#By its own adherents refusing to take it seriously and just. Choosing words to make it an all encompassing theory of Everythign for their

[rotzaprachim]

The way some modern American leftists use words is just like throwing spaghetti at a wall at this point

[ganymedesclock]

Hungry Knight & Characterizing Ghost

Y’know, it’s interesting, as far into Hollow Knight as I am, and having been aware of Hungry Knight for some time, I haven’t checked it out before very recently. Upon rectifying that, there’s really something interesting in how much of the game is recognizable from this bare bones, two-minute little thing. Obviously there’s a grandiosity and complexity of story that Hollow Knight possesses that Hungry Knight simply couldn’t be of the scale of, but as a sort of primal eggshell the rest of the game hatched out of, it’s very interesting.

The three guardians that are hunted in Hungry Knight are simply boss enemies; they are not given backstory, and hunting them is basically an unambiguously good action. It’s interesting how this progressed to the execution of the Dreamers in Hollow Knight- but what I find illuminating about the Hungry Knight’s journey to its ‘proper’ game sequel is that at its most bare bones, Hungry Knight is a story about Ghost- our Ghost, as we recognize them- who is hailed by Mister Mushroom as the same being, even though he’s sort of breaking the fourth wall to do so and thus Hungry Knight is not in-universe canonical to Ghost’s history- hunting three beings, in order to save the life of a being like themselves.

With many of the major beats of Hollow Knight following an extended, more elaborate imagining of Hungry Knight’s simplistic two-minute plot, I think this characterizes Ghost’s perspective and motives for returning to the kingdom interestingly. 

Another related area of interest to me is that Ghost is very finished compared to everything else in this game that received intense reimagining. Their mainstays remain nail attacks and dashing; the hunger system is a clear predecessor of soul- in essence, Ghost as they are in HK does “hunger” and need to “feed” themselves- it’s just that the timing of such is dependent on the damage they take, rather than time.

However- Ghost also, in Hungry Knight, talks. Not to any NPCs in the game world, because they have no one to speak to- but directly to the player. 

Ghost speaks twice; in the opening card explaining the controls:

I’m a knight. I have something I need to do.

And I’m hungry.

I need to eat every 10 seconds or I will die.

I must search the area carefully.

I must strike swiftly and remorselessly

I must be nimble to avoid danger

I must not fail, whatever happens. I am ready.

And at the end:

Thank you for your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.

Again, given how polished this proto-Ghost is to the finished character in Hollow Knight, I want to take this as an indicator of how Ghost would speak through some kind of proxy around their voicelessness. What follows is basically take-it-or-leave-it headcanon, but going off Hungry Knight as a guideline:

Ghost is very blunt. They contain a bit of the eloquence that perfumes all dialogue in Hollow Knight, really, and they’re not shy of using fancier language, but they express their ideas in very simple words. They seem to think it’s rather important that they are specifically a knight- and this statement exists in absence of them being a knight of or for anything. They do not seem to have an order or affiliation, or- in fact- loyalty to anything in the game world of Hungry Knight except their fallen friend.

They also show a predilection towards imperatives, which is interesting. Outside of the hunger limit which is a factual stating of boundaries, they cite four edicts with rather intense gravity:

Search the area carefully

Strike swiftly and remorselessly 

Be nimble to avoid danger

Do not fail, whatever happens

The existence of these edicts is interesting. The idea of Ghost as someone who internalizes certain things that they take completely seriously and unflinchingly / refuse to compromise on is one not foreshadowed by their very subdued body language. But it betrays a whole host of implied values. That Ghost values precision, caution (they are not reckless in the risks they take) and adaptation, but, also, believes firmly that this caution and adaptation must ultimately serve their end goal.

The biggest reason this is interesting to me? Zote.

Here’s the thing about Zote: he was pretty clearly designed in Ghost’s likeness. Their cloaks are similar. Their weapons are similar. The shape of their horns are similar. While he is in other ways clearly his own character, Zote was conceived as a caricature of Ghost.

Zote insists that he is a principled creature, insists that he is a knight, and has an exhaustive, lengthy list of personal edicts that he insists lead him to success through every situation; however, those edicts are in some ways useless advice; in others, they are useful, but not in the way that a personal creed generally would be.

So, if we’re going off Hungry Knight: Zote as a caricature of Ghost, may, with his 47 Precepts, be caricaturing the idea that Ghost themselves carries and lives by a personal creed.

Some of these things are implied per my earlier headcanon, that the more “neutral-seeming” notes on the top half of the Hunter’s Journal entries represent Ghost’s impressions. These upper-half journal entries, and overall gameplay of Hollow Knight, would seem to align with Ghost’s stated edicts in Hungry Knight.

