The ox-hide drum began to sound. A low, somber pulse.
It echoed from the banks of the Cai River, a place that should have been bustling with boats, now just a stretch of cracked, black mire stinking of dead fish. A crowd of gaunt figures stood motionless, silent. Despair had gnawed away even their prayers.
Overhead, the sun was a red-hot bronze platter, gazing down without feeling. Ninety-two days without rain.
In the temporary shrine, Ling Luo heard the drum. She kept her back straight. She was not wearing the "Divine-Offering Gown," as they called it. To her, this was a burial shroud.
Her hand, slender but calloused, was slowly wiping a pear-wood tablet. Her mother's memorial. The "Bride" from ten years ago.
The ancient Shaman-Blood in her veins allowed her to sense what others could not. She had known for years that the dragon's lair was not wrathful. It was lonely. A vast, imprisoned loneliness.
The Dragon Deity was real. But he was not demanding this.
Outside, a voice rose, deliberately drowning out the grieving wail of a mother whose child had just died of thirst.
The voice was warm, resonant, full of authority. "The cycle of the heavens turns! The drought is born of our karmic debt! He requires reverence! The Bride's sacrifice is the highest honor! To cleanse the debt, to pray for rain for all!"
Hearing the word "honor," Ling Luo's lips twisted. A cold smile no one saw.
He had said the exact same words ten years ago, just before her mother was offered.
She remembered her mother's whisper that last night: "Don't trust them, child. They don't fear the God. They only fear the River will stop giving them what they want."
The shrine's reed door was pulled aside.
Ling Luo stepped out, barefoot. The moment her foot touched the cracked earth, the searing heat lashed up. She faltered. Her toes instinctively curled, avoiding a fissure sharp as a blade. She took a breath, swallowing the burn. Then she walked straight.
She moved through the crowd, not looking at them, not looking at those who sighed in relief that it was not their daughter.
She passed the altar where the Great Shaman Master Void stood, his eyes still brimming with a kind, holy light.
As she walked past, he suddenly took a small step, blocking her path. He kept the benevolent smile glued to his face, a mask worn smooth by years of practice. But when he spoke, his voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her:
"Don't make this difficult, child. This death is an honor."
Ling Luo stopped. She looked directly into his eyes. A clear gaze, unafraid.
She said nothing.
And in that silence, she saw his fingers, hidden in his wide sleeve, gripping his bamboo whisk. The knuckles were white.
She brushed past him, walking toward the solo canoe draped in funeral flowers.
As her bare foot touched the boat's edge, she paused. Beneath the flowers, an ancient symbol was carved deep into the wood. An eye, sewn shut. It was not the symbol of the Cai River's Dragon Deity. It was older. And crueler.
She stepped into the boat.
It was pushed out. The chanting grew frantic. The horns wailed and shrieked. The stench of mud rose to meet her, like death breathing in her face.
The boat stopped, hovering directly over the black vortex.
Master Void raised his long, bronze-tipped bamboo pole, preparing for the final push. He began the last rites, his voice sounding a little rushed this time.
But Ling Luo stood up.
The chanting from Master Void died. He froze. The pole stopped in mid-air.
She stood on the fragile boat, her white robes whipping in the wind. She did not scream. She did not beg.
She looked at him one last time.
Then she looked down at the vortex, and stepped over the side.
The cold did not come first. The first thing that hit was shock.
Water.
It flooded her nose, her mouth, before she could hold her breath. A violent gasp. Her throat seized, trying to cough, but failed.
Mud. Thick.
She couldn't inhale. She could only swallow.
A searing burn tore down her windpipe. The stench of dead fish shot straight into her sinuses, her brain pierced as if by a hot poker.
Dark.
She thrashed. Instinct. Useless.
Her lungs screamed. Burning.
She no longer felt the distant loneliness of the Dragon's realm. She felt a terrible pressure, crushing her chest, as if the entire River was pressing its weight down on her. There was no sound, only a thick, deafening roar in her head.
A moment passed, stretching into an eternity.
Then, through that veil of pressure, she opened her eyes.
She saw light. It glowed from a ruined palace, luminous and twisted.
And then she saw him.
The Dragon Deity.
Not a monster. A man in black robes, his form outlined in that strange, ruined light.
He was not seated on a throne. He was imprisoned—countless golden chains impaled through his body, nailing him to the very heart of the lair. Each link glowed faintly, as if consuming him from within.