As the scion of the greatest cultivator ever to live, Qin Yongliang had always felt the title to be entirely pointless. What was the point of being the heir to an eternal God-Emperor? His father was never going to step down, and Yongliang was never going to inherit anything. He wasn’t the most powerful member of his family—either in political influence or cultivation—nor was he even truly the oldest child of the God-Emperor—he had two older sisters. And yet, he was nonetheless granted the dubious honor of being the most important member of his family—his father excluded, of course.

What this ultimately meant for him was all of the responsibility with none of the benefits. One got used to it, after a few millennia. Still, it seemed as if recently he’d had more cause for headache than the last thousand years combined. First was Sovereign Shen and his divine cohort. The Great Sects were furious about the power that had been afforded to this ‘upstart’ who’d come out of nowhere. The fact that he was a godly avatar on the same level as their own emperor—or perhaps even greater—didn’t seem to sway them any. Qin Yongliang had spent more time than he cared to recount trying to assuage them and prevent a full-scale rebellion.

He’d managed to solve most of that problem with another—the demons. The demonic incursion from the divine realm was—ostensibly—the reason for Sovereign Shen’s presence, and their existence was something that even the Great Sects could work together against. Of course, there had been quite a bit of time wasted trying to cast blame, but Yongliang’s missing nephew had made a convenient scapegoat. After all, Qin Zhao was one of the strongest proponents for the Grand Academy in the first place, and that was now where the demonic enclave continued to hide—behind the frustratingly powerful shield formations of that wretched Snake.

It was a shame—Qin Yongliang rather liked that particular nephew. Family held a different meaning when you had enough of them to fill an entire city, and even now Yongliang couldn’t remember which of his thousands of siblings had sired—or birthed—Zhao, but it didn’t matter. Qin Zhao was a rare man who chose to elevate himself beyond his identity as a member of the imperial family—that alone placed him leagues ahead of the vast majority of Yongliang’s relatives. Still, he had disappeared, and the blame needed to go somewhere.

The final headache sat before him now, arrogantly demanding Yongliang’s time as if they were equals. Yan De was a loathsome man who had precisely the worst combination of ambition and unwavering loyalty to the God-Emperor. Yan had no regard for any place but the very top, and thus Qin Yongliang fell beneath his ambition.

“What are you going to do about this farce of a wedding, Qin?”

Yongliang took a calculated sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. What a frivolous waste of his time.

“The engagement is legal, Yan De. The host confirms it. Their word is law, and only my father himself may countermand it.”

Yan De’s brows furrowed. Clearly not the answer he’d wanted to hear.

“She’s my daughter! I never approved of any engagement! If that ingrate bastard Xin thinks he can poach my bloodline...”

Yongliang shook his head.

“You should have thought of that before allowing her to venture out on her own. Grandmaster Xin has approved, the boy Xin Wei has approved, and the girl Yan Yue has approved. If it were your son, this would be another matter, but as Yan Yue is not your heir you have no claim here. Simply accept your dowry with grace, Grandmaster.”

Yan De snarled in frustration, but didn’t lash out any further. Emotional regulation was always difficult for high level cultivators, and Yan De was at the very peak among his peers. Still, Yongliang had always thought his control was a bit lacking even for his power.

“What if I recognized her as my heir, then?”

Yongliang’s eyes widened.

“This may be presumptuous of me, but would that not defeat the purpose? I was under the impression that your interest in your daughter’s talent was mainly as a piece to trade for a new concubine so that you could sire a new heir to replace the late Yan Zhihao.”

Yan De pursed his lips, frowning across the fine tea table.

“There’s such a thing as speaking too candidly, Qin Yongliang. No, she has greater worth to me than that now. Recent events have put things into a new context.”

That was strange. No anger or vitriol over the fact that she’d lost her cultivation? No mention of Qin Zhao after Yongliang had given him the perfect opportunity to rage over Zhihao’s death? Whatever this new context was, it clearly meant more to Yan De than his own legacy—and that narrowed the list down quite a bit indeed.