“I must search the area carefully” -> Ghost’s notes, compared to the Hunter’s, are detailed and factual. They often discuss what weapons a creature uses, whether or not it is trained, its origins... and, take special note of anything that is or used to be a knight, or adhering to a personal creed. (note the sentry enemies in particular, and how much Ghost mentions their hierarchy and weapon choices. The White Defender is also described as “gallant”, in contrast to the dismissive way the Hunter speaks of the Dung Defender). What’s more interesting is that some of the most formidable enemies in the game- Radiance, and Nightmare King Grimm- are given extremely sparing descriptions by Ghost- as if they are struggling to describe what they are beholding.

Likewise, a huge amount of Hollow Knight’s gameplay, especially if you want anything besides the worst ending, or just to make your going easier, involves scouring the game world tenaciously. Both Hornet and Hunter suggest Ghost has a predilection to dogging others’ trails; Quirrel and Cornifer both suggest Ghost is a kindred spirit to them as someone grasped by the love of exploration, and the Old Stag likewise commends them when they open the Queen’s Station.

“I must strike swiftly and remorselessly” -> not only is this one spoofed by Zote (he has a precept about exploiting weaknesses, a precept about felling enemies in a single stroke...) but Ghost is basically never reluctant to throw down with anything that seems about to attack. The Hunter cites Ghost as approaching without fear after he roars at them, and Quirrel’s dialogue outside the mantis village suggests that without much of a clear sense that the mantises are obstructing Ghost’s progress, they’re eager to challenge the Lords. Likewise, the Radiance does not attack you immediately, but Ghost still hops to the highest peak of her domain and tells her exactly how they feel with a single brandished nail.

Likewise, everything Godseeker tells them seems to galvanize them onward, even though initially their motivation may have been curiosity. This even lines up with, according to Hungry Knight, at least, that Ghost defines themselves first by their job, and second by the fact that they have something they need to do- and they do not consider failure any kind of viable option.

As far as remorselessness... there are in fact several times in the game you can cut someone down and then realize afterwards maybe you shouldn’t have. Encountering fully infected Myla is basically set up to encourage it- a player might assume that in defeating her, she could be saved, or just be startled by her attack and retaliate the way that the game has trained us. Her unique dying cry, to me, suggests that the game expected us to hear it.

Likewise, the Nailsmith asks to be cut down, and, if you oblige him, it happens extremely quickly and without effort.

The interesting other side of that is someone who tells themselves to act without remorse, is, generally, someone who is predisposed to regrets- which we know Ghost is, given the canonical information available about the Shade, and that the Shade is already pre-loaded into the Hunter’s Journal on unlock... suggesting Ghost has been forced to contend with it before in the wastelands beyond the kingdom.

Similarly, both Grimm and Brumm in the Grimm Troupe questline prod at the idea that Ghost must make their choice, knowingly, and choose something they won’t regret doing. There’s also the absolutely heartbreaking song of the Hollow Knight battle, and Godseeker’s comments on the Pure Vessel fight that Ghost may yearn to be close to their sibling, but can only get there through combat.

So this particular edict is something emotionally shaky to Ghost- they feel like they have to attack quickly without hesitation, and it’s seen them through many enemies, but... as far as attacking remorselessly- they, uh, don’t always succeed.

“I must be nimble to avoid danger” -> platforming and evasion are huge parts of the game. Given the amount of health bosses have, hanging back, moving around attacks, and finding the right places to heal is an imperative regardless of play style. There are few bosses you can really efficiently face-tank through and you need to do a LOT of charm work, and screaming of either the internal or external variety to succeed there (ask me how I know,) The majority of the upgrades you unlock are about maneuverability. 

“I must not fail, whatever happens.” -> Much of the game, especially Hornet, is basically about interrogating Ghost’s resolve, and whether or not they’re okay with what’s going to happen to them. This refusal to give up in the face of outstanding adversity is a huge quality of Ghost’s, and basically one that the game sympathetically cultivates in the player. This is a game with a harsh and demanding learning curve, and, basically, if you’re going to see it through, you need to commit to it.

However, like Ghost’s belief they need to lack remorse, this walks a dicey line. At their worst, Ghost can ignore everyone and everything, write them off as distractions, minimize their observations of their surroundings and blind themselves to everything except the next obstruction in the way of their goal.

However, in that worst ending? Ghost does fail, if you look at what Hungry Knight says about Ghost’s motives. What proto-Ghost thanks the player for is being able to save their friend and leave that place together.

In the base ending of Hollow Knight, Ghost is unable to save Hollow. Instead, they cut Hollow down, and replace them, making a meaningless sacrifice that won’t save anyone else, either- just buy them more time, in a stasis that has already led to decay.

“Thank you, I couldn’t have done it without you.”

