Yoshika hesitated before the door to Lin Xiulan’s room. She always did. It was silly—Xiulan made a point of being approachable, and Yoshika was expected. The temple guardians knew to let her in, yet she still felt out of place. Yoshika had spoken candidly to queens, powerful cultivators, and ancient spirits—but Lin Xiulan intimidated her more than any of them.

Of course, it wasn’t actually Xiulan she was afraid of. Yoshika steeled her resolve, and knocked.

“Welcome, girls! I’m glad you could make it—let’s have our session on the veranda, it’s a lovely day.”

As usual, Xiulan opted to simply appear rather than answer the door. She glided across the floor, leaving a trail of frosty mist in her wake, and Yoshika was expected to follow.

The grandmistress led them to the open-air balcony overlooking the city. It was snowing outside—Xiulan’s idea of a ‘lovely day’—but the formations around the veranda kept the wind and snow out, giving them an unobstructed view.

Xiulan took her seat in a plush chair and took a moment to gaze out at the snowy landscape while Yoshika took the couch across from her. The silence was awkward—Yoshika never knew what to say to Xiulan, which body to speak with, or where to begin. Thankfully, the older woman never left her to stew for too long.

“So, I assume you’ve heard about Lee Jung’s progress by now?”

Yoshika nodded, responding in Jia’s voice since her sister was the topic of conversation.

“She even made breakfast for everyone this morning, with a little help from us. It’s amazing how much progress you’ve made already.”

“And did she tell you that a full recovery won’t be possible while she remains mortal?”

“She...did imply something to that effect, yes.”

Lin Xiulan leveled her icy gaze on Yoshika, the weight of her attention palpable—as if she could see straight through Jia’s eyes and deep into her soul.

“I’d like to hear what you think of that. You and Jung didn’t see eye to eye on the subject in the past, as I recall.”

Yoshika fidgeted awkwardly. She had to consciously stop herself from wringing Eui’s tail as she considered her words. She always felt so self-conscious during these sessions.

“I...don’t want Jung to die. Ever. Immortality seems like such a gift to me. Life is such a beautiful thing, and I love my family. There’s no beauty in death—it would just take the people I love away from me. Just like—”

She had to stop herself—unable to finish what she’d been about to say. Thankfully, Xiulan didn’t press her.

“And Jung disagrees?”

“Sort of. I don’t think she wants to die, but I don’t think she wants to live forever either. She’s content to make the most of whatever time she has.”

“There can be beauty in that as well, don’t you think? As immortals, we spend lifetimes staving off the specter of death, only to use the time we’ve gained to do more of the same. Not every cultivator reaches immortality, and those that don’t might spend their entire lives in pursuit of it. One might argue that a mortal like Jung has lived a more fulfilling life.”

Yoshika nodded slowly.

“I think I understand, but it’s not like cultivation is all we ever do either. We love our family and we love spending time with them. Is more time really such a terrible thing to ask for?”

“Of course not. Though I should point out that even among cultivators, you two have a remarkable work ethic. Still, it is her choice to make.”

“Of course it is, and we respect that even if we don’t understand or agree. It’s a moot point now, though, isn’t it?”

Xiulan cocked her head and frowned.

“No? You may be getting ahead of yourselves. First, it’s not as simple as just having Jung learn to cultivate—her condition is fragile, and it will require a highly specialized method of cultivation to awaken her safely. Second, it is still ultimately Lee Jung’s decision to make. What if she chooses not to?”

Yoshika froze. She hadn’t even thought about it. What if Jung decided she didn’t want to cultivate? What would happen if she decided that she was content to make the most out of her last year of life?

“She—she wouldn’t do that to Narae. Jung may not want to live forever, but she’s a fighter—she’ll stay alive as long as she can. For her daughter, and for us.”

Maybe even for Ienaga Yumi—though that was something she was still trying to wrap her head around.

“Maybe not, but humor me. If Lee Jung chose to remain under purely palliative treatment for the remainder of her short life—what would you do?”

Yoshika swallowed as she tried to think about it. She didn’t want to think about it, but that was why Lin Xiulan had asked. Questions like that were the entire point of these sessions—forcing her to face the problems that she so often avoided.

“We’d be upset. We’d argue with Jung about it, but we’d lose. Then probably just pretend it wasn’t happening until—”

She cut herself off again, then shook her head.

“Then we’d adapt. Do our best to take care of Narae, and try to fill the void left behind no matter how impossible it is.”

Xiulan nodded slowly. Never judging, just coldly processing what Yoshika told her.

“Tell me, have either of you grieved a loss before?”

Yoshika slowly shook her head. There had been close calls, and plenty of guilt, but not grief in the way that Xiulan meant.

“I thought not. You’re still so young. Too young to have to face the truth of immortality, but here we are. Your greatest blessings are also your greatest curse. As immortals, there is one absolute truth we all must face—and that is death. Death will come for you—if not directly then through loved ones, through the people you care about and those you’ve sworn to protect.

“Our sect encourages fraternity between mortals and immortals, so that we do not forget the value of mortal life. But know this—your sister will die. As will your parents, most of your friends, your subjects—should you ever be unfortunate enough to rule. As immortals, it is your curse to see nearly every single person you will ever know or love meet their end.”

Yoshika leaned forward to protest, but Xiulan held up a hand to stop her.

“Perhaps not right away. If Lee Jung becomes a cultivator, she may live another hundred years, or a thousand. But what is that compared to eternity? Of your friends, how many of them will reach the xiantian realm? How many more will meet violent ends? Only the most naive think that immortality is an escape from death. The truth is that we are better acquainted with death than any mortal.”

