VOLUME 1: THE CRUMBLING WALLS

  ‘And the sky was stilled black, stripped of colour’s breath. His creation gazed upwards in horror – like a child before a television screen staring at the static of a dead channel.’

  -The Book of Lumen, Chapter 1, Verse 2:1

  Keung controlled his breathing as he chased Jian through the civilian traffic, his boots pounding against the stone walkway still slick from yesterday’s rain. He tried to steady his aim and fire a few times, but the sheer number of people made a clean shot impossible.

  How the hell did Cheng land that first hit?! I hope he deals with those Yangs back there and catches up soon!

  He winced as a sharp crackle came through the speakers in his peaked cap.

  ‘Sir?’

  It wasn’t Tribune Cheng, as he had expected. It was Praefect Shing, the sharpshooter of their six-man unit.

  ‘I hear you, Shing. Are you tracking my location?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m cutting through to the terraces. Try and push Jian higher.’

  ‘Got it!’

  Ahead, Jian vaulted over a rusted railing, crashing into a crate of newspapers against a wall below. Loose pages flew through the humid air as he picked himself up and ran to the right.

  Keung took over the same railing, circumvented the fallen crates, and rushed after his prey through the still-whirling papers. He watched Jian’s silhouette flicker under overhead neon signages and flashing LED panels rushing by his sides, barrelling towards a wide archway with a flashing sign above: The Gujin Bazaar.

  He’s long gone if he gets into a bazaar!

  Keung’s eyes flicked upwards, where he noticed a dense web of red and orange paper lanterns suspended above the archway. They were hanging off lines stretched taut between opposing balconies on the upper level. An idea struck.

  Skidding to a stop, he raised his hand cannon, aimed at the anchor points on either side, and fired twice in quick succession.

  The shots seared through several wires at once, sending the lanterns swinging down from both directions. They crashed together in the middle in a tangled mess, blocking the entrance to the bazaar through the red glow.

  Jian whipped his head left and right, before finally darting left. Keung followed.

  They tore up a narrow stairwell, the gap between them gradually reducing as Keung gained on the older man.

  Five levels higher, Keung stepped through a doorway and the atmosphere changed in an instant. Gone were the humid alleyways and the press of bodies; he was now within the sanctity of a daoyinbo, a hallowed Dongist temple dedicated to the Light.

  He walked down the middle aisle past massive, reflective pillars on either side. His footsteps echoed through the vast, cavernous interior, causing the numerous candles perched upon ledges beneath vibrant stained-glass panels to flicker, their flames glinting across the intricate mosaics decorating the walls and the tall, domed ceiling. An ethereal golden glow bathed the daoyinbo, a place where people believed the Light to be holiest.

  Where the hell did he go?!

  Keung’s gaze swept across the scattered worshippers kneeling on the floor, facing the front in quiet meditation. He could hear the subtle drone of their prayers. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, its curling white smoke drifting from the suspended censers overhead. Every sound felt deafening in the temple’s deep, reverent stillness.

  His reflection flickered along the polished, mirror-like pillars, growing larger as he approached, warping around the curve, and shrinking away.

  Then, Keung felt the air shift. A subtle creak of ceramic tile. Not his own.

  His body tensed—

  A hanging censer swung at his head.

  He ducked, twisting as another came crashing down seconds later. Then a third struck his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his arm and chest before it shattered against the floor in a riot of sparks and embers.

  Jian lunged from behind a pillar, his breath ragged, the chains of a fourth censer clutched in his fist. Smoke coiled around him as he lobbed it toward Keung one last time before bolting for the door at the far end.

  Keung caught the swung censer, its momentum dragging his arm slightly before he stilled its motion and let it hang.

  As he chased Jian through the side door, he exhaled and touched his cap.

  ‘Come in, Shing!’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’s headed up! Be ready to shoot him!’

  ‘Received.’

  Jian was a whirlwind through the monk’s quarters, shoving past startled scribes and novice-sages. Keung was right behind him, weaving through the narrow, decrepit halls, his focus locked on his target.

  As he rounded a corner, he spotted an open window, its frame still swinging.

  Keung rushed to it and glanced out and up to see Jian already ascending the cramped, parallel walls, leaping from one surface to the other.

  Lunging forward, Keung gripped the frame and pulled himself through.

  I can’t fucking wall-hop like that. Better climb.

