The Jade Empire - Official story

[Whiskii]

Min could not help but notice Jizhong’s distraught searching through the ruins of the fortress.

She had not slept much that night. The older man had woken her up after Tung-Bai had apparently went poking around his side of the camp. She awoke with a start when he draped his coat over her shoulders, shaken from the same old dream she seemed to have over and over again — the cages, the boat and the blood. No matter how she told herself that she would never return to that place, her mind refused to listen.

But she silently stood up, and stalked him like a shadow deeper into the ruins. He did not see her, she made sure of it. She saw him search among the shattered stones for something, his expression contorted with despair. Concealing herself behind a chunk of broken wall, she kneeled in the rubble and prayed in silence, that he would find solace somehow; she did not have to be close to him to pray for him — Min did not believe in such restrictions. The wooden beads of her rosary rattled softly as she wrapped them around her fingers and crossed herself. She did not exactly know how to use them, but at least the weight of it gave her security.

When Daiyu called her, she jumped and immediately concealed her rosary in her robe. Lest they call her a traitor to the Qing. Though, judging from the company she now kept, perhaps there was a chance they would not see her as one if she were to risk her neck by revealing her doubts in their gods.

She resolved to wait and see.

As they went further westward, following the strange wooden bird and the Foreign girl who owned it, Min felt Tung-Bai shiver. She struggled to discern if it was from fear or excitement. Neither had her little automaton friend been so expressive before.

The pit of dread in her gut returned with a vengeance. She did not like this at all. And her questions had not yet been answered.

“Who is Locke?” she said to the group, “And what does he want to do?”

Tala turned her gaze towards her. The child had eyes that shone with wisdom beyond her years, as well as a power Min did not understand.

“He seeks power and domination,” said Tala, “If he gets what he’s looking for, who knows the devastation he will bring.”

Jizhong’s voice was steady and calm, a far cry from the distress Min watched him express earlier. Perhaps he hid it well.

“Locke is building an echo-machine,” he said to her, “He is hoping to harness its powers for his own nefarious purposes.”

Min’s hand instinctively went to her sword,

“And what is this machine?” she said.

Jizhong was silent for a moment, as if debating whether to relieve her of the bliss of her ignorance. Then he spoke,

“It will turn him into a god. Or at least, as close as a man can get to one.”

Anger flared in her chest.

“Impossible!” Min spat, “No man can become like God!”

Her heart dropped when she realised what had just come out of her mouth, and she hurried to correct herself,

“… or any god.” she said, turning her eyes to the ground, “This… Locke should not be allowed to continue his work. I will cut his heart from his chest if that is what stops him.”

A brief twinge of fear and guilt made her ball her fists. However, her anger still burned at the hubris of this man she had never met. How dare a mere man try to become divine? She hoped and prayed it would end badly for him, no matter how hard he tried to achieve it; she cursed him with her lips, that he will fail and suffer the consequences of his pride.

Methodically, she then snuffed out her anger, not desiring to be carrying such a weight for now. But she knew it would likely rise again once she met Locke face to face.

 

[Louanne Learning]

The dirt road cut through dense forest pressing in on both sides. Cedarheart and Shiyun, in the forward position, glided like arrows on a mission, leading the group on auto-bikes. Daiyu, the driver, and Tala, the passenger, rode at the head of the column. A strange foreboding clawed at Tala’s stomach.

The road brought them to a clearing centered by a lonely cabin. The single-story structure, built of rough-hewn pine logs, belched grey smoke by a large clay pipe through its steeply-pitched roof. Yellow chickens clucked in the yard. The flying automatons landed on the roof of a rickety outbuilding. The riders parked, and dismounted. Rennie, in Mandarin, called out, “Hallo! Anybody home?”

An old Chinese woman, dressed in brown homespun, appeared in the doorway of the cabin. Her face was lined with the rivers of time, and she held her chin high. “My tongue is talented,” she said, in loud and clear English. “It knows many languages.” Hooded-eyed, she peered up to Cedarheart and Shiyun, on the roof of the shed. “My gratitude to you for bringing the Storm Wind,” she called out to them.

