from happening redoubled. Never again would he allow Jasmine to slip past his perception. He would die before he let that happen, because if he failed, Channarong would kill him, and maybe his sisters too. It would be difficult to find them, so at least they were safe . . .

At least, that’s what he liked to believe.

His debt to the chaos cult gnawed at the back of his mind, but he wouldn’t have to worry about that for years to come. For now, he’d focus on keeping an eye on Jasmine.

He’d worry about those demons later.