  He reached up, dug his fingers into the uneven surface, and began scaling the wall hand over hand.

  Above, Jian smashed through a window and hobbled through it, shards of glass raining over Keung’s cap. He swung himself up to the frame, seeing blood drip from its jagged corners.

  At this rate, he’ll jump from these heights rather than let us kill him!

  Reaching through the broken window, Keung unlatched the frame and pushed it open. He hauled himself inside and onto a final stairwell – the last one before the terrace.

  Above, he heard Jian grunt, followed by the heavy slam of doors swinging open.

  Keung chased after his shadow, ascending three steps at a time. He burst onto the rooftops, high above on the 92nd level, greeted by the open air of Kowloon’s black ceiling.

  The skyline was a tangled urban sprawl of brick and flashing lights, but he was rapidly losing sight of his target. Jian ducked under pipes, sidestepped around protruding rods, hopped over gaps, his head whipping from side to side.

  Keung gritted his teeth.

  Damn it, Shing! I can’t keep this up! Take him out already!

  BANG!

  The gunshot tore through the thick air, deafening in the open expanse.

  Jian’s body jolted, his right leg crumpling beneath him.

  Keung’s eyes widened.

  He’s still alive.

  Groaning, Jian dragged himself forward, his fingers clawing at the rooftop. Crawling. He’s still alive… Why isn’t Cheng here yet?

  ‘ARGGGHHH! FUCK! MY LEG!!’

  A garish tableau of blood and flesh splattered across the terrace ground. Lieutenant Keung advanced towards his quarry, watching him inch away, dragging the shattered remains of his leg behind him.

  What a sorry sight. The great Jian… now just a snivelling, dying rebel.

  As Keung drew nearer, his hand cannon gripped in both hands but pointed downwards in a gesture of mercy, the air grew heavy. The fatally wounded man, in a last act of defiance or perhaps a plea for recognition, rolled over to face him. It had been almost two annui-cycles since they’d laid eyes on one another.

  Jian’s gaunt face no longer had the strong, angled planes of a proud general. The patchy stubble and fuzzy moustache were at odds with the well-groomed man Keung remembered.

  ‘They don’t know… You don’t know, Keung. God himself, I’ve touched his Light. It was so beautiful. The sun… It was just as the prophet Dong said it would be. Warm, full of His love. We… We need to return to the surface.’

  The muscles of Keung’s jaw tightened with anguish. ‘You know that’s not possible.’

  Jian’s face fell. Sweat dripped from his hairline as his breathing turned sharp. ‘Hope you realise your man missed my head on purpose,’ he wheezed, gazing past Keung into the vast horizon of District Yau’s groundscrapers.

  But Keung didn’t offer any response.

  ‘They still don’t trust you?’ Jian asked.

  Keung knew he was trying to provoke a response, so he remained tight-lipped, his breathing shallow as he warred with what came next.

  ‘Get on with it, Kingmaker,’ Jian muttered, staring at Keung’s unmoving hand. All they could do was tremble.

  Gritting his teeth, Jian propped himself up on his elbow. ‘You’re going to leave me here to bleed dry, aren’t you?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘… You’re all f-fucking tyrants after all,’ Jian sneered as his face contorted in agony, his eyelids drooping more with each passing second.

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  Keung took a deep, steadying breath and raised his weapon towards Jian’s head, his knuckles white. ‘I guess I’m still trying to fit in.’

  With a deep exhale, Jian closed his eyes. Keung turned his face away, squeezing his hand around the hand cannon’s grip. The trigger never felt tighter.

  After hearing the dreadful crack of Jian’s skull hitting the ground, Keung braved a look. He watched Jian’s fingers slowly unfurl, his lips separating, the putrid smell of gases and liquids leaving his quarry’s body. This was his first time seeing a corpse grow cold right after death.

  ‘It’s done. Let’s return to the tower, sir,’ a familiar voice came from behind him.

  Cheng, Keung’s trusted partner and a Kingmaker of Tribunary rank, approached and placed a hand on his shoulder. They shared a moment of silence for the battered man sprawled in front of them. Cheng’s pale, clean-shaven face was haggard and glistened with sweat. Despite his clear exhaustion, his hair remained tucked under his peaked officer’s cap and his dark trench coat showed no signs of exertion, the epitome of an exemplary, composed Kingmaker.

  Shrugging off Cheng’s hand, Keung strode towards the open doors at the other end of the terrace, the ones he and Jian had burst through minutes earlier.