Yoshika clenched her fists and stared down into her laps. In Eui’s voice, she spoke through clenched teeth.

“So what? We’re supposed to just give up? Stop caring?”

“The God-Emperor would say so, yes. That is the official doctrine of the Empire. Alas, our empire was founded by a childish fool of a man so frightened of his own weakness that he would bring the rest of the world down with him just to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

Yoshika let out a strangled, incredulous laugh. That was the kind of open heresy that could get a person killed even in Goryeo. The Qin Empire did not suffer such attacks against its great leader lightly. But Lin Xiulan was a radical—no, beyond radical. Her Cult of Harmonious Stars was a ‘cult’ rather than a sect, not just because they weren’t recognized by the orthodox traditions of the empire, but because they actively rejected them.

Hearing Xiulan’s opinions first-hand forced Yoshika to question some of the things she’d heard about the historical oppression of healing cults in the empire. Not that it made things any better, but cutting out seeds of rebellion wasn’t quite the same as greedily dismantling rivals out of a sense of jealousy and resentment. There was probably some balance of both involved.

“And what about you? What do you think we should do?”

Xiulan sighed.

“I wish I could give you a simple answer. Everybody has a unique relationship to death and grief, and the fact that you’ve never had to experience it makes it particularly hard to prepare you. The rugged stoicism works for some—Guan Yu and his boy, for example—but on the whole, I’ve found such doctrine to cause more harm than good.

“On the subject of death, however, I’d like to take this opportunity to address another subject—may I speak directly to An Eui?”

Eui stiffened. She hated this part the most. Before she even had a chance to think about it, one hand went to her tail, while the other self-consciously smoothed her hair over the scar on her forehead.

“Go ahead, I guess...”

“We all have complicated relationships with death, but I believe that yours is more complicated than most. While you may not have experienced grief in the way that I meant earlier, I believe you have felt something quite similar.”

Eui grasped Jia’s hand and squeezed.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Xiulan huffed.

“Of course you don’t, and I won’t force you. You needn’t speak with me specifically, but you two are at a precipice. Your xiantian ascension is dangerously imminent, and even with the way you’ve been intentionally delaying, it’s a miracle you haven’t already crossed that threshold.

“You are aware, of course, that attempting to break through is by far the most common cause of death among third stage cultivators?”

Eui gave her a tiny nod. She knew where this was going.

“The trials of a xiantian tribulation are not to be trifled with. I’m told that the power of the tribulation you experienced was comparable to that of a xiantian ascension, but it’s just like men to think of things in such terms. ‘Power’ this, and ‘intensity’ that. There is more to a tribulation than mere lightning.

“What you will face, when you ascend—and I have every confidence that you will—is a test of who you are. I have been around a long, long time, girls. I’ve personally witnessed dozens of tribulations, and known thousands who’ve faced them. Most fail. Those who have unresolved trauma as deep as yours face only three possibilities.”

Lin Xiulan began to list them off on her fingers.

“First—they fail. Simple as that. The lightning consumes them, and they are never seen again. Second, they succeed, but are forever changed. The trauma becomes an irrevocable part of who they are. Third, and most troubling, is another sort of failure. They survive. Nothing more, nothing less. They become empty husks—or worse. Controlled by their fears, some even turn to demonism.”

Eui’s grip on Jia’s hand tightened, and she looked up to glare defiantly at the grandmistress.

“It’s a little late for that one, isn’t it?”

To her surprise, Xiulan just scoffed.

“You’re no demon, An Eui. I’ve met real demons—the ones who prey on the souls of mortals and immortals alike, selfishly feeding on their essence as a shortcut to power. Common wisdom is that for a nascent demon such as yourself, it’s only a matter of time—but we both know what I think of ‘common wisdom.’”

Xiulan sighed, her icy gaze softening as she shook her head slowly.

“I understand being defensive, but I’ve seen what happens when people are ruled by their regrets.”

Eui stood up and slammed her fist on the tea table between them.

“I don’t ‘regret’ anything! I killed to survive and I would do it again!”

Xiulan’s tone remained infuriatingly level, despite Eui’s shouting.

“But you do feel guilty about it.”

“Of course I’m fucking guilty! I was guilty before I ever killed an innocent person! I have a fucking scar branded onto my face to tell everybody all about how guilty I am! You want to talk about grief?! What about all the families of the people I killed? The wives who will never see their husbands again—the children who’ll never see their fathers—just because I needed to eat? I should have just starved!”

Jia stood up and threw her arms around Eui without a word. It was comforting, even if Eui didn’t feel worthy of comfort, and she wound her tail around Jia’s without thinking. Xiulan looked up at her impassively.

“I thought you didn’t regret anything.”

Eui fought back the tears welling in her eyes.

“But I should, shouldn’t I? If I don’t, how am I any better than those soul-eating demons you mentioned? How can my pain ever compare to the suffering I’ve inflicted for my own selfish ends?”

Xiulan shook her head.

“Why should it have to? Is retribution the only form of penance you can understand? I thought better of you than that, An Eui.”

“What else am I supposed to do?!”

“I can’t answer that for you. I apologize for the pain I’ve caused by bringing it up, and I hope you can forgive me. The heavens will be far less merciful when they test you, and I pray that you are able to find your answers before that happens.”

Eui scowled and turned away.

“Fuck you, Lin Xiulan. I’m done here.”

The grandmistress stood and bowed as Eui stormed off with Jia hesitantly following along behind her.

“It was nice speaking to you, Yoshika. Shall we do it again next week?”

Yoshika paused—Eui’s pain was still raw, and she didn’t trust herself to answer wisely. She turned with Jia’s body and bowed half-heartedly.

“Yes please.”