They clucked in return, and the hairs on the back of Tala’s neck stood up, not only because Cedarheart and Shiyun knew this old woman with the twinkling eyes, but also because this stranger hinted at a story her Duwamish mother, a keeper of songs, had told her—The Story of the Storm Wind.

The woman took a few steps into the yard, and passed around a charming smile. “I am Yìmèng,” she announced. “I am not the right hand, but I am the left hand. There is honor in it. The Tao tells us that, on occasions of festivity, to be on the left hand is the prized position. The left hand is rare! And so, I delight in your presence here.”

“Ou, aye, ye’ve a smile sent from above,” Rennie replied, with a no-nonsense pucker, “but we are tired an’ hungry, an’ ‘tis well beyond our ken why the devil we are even here.”

Yìmèng’s eyes flared on him, as if with awe. “Ah!” she remarked, with joy. “A dragon is brought to me. Very well, very well—” her eyes strayed to Tala, and pinned a look on her, “—and this is the baby dragon who will see for us.”

Affronted, Tala recoiled. “I am Słux̱ʷił Yəhaw̓,” she retorted, with pride, “of the Dəwʔámish people, the people of the inside waters. I am no baby—I am no dragon—I am the whale, I am the eagle, I am the salmon—”

“But they are all the same,” Yìmèng replied, with wide-eyed glee. “All existence sprang from the same source. And to the source, we must return—we will return.”

Tala furrowed her brow. “Enough of your riddles,” she groused.

Softly, Yìmèng chuckled. “Born a dragon, and live as a tiger, eh?” she teased.

Jiàn leaned forward, and demanded, “Who are you?”

She frowned, not unkindly, but in considered thought. “I am one,” she replied, in an even voice, “who understands all that takes place under the sky, without going outside my door. Now, I invite you inside my door. I have some good smoked meat.”

***

The satisfying meal was ample, as though Yìmèng had been expecting company. The trestle table, large enough to accommodate the entire group, basked in the warmth from the stone hearth. Yìmèng, flanked by Tala and Rennie, sat the head of the table. Beside Rennie sat Daiyu, then Shaohua. Beside Tala sat Jiàn, then Min.

Over the mantelpiece hung a large yellow paper with red ink charms, a Taoist talisman. “Is that some kind of weird magic to ward off demons?” Min asked, with her eyes on the scroll.

Tala stiffened. “Min, that’s not polite—”

“Quite alright,” Yìmèng put in. She sipped her tea. “I think you will find, that magic has its place.”

Min compressed her lips, as if gathering up courage “Better to revere the one, true God,” she said, in a tentative tone. “Jesus Christ tells us, that we should live by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.”

“Ah, yes, I know this Jesus Christ,” Yìmèng replied, unperturbed. “I agree with much of his philosophy. I agree, blessed are the meek. I am not so sure, though, that all authority on heaven and earth was given to him. What a pity, that he should die the humiliating death of a slave—”

“And in so doing,” Min shot back, “upturn the moral ranking of the whole world.”

After a brief silence, Yìmèng gave a little shrug. “Truth,” she said, “does not change, no matter which way the wind blows.”

Mention of the wind prodded Tala. Leaning forward, she asked the old woman, “What did you mean before? When you said our machines brought Storm Wind to you?”

“What do you know of Storm Wind?” Yìmèng asked.

“My mother told me his story,” Tala replied. “He was the son of Mountain Woman and South Wind. North Wind covered all of the land in ice and snow, but Storm Wind chased him away. Otherwise, we would be cold and hungry, all of the time.”

Yìmèng smiled, and nodded. “The time has arrived for us to get to the purpose of your visit,” she said.