  Cheng jogged to catch up. ‘Whatever comes of this, I have your back, sir. As always. Don’t forget Jian was a traitor and a mass murderer. You saved many lives by making sure his ended today.’

  Keung continued walking in silence over abrupt elevations and potted plants in the terrace towards the exit.

  ‘Is there anything you wanted to talk about, sir?’

  ‘Yes. What will they do to his body?’

  ‘Well, sir… It varies from region to region. We’re in Yau country, so they’re going to tie Jian’s body to a crucifix for everyone to see, until the first signs of rot. But that’s not our concern; our job is done. After our team reports back, let’s all have a round of drinks at The Crescent. This is cause for—’

  ‘Drinks? I’m thinking about how we should mourn Jian, not partying!’ Keung removed his officer’s cap and ran his hand through his sweaty hair. ‘Jian was a devout Dongist; he’d want to be floated down the Memorial Pipes and into the Light! Not have Kowloon become his audience as he decays!’

  Cheng nodded. ‘You’re right, sir. It is a perversion of Dongism, but by design. The Luen siblings will take every opportunity to punish Jian, even into the afterlife. There’s nothing we can do about it now. Unless the Emperor says otherwise, they get the final say.’

  Death should be the final sanctuary for every soul tormented by the cruelty of life. Not whatever this is, Keung thought…

  After descending several flights of stairs, the two Kingmakers came to a rusty green door ajar on their right. Cheng shouldered it open for his superior, and they emerged into the bustle of Kowloon – an overpopulated underground society plagued by poverty.

  Wide corridors with low ceilings layered with pipes, wires and yellowed halogen lights stretched before them in an impossible mesh. People walked shoulder to shoulder in and out of corridors of different widths bordered by storefronts. The flooring, once clean, white tiles, was now a pitted, brown path eroded by hundreds of years of pedestrian footsteps.

  Keung and Cheng were on the 91st floor, the highest in the current building, called groundscrapers by Kowloonis. A cacophony of sounds filled the air – eager vendors shouted over one another in tense bargaining matches, while bustling crowds steadily flowed between them, their laughter and shouting blending in with the relentless clamour of construction. Homeless children darted everywhere, disguising their pickpocketing as games of tag. Dongist preachers attired in reflective silver robes called for penance. Mobile food vendors carried large trays of street snacks supported by ropes slung around their necks, their makeshift stalls bouncing against their bodies as they responded to customers calling them over. The smell of sizzling spices in oil mingled with the stench of sweat. Keung noticed a few individuals slipping masks over their noses and melting into the shadows, their eyes tracking the two Kingmakers.

  This wasn’t some busy office building, apartment, or shopping centre; the long corridors of these buildings were the actual streets of Kowloon. Most pedestrians travelled through groundscrapers because of the overcrowding in the narrow, ground-level alleys.

  The sprawl of Kowloon meant there were almost no gaps between its groundscrapers. Walls were often knocked down and bridged onto their neighbouring buildings, connecting hundreds of different groundscrapers into a single, intricate network of streets and highways.

  The constant flow of people made for an oppressive atmosphere, but Keung and Cheng moved undeterred. Their Kingmaker status, signified by their dark trench coats with golden-yellow accents, peaked officer caps and air of authority, parted the sea of people before them.

  Eventually, they arrived at the entrance for the King rail docking port. An inconspicuous locked door with no handle, right in the middle of the busy corridor. Keung swiped his King rail key fob near the door, and it swung open for them. They slipped in before anyone took notice, as the entrances to these ports were a close-kept secret. Inside was a small, nondescript room with nothing but some storage cabinets, a minicomputer and glass sliding doors leading to the suspended tracks.

  This monorail system, called the King rail, carved a path through the groundscrapers and into key areas of Kowloon. Constructed less than two decades ago, it was the first of its kind and granted speedy travel into some of the most densely populated areas ever known to humanity. Despite its efficiency, it remained locked away from everyone but the Kingmakers, earning the loathing of Kowloon’s public.

  ‘Will you, or—?’ Keung gestured at the small screen next to the sliding glass doors.

  ‘Let me, sir.’