All of the better endings are facilitated by engaging with other characters. For Dream No More, you need Hornet and the White Lady’s help, and seeking closure from the Pale King’s body and the bottom of the Abyss. Ghost has to confront their past there- twice- and face, and embrace, their regrets. The opening to dream nail Hollow rather than cutting them down is only created by Hornet believing in Ghost enough to risk her life entering the Black Egg Temple and tackle Hollow to hold them down.

Embrace The Void takes that even further- you need all of those criteria, and then you need to rummage in two different areas, very far away from each other, to find first a key, and then a sarcophagus, and keep prodding the weirdo that falls out of said sarcophagus, even when she’d really rather you didn’t. And even that has unpleasant consequences unless you go even further, and rummage enough to find a way to deliver a Delicate Flower to Godseeker.

Ultimately, Ghost only gets what they want by letting others in. They only accomplish what they do with help. And this is important, when, again, Hungry Knight would point towards the idea that everything Ghost does is to the end goal of saving another person. They want, ultimately, to protect Hollow.

[clansayeed]

Bound by Destiny ― Chapter 11: The Many Discomforts

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny ⥽

Nadya Al Jamil (MC) has been struggling from the day she moved to Manhattan, but her new job as assistant to the mysterious CEO of Raines Corp was supposed to turn her luck around. Until she finds herself caught in the middle of a war involving the Council of Vampires who secretly run the city. An evil from the birth of Vampire-kind stirs beneath, feeding on the conflict, and finds Nadya bound to a destiny she never asked for.

Bound by Destiny and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Kamilah helps Nadya get dressed. A mysterious couple surprise the attendees of the Awakening Ball.

[READ IT ON AO3]

She doesn’t tell either of them about the voices she heard outside the Library.

Part of her isn’t entirely sure she even heard anything. She had more alcohol last night than in her entire undergrad career and there could have been something in the air or the food that could lead to hearing… weird voices… And if she does choose to cast aside her veil of doubt — what would she even say?

Especially remembering one of those voices sounded an awful lot like Kamilah.

Kamilah who spends the entire evening doing what Nadya’s pretty sure is the two-thousand year old equivalent of pouting because apparently Adrian ditched her last night for some fun of his own.

“Well we did want him to unwind a bit, I guess?” Nadya tries to be a good friend; tries to defend him.

But their petty little fight means she can’t pry from either one of them how Kamilah spent her night. Or who she spent her night with. So she’s having her own little huff.

“One moment he was off coaxing donors into our booth and he didn’t even have the decency to announce that he’d been propositioned,” Kamilah continues her argument like Nadya was nothing more than a gust of wind, “and such things simply aren’t done in polite society.”

“I had a good night.” She shrugs it off but catches the way Kamilah pauses mid-air before grabbing her hairbrush. Her tone suddenly catching disinterest.

“Did you now?”

“Yeah. Met a really sweet couple. They’re here with one’s sister. I’m gonna try and find them again tonight.”

“Good. Though I would advise you stay close to Adrian and myself for the majority of the evening.”

“Why?” Nadya peers into Kamilah’s designer makeup bag seriously. It’s pretty much a bag full of money, right?

She sets her brush down gently; gives Nadya a serious look despite her gentle tone. “Have you forgotten already? Somehow you’ve made enemies on the Council by merely existing.”

Right, Nadya nods in silence. The Baron and Senator Vega were guaranteed to be in attendance… but they wouldn’t jeopardize the Ball itself to settle some sort of score with her — would they?

There’s a knock on the door and Kamilah blurs to it before Nadya can even turn her head. She peers around the doorway to see her let in Adrian — bearing a large black garment bag.

“Sorry,” he greets them both with a smile, “I think I left my card here.”

“Did Priya actually come through?” Kamilah takes the bag from him with a tone of sarcastic surprise. Unzips the top to peer at the contents within with a satisfied smile.

Adrian nods. “She wasn’t happy about having to bring it here but I promised her a suitable trade.”

“That would be…?”

“Raines Corporation sponsorship at her next show.”

Feeling like she needs to announce her presence Nadya clears her throat. Earns a bright grin from Adrian and a raised eyebrow from Kamilah. Though there’s no denying the subtle smirk joining it.

Adrian passes Kamilah to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “Did you tell her yet?”

“And spoil the surprise? Never.” The way she looks at Adrian — like all of her frustrations have gone away, their importance weighed against the eternity going forwards and back and found wanting — makes Nadya question just who the surprise is for.

Another soft cough and she’s going to break her neck if she looks back and forth any quicker. “Someone gonna enlighten me?”

“Do you want to show her?” asks Adrian. Kamilah drapes the bag over the back of a chair and retreats into their room to continue her routine.

“Shooow me what?”

“Well we figured you didn’t have anything that fit the theme of the Ball in your wardrobe.” He explains and grabs the bag to hang it over the front of the armoire in Nadya’s room. Starts pulling down the zipper before she can even follow.