She eased herself up from her chair, and ambled to a wooden cupboard. From it, she withdrew a large red-glazed bowl and brought it to the table, setting it between Tala and Rennie. Inside the bowl a dozen black rocks, each one about the size of a fist, shone. She sat down, then set a stern eye on Tala. “You are our eyes, our voice,” she said, then turned her gaze to Rennie, “and you are our wind—”

“Whoa!” Rennie exclaimed. “Ye’ve got the wrong man. I’m no’ the man ye’re looking for. I am no’ even from these parts—”

Yìmèng stilled him with a hand on his arm. “There are many paths up the mountain,” she said. “Your path began in the hilly country of your birth.” She swivelled her eyes to Tala. “Słux̱ʷił Yəhaw̓, your path brought you across an ocean.” With a glare of fortitude, she met the eyes of each member of the group, then added, “But all paths lead to the same summit, in the winding and majestic mountains.”

Tala reeled. “I don’t know what is expected of me,” she said, in a breathy whisper.

“Look into the rocks,” Yìmèng bade her.

Tala obeyed. The rocks began to shimmer, and then they glowed with a strange, blue light. The iridescent shafts swirled up, as if on a mission, as if they knew where to go, and enveloped Rennie. Tala met his penetrating eyes, which suddenly flashed with lightning. His eyebrows turned into feathers, his hair rose in gusts, and his outline blurred and shifted, as if he had become dark clouds roiling across the sky. His mind spoke to her, without sound, and said, “Our wings will sweep rain across the land.”

The light faded, leaving Tala shaken.

“What did ye see?” Rennie asked.

She put both hands up against her forehead. “You are Storm Wind,” she replied.

***

Master Gyatso enjoyed feeding the birds. He drew his cloak tightly around himself and went out to call his friends to him. The nutcrackers thanked him for the pine seeds. The nuthatches came down from the frozen tree trunks for his offerings. The graceful finches danced for him. And then, from the snow-dusted rhododendron forest, a brilliant pheasant strutted towards him. “Aren’t you a lovely fellow,” Gyatso remarked.

The pheasant bowed his head. Instantly, Gyatso knew the meaning of the gesture. “Storm Wind has arrived,” he said, hardly believing it himself.

 

[ellekaldwin]

Jiàn watched the scene unfold with the stillness of a drawn blade. The old woman’s words curled through the air like incense smoke; slow, heavy, inescapable. She told herself to dismiss them as superstition, but her heart betrayed her. Something deep within her recognized this moment. When Tala’s small hands hovered over the bowl of stones, when that blue light rose like mist from the earth, Jiàn felt it: the same resonance she’d felt years ago when the mist blade chose her. A hum that wasn’t sound but memory, as if the world itself had remembered her name.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t let her expression falter. But the pulse of it rang through her chest, echoing down into the sword across her knees.

Her companions shifted uneasily. Shaohua watched with furrowed thought, Daiyu’s bright eyes seemed to gleam with their own light, and Min crossed herself in defiance of her own fear. Rennie alone seemed rooted, jaw set, eyes bright with a storm he could not yet name.

When the light faded, silence pressed in. Yìmèng smiled with the serenity of someone who had simply adjusted the course of a river.

“You will stay here tonight,” the old woman said. “The storm outside is not of wind or rain, but of what is waking beneath both. The wise do not walk through it until the morning.”

Jiàn’s first instinct was to refuse. She distrusted anyone who spoke of fate so lightly. But destiny, true destiny, was not light. It was weight. It was gravity. And she had felt it stir again tonight.

She inclined her head. “We will stay.”

Later, when the cabin grew quiet, Jiàn sat near the doorway, sword unsheathed across her knees. The mist blade shimmered faintly in the lamplight, thin trails of vapor curling from its edge like sleeping breath. She brushed her thumb along its ridge.

She thought of Master Wen’s laughter beneath the plum blossoms, of Gyatso’s calm eyes as he told her she would one day be called back to the world. He had said that destiny was not a chain, but a current, one that could only be met head-on.

And now, she could feel it again, tugging at them all. Toward what, she did not yet know.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, dark storm clouds formed on the horizon.


