When Anzan looked up everything had changed. Ling had returned to her full size and floated in front of him with her eyes closed and lids quivering. Together, they stood shrouded in a field of ethereal mists. The air was thick with a dreadful feeling and smelled strongly of decay. All Anzan could see were shadows, wavering and dancing just beyond the mist.

Ling’s eyes fluttered open. “This…it’s all…” Her whisper was softly deafening in the empty plane.

Anzan breathed out quickly. “What are we doing here?” he barked and looked around. He was on edge after being dragged wherever they were without proper explanation, but he held his anxiety in check as he waited for a response. When none came, he did a double take at his surroundings and turned back to Ling.

Her brow was a wrinkled mess, and she pursed her lips as she studied the world around them. She seemed no more at ease than he was—a thought that made his stomach do backflips. He opened his mouth to press for answers, but she held up a hand to forestall him. Then she cocked her head to show she was listening, and Anzan followed suit.

He didn’t notice anything at first, and he considered whether she was just trying to put him off. But then he heard a slight trickle—a bubbling sound—and Anzan listened closer. Was it around them or below them? He looked down.

Barely visible through solid sheets of mist, a seething, black, and tarlike miasma surged just under their feet. Anzan shuffled his paws, stepping back involuntarily, but Ling grabbed him by the mane, pointed and forced him to look closer. The mist was like a skin on top of the miasma; Anzan felt no contact, but the formless vapor actually held him aloft, just out of its reach.

“Oh, thank—”

His words sent a ripple through their surroundings and the mist around his feet grew thin. Anzan cut out with a sharp inhale and went rigid as he watched it slowly settle back. He pawed around hesitantly—his movements stirred it up a little, but at least walking didn’t seem like it would be a problem.

A curt tug on his mane brought Anzan’s attention back to Ling. The strange specter had shored up her expression, seeming almost in control, and beckoned him as she turned suddenly and glided into the mist. Anzan bit back any instinctive protesting, figuring he had little choice but to hold out, and followed.

Ling’s progress was slow, and she seemed to struggle through the mist. She moved with a near swimming motion, her arms waving and head roving from side to side—clearly looking for something. Anzan, on the other hand, did his best not to look at anything. Shadows flitted around the corners of his eyes, but any time he tried to catch one straight on, there was nothing. Thoughts of what they might be tormented him, and after a time, he decided that not seeing anything was the only way to stop thinking about it. So, he kept his eyes squinted and peeked occasionally to make sure he kept pace.

Time was hard to figure in a world of unchanging silence and nothingness. Anzan tried to keep a count with his steps, but he was persistently distracted by daydreams of terrors lurking in the mist. He had no idea if they were even making progress. He could only trust that Ling knew somehow what she was doing. Whether it took a little or a long while was uncertain, but eventually, her voice reached him.

“To reach immortality—” her words seemed to come from nowhere and echoed in his skull. “—a mortal must cultivate the three great Treasures of Body, Mind, and Spirit.” Anzan opened his eyes wide; Ling was still swimming through the air in front of him, unchanged. “However, spirit beasts are not fully mortal beings and thus are born with one innate Natal Treasure—a Heavenly gift that grants them some instinctive cultivation.” She paused, and Anzan nearly strangled himself to stop from crying out. “So you can see why—when you said you had no Treasure or knowledge of cultivation—I couldn’t believe it. For that to be true would go against all my understanding. It is possible that you’re just crippled or have some strange illness, but for you to have no knowledge of it is…unusual.” She glanced back at him. “And your connection with the pearl makes me doubt myself. So, in spite of my reticence and against all better judgment, I’ve brought you here.” She turned her back and her voice echoed with resolve. “We’ll just have to find out what’s wrong with you or your Treasure using one of mine.”

A thousand questions swelled in the back of Anzan’s throat, but then the mist parted, and his breath was stolen.

