Across three thousand li of very thirsty mortal plains, the silence of death had reigned for three long hundreds of years.
The bed of the Heavenly Mother River, which had once been the shimmering sapphire spine of the continent, was nothing more than a scarred canyon of bleached stones and cracked, powdery mud. For hundreds of miles, abandoned fishing sampans lay tilted on dry sandbanks, their timber ribs weathered to gray driftwood. Along the embankments, ancient willow trees stood like weeping skeletons, their brittle branches clicking mournfully in the dry, dust-laden desert wind.
On the high castle walls of Fengsha City, two mortal guards leaned against their iron spears, their lips chapped and bleeding from the relentless heat.
“Another scorching day,” one guard croaked, squinting through the shimmering heat mirages toward the distant western peaks. “The water cartel in the south quarter raised the price again this morning. Twelve copper coins for a small bowl of muddy well tailings. My mother hasn’t had a proper drink in two days.”
“Look at the western sky,” the second guard whispered, pointing a trembling finger. “That violet glow from earlier this morning... The elders said an immortal was fighting in the deep mountains. But immortals never care about what happens to us ants down here. When the well dries fully, we’ll all turn to dust.”