“Does this have something to do with Sovereign Shen and his crusade against the demons? She was there when they descended, was she not?”

“Tsk, that’s none of your business. Answer my question, can I have the engagement annulled if I recognize Yan Yue as my heir?”

Yongliang sighed. He hated his position. He was effectively a mouthpiece for his father, but he rarely ever met his father. He was forced to just guess, and never knew whether something was worth escalating or not. Yongliang was already on thin ice after he’d allowed the Grand Academy to happen—how was he supposed to know his father would be so adamantly opposed to it? It had seemed an innocuous enough idea and even now he didn’t know why it had been such a mistake.

“Perhaps. There is some precedent for it—the Bai clan scion, for example. It would not be a reversible decision, however. Any sons you sire later will have no claim to your legacy. If you are willing to accept that, then...perhaps.”

Yan De sat in silence as he chewed over the idea. After a minute or two, he shook his head.

“I’ll need to give it further thought. Can I expect your support if I do so?”

Yongliang suppressed a groan. How tiresome.

“I will argue the legal precedent. I cannot guarantee that the Great Sects will abide by the decision, but the imperial family will follow my lead.”

That seemed to satisfy the nuisance of a grandmaster, and after a few parting formalities, Qin Yongliang was mercifully left alone to his thoughts. Not for long, of course, he had many more meetings today and he was sure that each would be as irritating as the last.

First, he decided to indulge himself in a little detour. Walking through the illustrious halls of the imperial palace, Yongliang stopped before one of the grandest structures—the temple. Like many clans, the imperial family kept spiritual jade tablets to track the condition of its members. Unlike most clans, the imperial family was so large that they needed an entire enormous structure to house them all.

Qin Yongliang walked through the temple, casually inspecting the glowing white stones arrayed row after row within the temple. Many had gone dark—cracked, burned, or outright shattered as those they were linked to met their ends. The emperor was eternal—his progeny were not. Many simply died of old age—they couldn’t all become immortal cultivators after all—while others met their ends in battle at the hands of their enemies.

Yongliang was mainly interested in one specific tablet. One that had gone forgotten by most. A lowly third generation stone—one of the lowest that they even bothered to track—belonging to his favorite nephew. Yongliang liked to check up on it now and then, as a reminder that while Qin Zhao might have vanished, he was still alive and well. His blood froze when he arrived at the tablet.

It was dark. Impossible! How? Why? Yongliang suppressed his rising panic and inspected the tablet carefully. The tablet wasn’t broken, which was unusual—if Qin Zhao had died, then the spiritual jade would have suffered a sympathetic backlash that would help to identify the method of his demise. Instead, it was simply dark, which only happened if someone died peacefully of old age or disease—neither of which was possible for Qin Zhao.

Instead, on closer inspection, Yongliang noticed tiny, almost invisible perforations. The pinholes followed a pattern, but it wasn’t one that Yongliang recognized immediately. Not regular writing in any of the forms he knew, or any of the codes in active use—wait! Yongliang wracked his brain for codes that had fallen out of use, but none of the ones he could remember fit either. Except—there was one that had never been used. It was only proposed, and had been rejected—mostly because it had been too complicated.

Almost nobody knew the code in its entirety, but Yongliang could remember it, and Qin Zhao was one of the people who would know—it had been his invention, after all. Had he done this intentionally? Severed the link to his spiritual jade in such a fashion as to cause calculated damage in order to send a message? Yongliang could scarcely imagine how that could even be accomplished, but Qin Zhao had always been a genius.

Shaking his head and ignoring the endless list of questions, Yongliang read the message. The furrow of his brow deepened with every word he deciphered, and when he got to the end, he replaced the stone and shattered it with a tiny burst of qi. What a nightmare.

Qin Yongliang’s headaches had just grown tenfold.