A resplendent crimson palace floated at the center of a wide clearing. It sat atop a giant marble slab, cut with countless sculptures and engravings and a long series of steps, and clouds mixed of mist and miasma billowed around the base. The palace itself seemed molded of fresh blood and adorned with accents of burning gold. Nine ornate dragons twisted up out of its roof, staring out in all directions like watchful sentinels, and an aura of majesty radiated from them—a certain gravity that weighed on all the world.

Anzan stared blankly up at them—too shocked to have any more distinct reaction. The sight alone was overwhelming enough, but in light of everything Ling had said, its otherworldliness took on even greater significance. He’d long written cultivation off as something that had nothing to do with himself, something entirely out of reach and thus not worth wishing or worrying over. But now, with Ling’s help and what could only be called a divine palace in front of him, Anzan felt the first stirrings of possibility begin to beat in his chest.

“Come on!” Ling’s voice pierced his skull.

The strange specter was far ahead already, nearly to the marble steps. A coolness had settled at his back, and the shadows in the mist seemed to be closing around him. Anzan’s fur stood on end and he immediately bounded toward the palace, full of fear and anticipation. He wondered what it would be like if he were one day not only able to find his masters but also hold his high in their presence.

***

The palace opened into a great hall that was every bit as extravagant as its exterior. Stout pillars like massive tree trunks lined the sides, and a dark yet sparkling gold filigree spiraled around the ceiling. The hall was alight in the glow of its own grandeur. Anzan loped across the threshold and cast an admiring glance around, but before he could take it all in, Ling called to him again, urging him to ‘come on’ from somewhere deep inside. A spike of fear ran through him and he realized she’d gotten even farther ahead. He put his head down as he clung to the sound of her voice and bolted into the next chamber.

Almost immediately, Anzan slid to a halt in front of a tower of overburdened shelves. He had entered some kind of library. It seemed to go on forever. Scrolls, books, maps, tablets, jade slips, and all other manner of written materials were stacked up and spilling out everywhere. The floor vibrated with a groaning and creaking, and much of the place had darkened and lost its shine. The smell of decay was thick, but Anzan had no time to consider the facts as Ling’s voice called again. He picked a direction and began to snake through the confused and eccentric maze of books, hopping over disorderly piles of unfortunate scrolls just to make his way through.

Ling’s voice frolicked somewhere in the depths. She seemed to pop up here and there—at first on one side and then the other—and then she’d be back to yelling from far ahead. The strange specter had lost any sense of gravity or purpose in her delight-filled romp. Anzan had wavered back and forth in his assessment of her sanity and truthfulness, but he was coming around to the idea that she could be honestly crazy and still know what she was doing.

When the mess had grown nearly impassable, Anzan suddenly burst into an open area and the shelves, the piles, and all the clutter disappeared. They were replaced by a grid of discrete pedestals, each bearing a single slip or scroll, but Anzan could make nothing of the significance. He proceeded at a slower pace—luckily, Ling’s voice had stopped moving. As his feet thudded slowly over the floor, Anzan’s head swiveled from side to side. The items were growing more impressive; each new slip or scroll radiated a silver, gold, or jade, and eventually, a few even shone with a deep purple or bright crimson. The auras reminded him of long ago when he caught glimpses of the Temple’s elder monks.

After his masters found out he was useless, they dismissed Anzan, leaving him to spend the rest of his days with the outer disciples. But his situation was awkward—none of them felt comfortable giving him orders—and seeing that Anzan didn’t need to eat and was also inept at chores, he was left with very little to do. He felt bad lazing around, and the guilt of his incompetence ate at him, so he kept his distance from others where possible. He spent a lot of time sitting and watching. And every now and then, he’d look up to see one of the Elders or Chosen shooting across the sky—like streaks of gold or jade sailing straight to the central peaks, straight to the side of the Patriarch. Sometimes they blazed so brightly they radiated a power that the whole temple could feel. Now, he was surrounded by countless items that gave him a similar feeling. It seemed absurd. Anzan tried to deny it, but his chest clenched the more he looked.

“There you are!” Ling cried and Anzan came to a halt. Amid the endless field of pedestals, she sat hovering in front of a giant pearly altar topped by a large, inert gray mass.