  Cheng punched in their destination. They only waited a few minutes until their monorail arrived at the port. First, the glass dock doors opened, followed by the carriage doors. They boarded the carriage, which glided into motion after the doors closed, travelling in silence. The King rail seldom saw wide-open spaces; it was almost always wedged between buildings in dark tunnels or rushing through interiors. As the carriage sped through Ji Sia City, glimpses appeared of the thousands of lanterns that were strung between buildings hundreds of metres high.

  Light flooded into the carriage as they rushed through a groundscraper, hundreds of people merely a blur past the windows, not even a metre away. The carriage shuddered, causing Keung to look at Cheng. ‘Did we run over someone again?’

  ‘Don’t think so. People have gotten good at avoiding the rail when they feel it coming.’

  Keung nodded anxiously as he settled back into his seat. He disliked using the King rail. These trains carved through groundscrapers and sped right into packed streets. Communities that had existed peacefully for hundreds of generations now bore the scar of the King rail cutting through them, facing potential death on a daily basis.

  The monorail glided into the heart of the underground world as it neared their destination of District Yu. It was the smallest but most affluent of the 66 districts of Kowloon, the Emperor’s personal domain. At its centre stood the Yu Tower, a 30-story building reserved for the elite Kingmakers, the Yaozhi family, and their imperial throne.

  The tower was an architectural marvel, supposedly inspired by the ancient surface civilisation of Zhongguo. It featured sloping ceramic-tiled rooftops on every floor, raised pavilions, and an ancient, otherworldly sort of aura. No other building in District Yu could exceed eight stories, a visual reminder of where power coalesced.

  Despite being the tallest building in its district, Yu Tower was overshadowed by the surrounding districts, where groundscrapers at its borders shot beyond seventy storeys. From above, this stark contrast gave the capital district a fragmented appearance, its perfect circular border and uniform terraces clashing with the chaotic, greebled textures of the rest of Kowloon’s rooftops.

  The four King rail tracks were the only physical connection with the outside world. Emerging straight from the shadows of Yu’s neighbouring buildings, they stretched high above the district from its four sides, soaring across the airspace until they disappeared into the docking bays of the tower at the district’s centre.

  The carriage granted Keung a rare bird’s-eye view. It felt like flying, a sensation he could only briefly experience here with Yu’s low buildings, away from the chaos in the rest of Kowloon.

  Cheng and Keung’s bodies swayed from inertia as the carriage halted inside the mouth of the tower’s docking port, 15 levels high. The doors slid open, and they both walked outside to the port, where other Kingmakers were departing and hailing other carriages.

  ‘I’ll wait for the others in the changing rooms, sir,’ Cheng said as they shook hands. ‘Are you going up to General Denzhen’s office now?’

  Keung’s gaze fell to the floor. ‘I forgot I still have to inform him. They once called each other brothers, you know.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you, sir? I can help.’

  Yes, I wish you could, but only if I didn’t have to ask for it.

  ‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ Keung said softly.

  They parted ways, and Keung headed to the nearest lift. The pristine, gleaming tiles and soft lights in the halls of the Yu Tower were a stark contrast to what the rest of Kowloon looked like. The corridor he was walking down featured breathtaking murals from The Book of Memory, its sacred scenes spilling off the ceiling and onto the walls, as if the artist had thought its beauty too great to keep the art contained to a single surface.

  Busy Kingmakers rushed by; the lower rank centurions wore a plain uniform of a dark collared shirt, baggy trousers and a red sash tied around their waist, while their superiors strutted around in golden-striped trench coats identical to the ones Keung and his team wore. As had been the case since his birth, he felt eyes following him. This came with being the son of the legendary Dragon, General Denzhen, and the nephew of Emperor Puyin.

  Keung slid open the grain-paper doors of the dojo, intending to take a shortcut to the lifts. Inside, Captain Tien Ja was leading a class of centurions through advanced martial forms, all twenty students wearing singlets and loose-fitting training pants. Keung padded around the perimeter, walking past jade emerald pillars and ornate dragon statues, doing his best to avoid drawing attention. However, the Emperor’s nephew was hard to miss, and almost everyone’s attention shifted towards him.

  As Keung neared the dojo’s exit, the captain’s voice boomed, ‘Training is still in progress, and I am still here!’

  The class snapped back to their forms – horse stance, left fist, right fist, neutral stance, and then a round-house kick. The sound of fists whipping and thick cotton pants ruffling made Keung miss his days as a centurion. Life had been so much simpler.

  At the other end of the training dojo, Keung reached a sliding paper door that led to the lift. He pressed the button to call it and a minute later, it rose to his level. Inside were two other Kingmakers.