“I thought what I brought was okay! Kamilah — you told me it was okay!”

Nadya looks at the dress she’s laid out on the room’s second bed. Sure it’s the same dress from the event at the Gallery but that whole ‘never caught wearing the same thing twice’ thing was only a movie trope, right? And even if it wasn’t only Kamilah and Adrian would be able to call her out on it.

What? It was expensive. And she fully intends to get her money’s worth out of it.

Adrian worries his bottom lip with vestiges of guilt. “It’s a nice choice, yes. But as Kamilah and I were planning to adhere to the theme — we figured it was the least we could do.”

He peels the black panels apart and takes Nadya’s breath away. She’s never found blue that attractive but somehow the dress looks both like a cloudless summer day and sparkles with night-time stars. Little Nadya, the girl who wanted nothing more in life than to be a princess, squeals deep in her heart but the adult on the outside simply can’t find the words.

He pulls out the skirts to let their size show proudly. Brushes his fingertips along the satiny fabric of the bodice and even at a distance she can tell it’s buttery; utterly perfect.

“Well,” Adrian looks as excited as she feels, “what do you think?”

It takes her brain a second to catch hold of her tongue. “Wait, you said Priya? As in —”

“Don’t think about that. Don’t think about the money, or who made it, or any of that. Just tell me what you think — really think.”

With a lot of effort Nadya tamps down years of apology-laden refusals. Reaches down inside to let that little princess girl shine through.

She bounces on the balls of her bare feet.

“I think I need some glass slippers.”

“They’re not glass — trust me on this one — but Kamilah has you covered.”

Then her arms are thrown around his neck and she’s kissing the same stubbly spot on his cheek over and over; she’s pretty sure she might have gotten a little spit on her boss but who the heck cares?

“It’s beautiful.”

“You really think?”

“I really really think.”

Coaxing her away, Adrian grabs the door handle on his exit. “Then I’ll leave you to get ready. We’ll be heading down in a few hours.”

Taking in the beauty of the dress before her is almost enough to make Nadya forget about the voice in the library. Almost.

“Adrian?”

Maybe a normal person wouldn’t have caught her soft voice; would have kept going and ventured off to prepare without a care. But Adrian’s not normal. Maybe that’s what she’s hoping for deep down.

“Hm — you say something?” He peeks his head around the door; blinks with an innocence that makes Nadya’s heart sink into her stomach.

She can’t ruin his evening.

“I just wanted to… to really make sure you know how much I appreciate this.” Holding up a bit of the dress skirts, she gives him the widest smile she can muster without seeming fake. If he doesn’t believe her he doesn’t show it.

“You deserve it.”

In the time that follows Nadya really thinks about that — considers wildly that he might be right. After everything that’s happened so far this may be the one thing she needs to actually celebrate for herself. To celebrate something good happening to her.

It’s so easy to get swept up in the bad; the Baron, Lily, Vega, that the good things get harder and harder to cling on to.

So this — this she’s not letting go of.

Until she very much wants to throw this dumb dress down some sort of chute into an incinerator. Old fashioned places like these have those, right? I need to find one. Because god, putting it on is pretty much impossible! She’s tried shoving herself into it in various directions nearly five times and, standing in nothing but her underthings with the deepest and most hate-filled frown she can muster, debates her plan of action for the sixth.

There’s a noise of bemusement behind her and Nadya almost misses it — almost cares too much about her perfect mental image of taking her mother’s sewing shears and cutting the thing into ribbons with maniacal glee — almost.

Almost.

With no dignity whatsoever she turns on her heel, shouts something that sounds an awful lot like “Eeep,” and tries to cover herself against Kamilah’s eyes with the complimentary dressing gown from the bathroom.

What are you doing, this is a good thing! Says the part of her brain that stopped making good choices the moment she realized she had a crush. And though normally her rational side usually came up with a good excuse… it’s falling a bit short at the moment.

“Kamilah! Knock please!”

The look the vampire gives her of oh, really isn’t entirely unwarranted.

The last time she had a roommate she needed to knock for was back when she lived at home. Lily, knocking? What a laughable idea. And habits die hard… until they’re driven into you by a privacy-inclined Kamilah.

She saunters into the room like she owns it. Technically, she kinda does. Not like something that trivial would stop her anyway. Like a jaguar on the prowl she circles Nadya, makes her little human heart work harder than it has in her entire life, before she stops and takes stock of the dress and its components.

“Relax; it’s nothing I haven’t seen already.” Kamilah gently cuffs the sleeves of her own sheer gown — oh holy Mother Mary she needs to tie that belt tighter — and starts working on the lacing of the whalebone corset. “Am I correct in assuming you’ve never worn one of these before?”