Tala woke before dawn. Her breath came fast, her palms damp. The dream clung to her — lightning cracking open the clouds, the shape of wings made of smoke, and a voice whispering her name through the storm.

The air inside Yìmèng’s cabin felt charged, humming like the inside of a machine before it moves. Cedarheart was gone.

Her pulse spiked. She slipped from her blanket and padded to the door, careful not to wake Jiàn or the others. The mist outside was thick, curling like pale hands around the trees.

“Cedarheart?” she whispered in her mother tongue.

A faint trill answered, warped and uncertain. Following it, she found the drone hovering in the clearing, its cedar wings twitching erratically. Blue filaments of light crawled across its body, pulsing with a rhythm she could almost understand, like a heartbeat caught between worlds.

“Hey, it’s alright,” she murmured, stepping closer. “You’re safe.”

Cedarheart’s eyes fixed on her. For a moment, the sound it made wasn’t mechanical — it was alive. A soft, frightened keening, almost human.

Then came the voice, not from Cedarheart, but carried on the mist itself; Yìmèng’s, calm and distant. “The winds have changed, child. Storm Wind stirs. The path has begun to open.”

Tala turned, startled, but saw only the fog. The cabin loomed dimly behind her. Through the window, she glimpsed Jiàn at the door, the mist blade faintly glowing against her lap.

Cedarheart rose a few inches higher, its wings stiffening as though bracing for flight. The air rippled, and somewhere above the fog, a deep, thrumming sound moved through the heavens, vast and alive.


Jiàn had not slept. The old woman’s house breathed around her; timbers sighing as they settled, the faint hiss of a kettle cooling on the hearth. Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy with the scent of wet earth and plum blossoms. From her place by the shuttered window, Jiàn watched the courtyard shimmer under the moonlight, every puddle a mirror of the pale, turning clouds.

A movement caught her eye: a slender shape crossing the yard, barefoot, hair unbound. Tala. The girl drifted through the mist like a sleepwalker, her cedar drone hovering close, its eyes burning a dim amber. The machine’s hum came in uneven pulses.

Jiàn rose silently, her bare feet brushing the weathered pine, and slipped through the door into the premature dawn. The ground was slick beneath her soles, the mud cold enough to bite. She moved to where Tala knelt beside Cedarheart, the machine trembling faintly as if caught between fever and dream.

“She’s changing,” Tala murmured, fingers splayed across the drone’s shell. The wooden plates shivered under her touch, scattering motes of blue light into the dark. “Ever since the heart opened. She’s hearing something far away…and I-I can’t follow.”

Jiàn crouched beside her, the mist curling through her hair. “Even the oldest spirits change,” she said softly. “When they awaken, they must find their new shape.”

“But it’s too much.” Tala’s voice trembled. “The clock… Rennie… Locke… it’s all too much. I don’t understand any of it.” Tears filled her brown eyes as she looked up at Jiàn. “I just want to go home.”

The words struck Jiàn harder than she expected, cutting through the steel calm she’d worn since the night of the fire. Home. The word echoed like a temple bell. She had not spoken of her own in years.

Without thinking, she reached out and drew the girl close. Tala stiffened, then sagged against her shoulder, shaking with quiet sobs. Jiàn held her there, feeling the tremor of youth and fear, the scent of rain and oil in her hair.

“Hush,” she whispered. “Fate never asks if we are ready. It only comes. But you are not alone in it.”

Cedarheart stirred beside them, vents releasing a slow exhale of steam. The mist around them shimmered faintly, catching the pale light until it seemed the air itself was alive, breathing with them, weeping with them.


Dawn crept in slowly, a pale breath seeping through the cracks of the old woman’s house. The mist still clung to the eaves, turning the courtyard into a blurred painting of silver and green. One by one, they stirred — the uneasy, wordless kind of morning that follows dreams too heavy to name.

