Shika Truthsworn screamed her throat raw trying to drown out a host of anguished cries. She could see nothing but endless blackness, which made her wonder . . . Am I dead? Is this the Netherworld? The terrified shrieks grew unbearably loud, their discordant cries scraping her ears. A burning weight settled in her chest, making her cheeks burn with shame.

Shame?

For what?

“For the souls you murdered,” a playful, girlish voice whispered. “Oh!” She giggled. “I mean, for the souls we murdered. You couldn’t have done it without me . . .”

Shika touched her temple as the voice trailed off. She almost responded to the unexpected comment, but the tormented howls grated on her, consuming all of her attention. She wanted out of this dark abyss! As she lowered her hand, her fingers brushed the lids of her eyes.

They were closed.

She tried opening them, but they felt as if they were sealed with a layer of sap. She trembled, focusing her will on what should have been the simple task of opening her eyes. Grating her teeth, she reached up and tore her lids apart.

She was greeted by a blurry view of the sky. The screaming, hellish choir went still. She tensed, ears buzzing, half expecting someone to pounce on top of her and shout in her face. When she blinked again, her vision cleared.

Massive cumulus clouds, like floating pieces of cotton, hovered through the azure expanse. A warm breeze brushed her face, rustling her wet clothes. She frowned. Wet? Lifting her head, she gasped. Her black and white robe was spattered with blood.

She stared. Numb.

Where did this come from? And why—

Someone was lying next to her.

With a yelp, she flinched away, looking upon the face of a man with black eyes and bared teeth, his expression a twisted mask of pain.

And he was lying in a sticky pool of black gore.

“Oh my . . .” A sick feeling settled in her gut. When she caught a whiff of the coppery scent, nausea bubbled up in her stomach. Then she noticed that the head wasn’t connected with its body. She turned as bile burst from her mouth. She grimaced, the bitter taste of stomach acid making her tongue tingle. She glanced off to one side, refusing to look at the dead man.

But that only made things worse.

Four decapitated bodies lay in pieces several feet away. Beyond them, dozens of corpses littered the clearing. Shredded tents and slaughtered cows speckled the carnage. Towering white aspens—their trunks cut with thousands of deep grooves, their blazing orange leaves dripping with black blood—surrounded the glade.

Shika blinked tears, her heart aching. Her brows creased in concentration as she racked her mind for . . . something. Why was she here? Why did she kill these—

Her chest constricted in pain. She gasped, clutching it as she sat up. No, she thought, shaking her head. I didn’t kill anyone!

“Yes you did,” the girlish voice whispered.

“Who are you!” Shika looked around, as if expecting one of the corpses to sit up and talk. Her hand twitched. She glanced down, splaying her fingers. Her hand was covered in what looked like wet ink.

As she gawked at it, heart pounding in her chest, she noticed something even more unnerving. The veins along her arm were black. Her meridians—the incorporeal veins branching through her soul—pulsed as they cycled a chilling substance to her dantian. It sat behind her navel, and to her mind’s eye, it was the shape of a sphere. Thick darkness swirled from within, mixing with the silver hue of her Path.

A memory clicked into place.

Her Path.

It was given to her by a master of kendo—a martial arts style focused primarily on the sword. On instinct, she placed a hand on her hip, searching for her katana.

It was lying on the grass next to her, blade slightly curved, light reflecting off its bloodstained surface. Her heart nearly stopped. She found herself shaking her head in disbelief.

When it comes down to preserving the life of your friends, or preserving the life of our world, her master once said, you choose the world.

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She grabbed her head with a trembling hand. The blackness staining her fingers grew ice cold. When her palm went numb, she looked at it. The face of a young girl peeked from the dark goop. Her hair swayed as if caught in an undersea current. Her features—from her wide innocent eyes, to her cute button nose, and even down to her soft lips—were completely and utterly black.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Don’t you like killing people?”

Shika gawked.

“Oh, I know what it is!” She smiled. “You’re just not used to it yet.” She gave a satisfied nod, as if the issue was resolved. “It’s been a long time . . .”

Shika swallowed. “A . . . long time?” she whispered.