With a negative level of grace Nadya pulls the backwards robe off, lets it fall to the plush carpeting.

“I mean, if Ren Faire counts?”

Kamilah’s nose twitches slightly. She’s gotten to know at least a few of the woman’s little ticks — the nose being one of them. Confusion but too much pride (or too little care) to want to know more.

“You know,” Nadya moves her hips like somehow that will explain everything for her, “the Renaissance Faire? Jousting and knights and giant turkey legs bigger than your head?”

“Sounds like they got the period wrong… unsurprising.”

“Oh, right.”

Kamilah pulls the last lacing aside and holds it up in both hands. Normally it would take Nadya a few seconds to understand what’s going on but since she’s pretty sure she’s had this dream before the usual brain-delay doesn’t apply. There’s been plenty of time to pinch herself awake tonight already. She’s very much awake.

Slowly Nadya turns her back towards Kamilah; awkwardly raises her arms out only because she doesn’t know what to do with them.

Like with all things Kamilah takes the lead; she’s not a woman who abides ignorance and simply educates along the way. The cool touch of her fingers sends gooseflesh racing down Nadya’s arms as she’s positioned—not unlike a mannequin—with her arms slightly above her head and just enough space for Kamilah to wrap the corset around her front and begin securing the laces in the back.

“You’ll feel a little —” she tugs and knocks the air from Nadya’s lungs, “— discomfort. Seeing as this is your first time.” There’s a breath of silence and Kamilah’s next words sound almost like appraisal: “Though you have the figure for it.”

Nadya fumbles for a response, manages a stuttered out “thank you” as the form-fitting fabric begins to press harder around her middle.

“This way. Move with me.”

Kamilah taps the back of her leg to coax her forward. Nadya, dazed and growing hotter by the moment, complies in a stupor. Suddenly finds herself with her hands braced against the ornamental wall with nothing but the solid presence of the vampire behind her.

“Good. Now hold that stance. Your fore-mothers were quite insistent that beauty come at a price.”

Her laugh comes out a breathless whimper; makes her go scarlet in embarrassment when she takes note of Kamilah’s brief hesitancy before continuing.

Each pull of the strings is painful pressure — shaping, twisting, mangling her — for the corset’s desired shape. Kamilah surprises her with patience joining her firm touch. Her strength only needs one good pull to get the job done but she gives Nadya time to find the width of her new breath before moving on.

Only Kamilah’s very presence isn’t helping her find her breath in the slightest.

Neither is the hand that suddenly falls onto her newly-shaped hip.

“Relax,” Kamilah croons in her ear, lets her thumb trace a soft and comforting circle just below the corset’s base, “the more you think about it the more your body resists.”

Another noise comes out a note higher and Nadya spits hair out of her mouth. “No offense but you never had to breathe in one of these things.”

There’s a genuine laugh behind her; melodious and gentle. Something Nadya’s never heard the equal of but longs for the moment it fades. Laugh like that again, she wants to say — doesn’t, let me remember it for the rest of my life.

“True enough. Now ready yourself; last one.”

The hand vanishes, leaves her skin feeling cold and alone. She braces her sweating palms against the wall once more and on the count of two Kamilah pulls one last time and secures the lacing.

Just as Nadya readies herself to figure out how to breathe on her own there’s a weight on her hips. Kamilah’s nails dig softly into the swell of her body. There’s definitely not enough oxygen going to her brain.

It’s the kind of quiet that rings in her ears. Makes her want to fill it with mindless chatter, the television on in the background, something. But Kamilah’s a fan of it — like the masochist she is. Says it’s good for emptying the well of her thoughts but Nadya just can’t come to terms with it.

Until now. Because if anyone were to say anything she’s pretty sure she’d throttle them.

Finally Kamilah speaks; something rich like caramel on her tongue that makes Nadya’s body react in ways she’s forgotten. Makes her thighs tremble like they’re straining to hold her up.

“Better now?”

When she breathes it’s easier; it’s been easier, became easier while she was frantically thinking up something to say or do to break the tension between them. And she didn’t even notice.

“Uh — Mmhm.”

The pressure of centuries lives on her hipbones — Nadya turns with the woman’s touch until they’re face-to-face. She knows it’s just so Kamilah can make sure her work has yielded success but it makes her want to fly away to whatever place in the clouds her reason has gone. It’s gotta be freakin’ nice up there.

Kamilah hums — taps her fingertip against her lips for a moment before she moves. Nadya closes her eyes like she’s bracing for some sort of apocalypse-level impact.

The sudden frigid touch releases a trapped noise from inside her. There’s absolutely no way Kamilah doesn’t know what she’s doing; doesn’t know the reactions she’s getting aren’t utterly shameful. Doesn’t know there’s no way in heaven, hell, or anything in between that cupping Nadya’s flushed breasts where they rest trapped within the corset to adjust them isn’t going to drive her absolutely insane.