Jiàn was the first to rise, already binding her hair and checking her blade. Tala moved quietly, eyes shadowed but steady, Cedarheart humming faintly beside her like a loyal hound still half in recovery. Shaohua helped Min shoulder their packs; Daiyu folded the bedding with meticulous care. Rennie sat apart, cleaning his rifle, his movements sharp and restless.

The old woman waited for them by the door, her wrinkled hands busy tying up small bundles of dried fruit, steamed buns, and tea leaves. “The road ahead is not kind,” she said, placing each parcel into Jiàn’s hands. “But kindness finds its way to those who carry purpose.” Her eyes lingered on Rennie, gleaming with a knowing that made him shift uneasily.

He tipped his head, muttered a thank-you, but couldn’t shake the chill her gaze left. Something about this place — the smell of incense, the faint ticking that seemed to echo beneath the floorboards — made his skin crawl. Magic, fate, machines that breathed. He’d had enough of all three.

When Jiàn turned toward the gate, her cloak snapping in the wind, Rennie found himself watching Daiyu instead. She was laughing softly at something Min had said, her face alight in a way he hadn’t seen since before all this madness began, when he found her dressed as a boy with dirt smeared on her cheek and a grimace on her lips. The early sun caught the edge of her hair, a glint of gold against the gray morning.

For a heartbeat, the thought crossed his mind: he could take her and go. Slip away down the mountain paths, leave the heart, the girl, the cursed machines behind. He’d done it before; walking away was his only art.

But when she turned toward him, smiling, the decision was gone before it ever formed. He looked down at Daisy, the rifle cool in his hands, and exhaled.

To hell with it.

If she was walking into fire, then that’s where he’d go too.

 

[Whiskii]

Bertrand was right. Locke was indeed searching for something.

And judging by how his Cog-Hound liked to stare at the American and growl, it likely was not something good.

The digging machines were monstrous things that chewed away at dirt and stone with crushing steel jaws. Locke watched them eat at the rock wall of a seemingly random cave in the mountains outside the city with the same intensity he had when the earth shook.

Bertrand’s brother directed the men at the machines, but Locke gave him no mind.

Bertrand merely stood back and watched, his gaze boring holes into the men at work. With every meter cleared by the machine’s jaws, the deeper the pit in his gut became. Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t right. But he could not put his finger on exactly why. The air was thick with… something. Whether it was dread or something else, he could not identify it.

Knowing he wouldn’t be noticed, he took his leave, exiting the cave mouth into the surrounding wilderness. He was dressed light today, though his coat remained padded as usual even in the warmer weather. His Cog-Hound paced at his heels, occasionally sighing with a hiss of steam. The clockwork beast was rather new, its copper and brass parts still shiny and fresh from the factories.

He walked as far away from the cave as he could, though he made sure that he could retrace his steps just in case. The surrounding trees tittered with birds in the midday sun, and for once in a long time, Bertrand took in a breath and tried to forget about the goings-on back in that dreadful place.

Until the ground shook.

A searing pain shot through his shoulders and he fell to his knees with a shout. His Cog-Hound barked wildly in the direction of the cave he had just left, while he could not move his arms. The pain was worse than last time and he did not understand why.

As he was beset with another bout of agony, through the haze of pain he spied what looked like a small rusted snake — its face covered in greenish patches like oxidising copper — poking its head through the grass to peer curiously at him with glass eyes.

---

Min could not sleep. The old woman’s house was cold after the fire had died, and her night was once again filled with memories she wished to forget. She wondered how long will she have to endure sleepless nights, as she sat staring into the darkness, cross-legged on the straw mat that served as her bed on the mud floor. The others slumbered, while she was once again in that cage when she closed her eyes.

Deciding there was no point in trying to sleep anymore, she put up her hair and gingerly stepped over Daiyu’s sleeping form to retrieve her erhu from her bag. If she was not going to sleep, perhaps it was more worth her time to get some practice in. She tried not to rattle her things too loudly, lest she wake anyone up. Tung-Bai stuck its head out of her bag and watched her with its glassy eyes as she pulled on her coat and shoes.