Anzan squinted at it.

“Oh,” she said as she smiled awkwardly and forced a laugh, “don’t be so wary!” She patted the mass fondly. “It may not be the prettiest thing, but I’ve finally found what we’ve been looking for!” She caressed it again and mumbled, “it really is still here.”

Anzan hesitated. “You mean…your—”

“My Treasure!”

With a wave of Ling’s sleeve, the mass began to writhe; the smell of decay was instantly unbearable. Anzan lowered his head and put his paws over his nose. The mass lifted and Ling hissed with effort. Then, suddenly, it split open, and Anzan realized it was an enormous and heavily degraded book.

“Phew,” she said, panting. Ling chuckled to herself. “I wasn’t sure of myself at first.” She began to tenderly leaf through indecipherable pages, and Anzan drew a deep breath through his mouth.

“What are you looking for,” he said, “I mean—” he breathed out and got up, resigning himself to the smell. “You said you could find out what was wrong with me?”

Ling flipped confidently. “Of course,” she declared. “It’s trivial!” She gave him a once over with one eye and returned to the book. “Why, in just a moment, I’ll have figured out everything about you and your Treasure and…your connection.” She hummed contemplatively. “Some kind of parasite, perhaps?”

Anzan furrowed his brow uneasily—the smell was getting worse, and every time Ling flipped to a new page, the groaning and creaking grew louder and the vibrations in the floor came on more violently. This state of affairs only continued to worsen. He kept quiet but stared hard at Ling’s back, waiting for her to say something, anything, or better yet, be done with it altogether.

Suddenly, Ling threw her arms up. “Impossible!” she exclaimed, and Anzan nearly jumped out of his skin. She rounded on him, and his head went foggy as their eyes met—hers bugging out as she examined every inch of him. She turned back to the book.

“Erhem—what was that?” Anzan babbled.

Ling touched her nose to the book. “You’re not in here,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Anzan didn’t see why he should be, but he could guess that was a problem. “Uh, then what do we do?” he said. The palace seemed like it might come down around them any moment.

“Nothing.” Ling pulled back from the book and stared up into the air. “Why, there’s just nothing to do. A spirit beast without a Treasure? What’s that? How are we supposed to get anywhere?” Her voice dropped. “If only you were a rare beast, I could’ve raised you to the highest levels. If it was an illness, I could find a way to fix things—at least we’d have some way forward. But as things are, well, it’s just pointless.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “I suppose I should’ve figured as much with the way things have gone till now. I haven’t lost everything yet—I still have the pearl—but I still can’t do anything.” The whole palace seemed to cry out around them.

“Wait, wait!” Anzan cut in. Now was not the time for the strange specter to lose confidence. “What are you talking about?” He glanced to either side—books tumbled from shelves and scrolls rolled off pedestals. The shaking was so bad he could hardly keep his feet. “I-I j-just have to cultivate, r-right? That should be trivial for you, remember?”

Ling showed no sign of having heard him. “I suppose I won’t even have that for long,” she mumbled. She looked around; her eyes widened at their turbulent surroundings. “If only you were—”

“Why does it even matter what I am?” Anzan shouted. “If mortals can cultivate three Treasures, why can’t I? You promised to help me—us—you can’t just give up!”

Life returned to the strange specter as she seemed to consider something. “You’re willing to try anything?” Her words were nearly lost to Anzan in the chaos, but he was just glad to see they might still have a chance.

“Yes!”

Just then, the palace lurched—they were sinking—and a tide of miasma swept into the hall. Ling gave Anzan a look, muttered the words ‘shadow affinity,’ and jumped for the book. Anzan spun in place, shrinking toward the altar as the miasma closed in on all sides. He looked over his shoulder; Ling held the book firmly in both hands. He felt relief, thinking she was about to perform some magic to save them. Then she pulled her hands apart, and the book ripped.

A world-shattering cry echoed, and the palace was engulfed in darkness. The last thing Anzan saw was Ling flinging a jagged page toward him.