Nadya squeezes her eyes shut. Bites on her bottom lip so hard it hurts, so hard there’s definitely going to be an indent for hours, and waits for Kamilah to be satisfied with her work.

“Much better. You can open your eyes now, Nadya.”

Only she wishes she hadn’t — finds herself staring in the depths of Kamilah’s soul filled with ice so cold it burns her from the inside out. She knows what she’s done, what she’s wrought. And when her tongue wets her bottom lip and sends Nadya keening into an octave she didn’t know she could reach she knows that, too, was as purposeful as everything else.

There’s a cinematic version of Nadya in her head that would absolutely throw every caution to the wind and surge forward in a kiss. That version would press Kamilah down onto the bed — maybe even on top of the dress — and release all their tension in a rush of tangled tongues and the sting of teeth colliding.

That version is much braver than the reality.

“All — ah — All good?” she chokes out.

Kamilah’s brows knit together. “Indeed. Is that all you have to say?”

She barely has the time to consider a response before her hands are trapped above her head in an immortal grip.

Kamilah bears down upon her; every inch the perfect predator. Just when Nadya’s certain her heart is actually trying to push it’s way out of her chest she sees a flicker of red in those dark, alluring eyes and finds herself caught between reality and whatever dream she’s had but forgotten that makes all this feel like deja-vu.

She’s got a lot more to say. She just doesn’t know how to say it.

And like with all things — she ruins it. Her hesitance isn’t something Kamilah wants, makes her back off a vampire-step back, crossing the room backwards and putting a world of wants and desires between them.

Way to go, says the Lily-voice in Nadya’s mind. It takes her longer to recover her breath against the strain of the corset.

Maybe it’s a trick of the light; the way Kamilah takes advantage of the space to look Nadya over bodily. And maybe it isn’t.

“I — I should, uhm…” Nadya runs clammy hands over her face and gestures to the dress as a sudden exhaustion fills her from head to toe, “but thank you for helping. Really.”

Kamilah says nothing. Nods curtly and leaves. And that’s how Nadya knows she’s going to have a very very long night.

With all guests — human and vampire alike — heading to the same place this time around Nadya gets a full dose of reality of the attendees and their numbers. It makes her keep close to Kamilah and Adrian as they descend towards the Grand Ballroom.

It’s harder to tell the difference between them; at least to her mortal senses. No doubt the vampires know one another by sight. But she takes in the splendor of costumes from every period and society she ever read about in school; smiles sheepishly as they pass what looks like a Japanese samurai in full regalia accosting a Renaissance painter.

Nadya briefly touches the bodice of her dress; rolls her shoulders to shift her body back into a comfortable place.

“Are you in discomfort?” Kamilah asks quietly beside her.

They’d all departed the room together; all shared a toast of some strong honey-tinted cognac beforehand. It was like the whole thing hadn’t happened to Kamilah — except for the fact that Nadya can’t seem to meet her eye to eye.

With a pursed smile on her flushed cheeks Nadya shakes her head. “No — well, no more than I already was. You… uhm…”

Great, really great. Of course she has to fumble again, has to not know what to say again. And honestly this time the twinge of disappointment she sees reflected in Kamilah’s eyes is one she shares. Dumb girl.

The crowd bottlenecks at a pair of large and lavish double doors. The music of a live orchestra dances on the air out into the hall over the conversational chatter. Maybe Nadya’s imagining it but the air carries the faint smell of lavender.

They file in behind the rest — Nadya cranes her head to see what’s holding them all up.

Two footmen stand against either side of the doorway with heavy-looking leather ledgers in their hands. They take down the name of the attendant in front of them before taking turns with announcing the guest’s arrival.

“Lady Genevieve, and guest!”

“Mansa Adebayo, and celebrated Olamide!”

“Monsieur Robespierre!”

With a startled gasp Nadya smacks Adrian’s arm. “That’s not… No way!”

Adrian quickly looks to Kamilah; whose face has been beset by a deep scowl.

“Indeed it is,” Adrian replies, “but he’s been banned from Marcel’s very presence up until, well, now.”

“He must have done something considerably generous to earn forgiveness.” muses Kamilah.

The footman calls out another name: “Celebrated Nicholas Hall!”

“What does that mean,” she asks them, “when they say ‘celebrated?’”

Adrian coaxes them all into the left branch of the line as he explains. “I told you the Awakening Ball is a celebration first, remember? It celebrates the newly Turned of the decade. It’s more of a bigger deal if you were Turned within a year or two of the party, but anyone new is welcome to come.”

“If they have the connections for an invitation.”

“Well… yes.”

She doesn’t have to say it — one look down and Adrian knows what she’s thinking. It makes him lean down and whisper in her ear.