  The lift rose and stopped once, offloading the two Kingmakers before continuing towards the twenty-fifth floor, where Keung disembarked and made his way to his father’s chambers.

  The level containing the generals’ offices echoed with his footsteps. It was rare to find them there because of their packed schedule and responsibilities. Unlike the lower floors, level 25 was sterile and utilitarian in design, washed out by cool white lights and plain, square ceramic tiles.

  Keung stood outside the door to his father’s office before buzzing its ringer, a small circular button on the side of the frame. The crest of the Yaozhi family at its top edge reminded him of his significance; without his ancestors, Kowloon would be nothing more than millennia-old rubble.

  There was a lengthy thirty-second wait before the door slid open.

  Stepping inside, the wait made sense. General Denzhen stood with his back to the door, bent over the disarray of papers and hologram readers on his desk. Keung wondered how his father maintained order amidst such chaos. Denzhen still wore his olive-green, baggy trench coat, reserved for generals, distinguished from the well-fitting Kingmaker officer coats by its dark red arm stripes.

  On the right-hand wall of the small office were three weathered visitors’ chairs. Keung settled into one and it creaked under his weight.

  ‘Jian is dead, Ba,’ Keung revealed, his gaze distant, fixed on the wall ahead.

  At this, Denzhen spun around and gaped. ‘What do you mean? You found him? I thought you were following a cold trail?’

  ‘Wasn’t as cold as we thought. When Jian ran, Shing mortally wounded him. I only offered him mercy.’

  Denzhen approached Keung and sat beside him. ‘I’m so sorry, son. I didn’t think your team would find him so fast. Had I known, I would have gone myself or sent Captain Aiguo or maybe Shen—’

  ‘It’s okay, Ba. I’m as capable as any of them.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, it’s nothing to do with capability. Dealing with Jian wasn’t your burden to take on. Until now, I’d imagined one of us Dragons would end up confronting him. Not my son.’

  Keung studied the man who’d raised and trained him for as long as he could remember. Denzhen’s curly hair and short beard had been increasingly unkempt for the last few months, which coincided with the Kingmakers getting closer to finding Jian. The scar on his cheek, a trophy from a war fought by the elders many annui-cycles ago, seemed more prominent than usual as well.

  ‘I knew him as well as anyone else; this is a burden we all share.’

  ‘Not true, Keung. You don’t have the hands of a killer. How many people have you had to shoot? And of those few, how many did you know personally? No, it’s not your burden to take, and damn me for not being careful and sending you, anyway!’

  Denzhen shot up from his seat. ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  Although Keung found some solace in his father’s words, they reinforced why so few fellow Kingmakers had ever attempted to befriend him. His father’s unwavering protection had always been a comfort that Keung accepted without question in his childhood. However, as he matured, he realised he had the autonomy to reject this overprotectiveness when it became excessive. Now, Keung questioned whether he should embrace his father’s consolation.

  ‘Oh, shit…’ Denzhen muttered. ‘Keung, do you know what it means to be General Jian’s executioner?’

  ‘What?’

  Denzhen pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. ‘Should’ve sent…’

  ‘Ba, what are you trying to say?’

  ‘What you did to Jian isn’t going to sit well with the other Kingmakers.’

  At that moment, his father’s comment hit him with full force. Keung hadn’t considered how others in the tower might react. He hadn’t just killed a prolific Yang terrorist; he’d killed a father figure to many Kingmakers.

  Denzhen continued. ‘It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been me or the captain who ended him. But you’re young, Keung, so incredibly young. The love many have for Jian is almost as old as I am.’

  ‘Thank you for warning me.’ Keung’s face tensed in an effort to appear indifferent. Yet, he couldn’t suppress the subtle tightening of muscles along his jaw and a faint frown.

  His mind raced. Am I on the path to becoming every Kingmaker’s enemy?

  ‘Be careful, son. Emotions run high while people mourn. They’ll be eager to point the finger. I’ll do what I can to maintain discipline for the next few menses-cycles at least.’

  Keung shook his head. ‘No, please don’t. Nothing will happen to me. If anyone has any grievances, let them come to me,’ He rose from his seat and faced the door.

  ‘Son—’

  ‘No, I have to go! I need to walk this off. Thank you, sir.’ Keung exited his father’s chambers as Denzhen looked on, his forehead furrowed.