She pressed a finger to her lips, as if the snake could make much noise at all.

It ducked back into her bag, and emerged with her rosary in its mouth with a look that was almost expectant. She said nothing, but took the rosary as soon as she was ready. Before she took her leave, she tapped a finger to Tung-Bai’s head and told it to stay. It bowed, and slunk back to hide amongst the rest of her things.

Min crept into the kitchen, in the hopes of squeezing out of the door leading into the field behind the house. Yimeng sat on a stool by the fire. The memory of the old woman’s words from earlier the previous day, about the incantation written on the yellow paper — the fulu, replayed in her mind. It was not that Min had not seen such things before. After all, she had once worn a talisman herself, one that her father had given her for protection from danger. Not that it stopped men with malicious intent.

Briefly, anger rose up in her chest, though she stopped it from taking hold of her and festering. Instead, she smiled at Yimeng — a genuine, cheerful one,

“Good evening, grandmother. Why are you not asleep yet?”

Yimeng smiled slowly,

“When you get to my age, girl, you may find that sleep does not come easy.”

Min chuckled bitterly,

“Sleep does not come easy to me now, grandmother. It has not for a long time,” she said, “But the gods did not hear my wish of a restful night.”

Yimeng continued to smile thinly,

“And the white devil god did?”

Min exhaled a breath to stop herself from shaking as her anger once again reared its ugly face. She fought to push it away, knowing it would not lead to anything good,

“Yes,” she said.

“But yet you are restless still. Surely your god is powerful enough to give you sleep? If he is so much a god at all…”

Within the wave of anger Min found herself enduring, came a rush of sadness,

“I wish you do not mock me so, grandmother. I have suffered much, and have finally found solace,” she said, her voice quivering, “I do not wish to be treated like an ignorant foolish child who knows nothing — because I am a young woman and a child no longer, though I do not know everything, and may sometimes act foolish or say foolish things.”

Yimeng nodded,

“But yet you suffer still. How can you say you have found solace when you evidently have no peace?”

For a moment, Min was silent,

“I have peace despite my suffering, so it is not for nothing,” she said after a pause, “My hope is that you find the same on your own volition, and not by force.”

Before Yimeng could reply, she continued,

“Goodnight, grandmother. Do sleep soon.”

As quickly and silently as she could, Min made her way out of the back door into the field outside. She sat herself on a patch of dry grass, out of sight from the back doorway, and set her erhu in her lap. The strange weight on her heart still remained.

“Tianzhu, bless grandmother Yimeng. Give her a long, healthy life,” she said, and meant it with all her heart.

Briefly, she considered what to play. The sky above her head was scattered with stars, while the crescent moon smiled down at her in the silence of the night. The air was still, silent and cold; a part of her wished to be back home in the humid waterways of Guangzhou.

So she played a song about the moon’s reflection in a fountain, until she tired of it and lay down in the grass to succumb to an almost-peaceful sleep.

When she awoke covered in dew, the sun way beginning to shine through the trees. Jizhong had found her there, informing her that it was time to leave.

“Why were you sleeping there? Wasn’t it cold?” he said, as she tailed him back to the house.

Min waved away his remark,

“I could not sleep. Let us move on.”

Jizhong only looked concerned,

“I notice you have dreams. Enough to make you sleep little.”

The same bitterness in her heart from last night welled up once again.

“My dreams are none of your concern, big brother Jizhong,” she said, “But I thank you for thinking about me. You do not treat me like a silly little girl as others do, and for that I am grateful.”

She helped him pack up their things. But as she was rolling up her sleeping mat, Jizhong suddenly looked up at her,

“So, you worship the Foreigners’ god…” he said, “… why?”

Min sighed. So she was overheard last night. She did not know how he could have possibly heard her speak in the kitchen. But she chose not to think much of it.