“It would be too dangerous for her to be here. If anyone recognized her as a local we’d run the risk of exposing her Turning.”

“I know.” Nadya replies in the same monotone. Yes, she knows. And she’s come to terms with it. Doesn’t stop her from feeling, though; from missing Lily and knowing she’d enjoy something like this so-freakin’-much.

When the trio comes up to their footman Kamilah takes the lead. “You’re here on my invitation,” Adrian reminds her quietly. Whatever title Kamilah gives makes the announcer — human; somehow Nadya can just tell — go flushed as he tries to keep up with it all. She tries to peer close enough to see it but the block of fresh black ink is unreadable from their distance.

A nonplussed Kamilah turns herself towards the ballroom without thought to the way the footman trips over his tongue. Nadya almost feels bad for the guy.

“Ah — ahem… the Esteemed Kamilah Sayeed; Nomarch of Maten, Founder and CEO of Ahmanet Financial Holdings, Leader of Clan Sayeed of New York, and member of the Council of New York.”

Even without microphones the announcement carries. Makes the crowds closest to the doors stop in their tracks — some mid-word — all to turn and witness Kamilah’s entrance.

She walks with a different kind of grace than Nadya is used to seeing. Kamilah will probably always be the exact opposite of the dictionary definition of ‘humble’ but there’s a different kind of pride in the rise of her chin and a rigidity in her spine.

Like she’s a queen putting on airs for her subjects; like she knows exactly how to catch their attentions. Nadya’s, too.

Adrian’s cold hand on her bare shoulder-blade rouses her out of the hypnosis of Kamilah’s entry.

“Come on. We’re next.”

Suddenly the footman seems daunting. Who could follow an arrival like that?

“Name and title, ser,” the footman doesn’t even bother looking up from his ledger as Adrian slowly articulates his name and title — and follows with one for Nadya too.

“Just follow my lead.” Mutters Adrian, and together they take their position to enter.

The right footman announces his guest and the woman steps forward with her dress train trailing several feet behind her. Arm linked tightly against Adrian’s, Nadya holds her breath.

“Adrian Raines; Founder and CEO of the Raines Corporation, Leader of Clan Raines of New York, member of the Council of New York, and guest Mademoiselle Nadya Al Jamil of Clan Raines.”

Red does not go with the shade of blue her dress is but that doesn’t stop her from being a literal tomato as they make their way inside.

“Mademoiselle, really?”

Adrian gives her a half-grin. “It’s not every day you get to be announced. I figured that’s one down for the bucket list.”

“I’m too young for a bucket list.” She grumbles, and wants to snatch the words from the air and shove them back in her mouth until her cheeks are full but she can’t, not with a ton of eyes on her, so she just watches them fly away with regret.

They follow the current of guests mingling their way into the Ball. Kamilah’s already been plunged into the depths — Nadya has to pull Adrian by their linked arms when she spots her over by the place where the dance floor meets arrays of standing tables.

As they approach Adrian’s face lights up. “Oh, good, she’s found Marcel.”

At first glance it looks like Kamilah’s in deep conversation with someone’s lost child. A child who matches the ballroom and the decor of the workers far better than any other. Their fast-paced French dies once the pair are within earshot and the child — who is very much not a child when Nadya meets his eyes — beams in delight when he sees Adrian.

Marcel Lafayette, the owner of the castle and the Awakening Ball’s illustrious host, had to have been Turned on the cusp of puberty; that point where children are starting to grow into their abnormally sized proportions but still maintain those round cheeks and slightly too-big ears. But children—regular children—have a sparkle in their eyes. They haven’t lost their innocence, haven’t seen how hard and cruel the world can be when it wants to.

Marcel has no such light. It’s like looking into a void. And it makes Nadya want to cry.

“Adrian, mon coeur!” Adrian has to nudge Nadya away as he ends up with arms full of exuberant young vampire. Marcel presses a butterfly kiss to Adrian’s cheeks; protests with a slight whine as his perfect golden curls are ruffled in response. “Non! Not my hair! You know this took me hours!”

Kamilah scoffs but the fondness on her face is unlike any Nadya has ever seen.

“C’est faux, Marcel, and you know it.”

“Well…” His mischievous smirk falters as his eyes fall on Nadya — namely on her dress. Every imitation the young boy at a grown-up party, Marcel clasps his hands behind his back and steps up to her to give a low bow.

“Forgive me, mademoiselle, for not noticing you before. With beauty such as yours you must be some sort of princess, non?”

Before Nadya can make a fool of herself the young man takes her hand and kisses the back of it — eases her into their greeting.

“This is the mortal I was speaking of,” Kamilah offers, “Nadya; Adrian’s guest.”

“I’m his assistant-slash-secretary, actually.” She corrects with pink cheeks. “I’ve heard good things about you from Adrian and Kamilah, Marcel. Thank you for the invitation.”