“Since I’ve interacted with humans.” She shuddered. “Far too long. But hey, no need to worry. Just a few more days and we’ll be best friends, killing as we go!” Her smile broadened. “Isn’t that exciting?”

It was all coming back to her, one horrible memory at a time.

“Yuèliàng?” Shika said.

“That’s not my real name, you know.”

“But it is one of them?”

Yuèliàng stretched out a slender arm and grabbed her chin, tapping it with one of her fingers. Eventually, she shrugged. “Sure, but could you call me Chaos?” She gave a broad smile, her eyes widening. “Or maybe even Shadow! Ooh, or . . .”

As Yuèliàng rambled on, a terrible weight settled on Shika’s shoulders. The past was crawling back, scraping her conscience, like a burning line of marching fire ants.

She was sent to find the spirit Yuèliàng, and her brother Tàiyáng. Their pieces were scattered all across the empire, hidden deep within the earth or locked up in spiritually enhanced vaults.

Bonding with either one of them was fatal.

But . . .

She glanced over at the decapitated man. His black eyes glared into hers, his expression a depiction of pained rage. She winced, unable to hold that dead gaze.

. . . She’d been cornered.

Accepting Yuèliàng into her dantian—or spirit core—had been her only real option.

She could almost see Master Yī’s lips as they curled into a self-satisfied grin.

What did I tell you? It seemed to say. The bond was inevitable. Then, he shrugged. What’s done is done. You have one of the spirits. Now, find the other!

Shika sat up straight. He was hundreds of miles away, but it sounded as if he’d yelled straight into her ear.

Yuèliàng was still rambling, going on about the virtues of mold and decay. She trailed off when she noticed Shika’s tense posture. “What?” She looked right, then left. “Are we in danger?”

“No . . .” Master Yī’s words lingered in her mind. Had he spoken telepathically? Honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if he could. He was a Sage, after all.

“Too bad.” Yuèliàng gave a dramatic sigh. “I was looking forward to another round of destruction.”

Shika reached out, and clutched the hilt of her katana with her goo-covered hand.

“Hey!” Yuèliàng shouted, voice muffled. Darkness enveloped the sword, making it look as if it’d been forged from shadow.

Shika focused on the weapon, ignoring the bloody corpses in her peripheral vision. Guilt pressing into her like a hot knife.

Now, find the other!

Tàiyáng.

Yuèliàng’s opposite.

The key to one of the Torment Gates.

A solution to a free world. She held that vision in her mind, blocking out the horrified expressions of those she’d slaughtered. “Death is but a transition,” Yuèliàng sent to Shika’s mind. “All things must die. We only sped up the process.”

Shika took a deep breath, drawing on the energy of her spirit core. Maqi—the lifeblood and spiritual energy of the soul—spread through her meridians. Its usual silver luster was tinged black. She was at the peak of her Gold Core, so it should have been a much prettier color.

She crouched, preparing to lunge.

Find Tàiyáng.

Before setting out to this location, Master Yī had informed her where to find Yuèliàng. As for Tàiyáng, his instructions were vague, but no less telling. Some of the wángs have parts of the spirit locked within vaults. It is up to you to find out which of them do.

Shika looked to the sky, searching for the sun. It was dipping toward the south. As her memory returned in full force, she remembered where she was. And she knew where she needed to go.

East. Toward the Steelfire Province.

There, she would seek an audience with Wáng Heatfaze.

She took a deep breath, cycling her polluted maqi. When she exhaled, black mist trailed from her mouth, rising past her bald head. She took one more breath, steadying her mind.

Then she shot forward, throwing up a spray of dirt.

Her katana trailed wisps of darkness. “I am hungry for blood.”

“Quiet.” As Shika darted across a blanket of bright orange leaves, passing sentinel aspens, she cycled maqi through her meridians, towards her sword arm. She held back the darkness, grasping it with her spiritual energy, keeping it in check. “I am in charge.” She cringed, horrid scenes of her heartless brutality flashing before her mind. “There will be no unnecessary blood spilled.”

Yuèliàng chuckled. “We will see.”