“Many reasons. I have prayed to so many gods before, but they were silent,” she said, “Guan-Yin did not grant me her soothing mercy, Zhong Kui did not chase away my demons, nor did Laozi give me his wisdom. I have burned incense at their altars in vain. But Tianzhu, the “white devil” god answered me.”

“Go ahead and think me mad, or a fool in need of correction. I do not care any longer about what anyone thinks,” she added.

Her words sounded more bitter than she intended them to. A twinge of regret squeezed her chest at that.

She put away her straw mat and her erhu in her bag and hoped she did not have to suffer any more mockery, especially from someone she had grown to see as a friend. Tung-Bai slipped out of her bag and into her sleeve, to end up circled around her neck once again while she returned her cutlass to its place on her belt. Meanwhile, Jizhong did not reply.

Then, they were out on the road again. Min had tried to say goodbye to Yimeng, but the old woman did not look her in the eye. So she only smiled and took her leave, preferring to proceed peacefully and leave it all behind. The road stretched out before them, growing rocky the further they climbed. Min wondered if their bikes could stand the strain of such uneven ground, though she quickly received her answer.

The ground suddenly shook once again, but the tremor was all the more violent, enough for them to be thrown off their bikes. Min broke her fall with outstretched arms, the skin of her palms slashed by the jagged gravel of the road. Shaking herself out of her daze, she was quick to realise Tung-Bai’s familiar weight was missing from her neck. Glancing around anxiously, she spied the Copper Serpent’s form darting through the grass, away from the road and into the wilderness beyond. With only one thought on her mind, she picked herself up and raced into the trees after Tung-Bai, ignoring the surprised shouts of her companions.

She pushed her way through the dense bush, ignoring the stinging of her hands. Distantly, she heard what sounded like the barking of a dog as another tremor almost made her lose her balance. She ran on in the direction of the noise, though not after unsheathing her sword.

Bursting through the trees into a clearing, she spied Tung-Bai in the grass alongside a surprising sight: a Foreigner — a young man who looked only a few years older than her, kneeling contorted in the dirt with stains on his fine clothes. His eyes, quite dark for those of a Westerner, were scrunched in agony, as his clockwork dog barked wildly. And as another tremor shook the earth, she saw him grit his teeth as his arms seemed to go limp.

She returned her sword to its place on her belt.

“Are you alright, sir?” she called, stumbling amidst the tremor as she made her way over to him.

His voice was an agonised hiss,

“… my arms. I cannot move them,” he said in poor Mandarin.

Min did not recognise his accent, but she moved to help him to sit upright, helping him to a nearby tree so he could lean on it. The Foreigner’s clockwork dog paced over to lie down next to him and keep him company. While Tung-Bai had made its way back to coil itself around her neck, she made note of the Foreigner’s gloved hands.

“Your gloves. Can I take them off?” she said.

His eyes widened in what appeared to be abject horror,

“Please, no!” he cried, “Don’t touch them!”

Now that he had recovered somewhat and the tremors had seemed to cease, his Mandarin was much improved. He even began to move properly again, sitting up to pet his large clockwork dog. He cleared his throat and offered his hand to shake, which she took.

“I should introduce myself,” he smiled, “I am Bertrand.”

“Min,” she said.

In fact, she felt he was quite nice-looking for a Foreigner. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her that she looked terrible from weeks of constant travel. She had always known that she was not pretty like Daiyu or the daughters of magistrates and merchants — her hands were thickly calloused and her skin was tan, nor did she have dainty, delicate movements. She could not afford fine embroidered silk coats, brocade mamian skirts and bangles of gold and jade to adorn herself. Men looked upon her with scorn, both as a traitor because of her faith, and a wily mannish shrew in need of silencing. But all of this had never occurred to her as being a particular issue, until now. For the first time, Min found she was dissatisfied with her ugliness.

But this Foreigner was different. He did not seem cold and distantly angry like Rennie, nor did he spit on her or dismiss her as one would a servant like so many Foreigners before. He was open to her help and even introduced himself to her, meeting her with warmer eyes.

She turned to look, as her companions burst through the trees after her.