“Oh, I like her.”

Adrian’s honestly never looked so proud. “I do, too.”

Beside her Kamilah gives a soft and derisive laugh. “You haven’t seen the sheer amount of sugary sweets she can put away.”

“A-Anyway!” Only she doesn’t have anything to interrupt the conversation with and Kamilah knows it in the look in her eyes.

Marcel takes both Adrian and Kamilah’s hands in his and squeezes them fondly. “It’s been so long since I’ve had two of my favorite people in the same room. Especially since someone chose not to attend the last Ball!”

Under his glare Adrian at least looks ashamed. “If it had been any other night I could have come! I sent Kamilah with my apology.”

“Oh, was that what I forgot to bring along?” Her fake embarrassment makes Adrian’s jaw drop. “How forgetful of me…”

“The past is the past — of course you are forgiven. Just don’t do it again.”

“I don’t plan on —”

As far back as they are it’s difficult to hear the footmen and their announcements over the other voices. That is until someone hits the mute button on the party save the orchestra — and even they falter in a brief confusion before steadying their harmony.

Nadya strains to hear; her mortal ears letting her down. But whatever is called — whoever has arrived — has her friends in a strange way.

Marcel’s fingertips touch his rouged lips. He pulls a lace-woven fan from his breast pocket and fans himself frantically.

“Quelle surprise… I didn’t think they’d really come. I had to send their invitations so far!”

It’s luck and maybe a little bit of cosmic intervention on Nadya’s behalf when she catches the sight of Kamilah’s expression before she can ask who ‘they’ are. Darkness — an empty well where only the echoes of the lost ring among the stones.

Who the hell just showed up?

Kamilah steps closer to her young friend; lowers her voice so much that Nadya almost misses it.

“Where did you find them?”

“A small village,” Marcel whispers back, “on the border of Auvernal and Cordonia.”

“And you chose to invite them because…?”

“Because they’re family, Kamilah. And I miss them so.”

The young lord seems to remember himself, then. Stops whispering and straightens his spine like he’s just been reprimanded by a nanny. For the second time Nadya watches with wonder as Marcel Lafayette shifts from elated lad to wizened man.

The still-silent crowd parts in a sea of wealth and finery as a couple approaches.

They fit in with the rest of the jumble of history’s wealthiest fashions, all it takes is a glance to know they aren’t wearing costumes but the real thing. Dark emerald woven tight and sheer against the woman’s lithe figure and etched with golden thread that looks like it was spun from sunlight. The fresh aroma of the man’s bay laurel; the almost staged way his toga and wrappings cascade in a waterfall of fabric down to his sandaled feet.

Together they are easily the most beautiful things in the room. And underneath the surface, even from afar, Nadya is certain they know it, too. It takes her a moment to realize what else she feels from them; she doesn’t really understand until they’re in the same frame of sight as Kamilah.

She looks dwarfed in comparison. Young.

Whoever these vampires are… they’re so old they make Kamilah look gentile.

Then Marcel’s bowing beside her, and Kamilah’s eyes are cast down in her curtsy. Makes Nadya hastily grip the edges of her dress and bend her knee in something that would embarrass any actual royalty. Oh crap, are they actual vampire royalty?

Only Adrian remains standing. Which is definitely unlike him. Has Nadya looking through the curtain of her hair to see the unabashed surprise in his slack jaw.

“Domine,” Kamilah addresses curtly; stares directly into the man’s eyes as though he’s just made a threat on her life.

Instead the man in the laurel wreath gives a deep bow to Marcel.

“Young Lord Lafayette. Isseya and I were surprised to receive your invitation, and wished to apologize in person for not securing our place. I hope we’re not intruding…”

Marcel’s curls bounce with the vigor with which he shakes his head. “Non, not at all! I’m glad the invitations got to you in time.”

The woman, Isseya, laughs with her eyes more than her lips.

“Thank you for sending one for each of us, darling boy. The gesture was a kind one, and they were decadent.”  And Nadya remembers, then, the woman who brought their invite. Her stomach flips upside-down.

Nadya catches a strange noise beside her. Turns to see Adrian looking at Isseya and her companion with an expression she can’t put a word on. But she’s definitely never seen it before. It makes her lean in with a hand on his arm, ready to help how she can.

“Adrian —”

“Ah, so that is your name.” The man’s interruption makes Nadya jump — shivers running down her spine. There’s an almost erotic appraisal in his eyes as he and his companion both smile at Adrian.

“We were hoping to catch you again tonight,” and Nadya does not like the way Isseya’s words dissolve into a purr, not one bit, “Valdas —” she strokes the robed man’s arm with her fingertips, “— is not easily so impressed after a single encounter.”

Several times Adrian opens and closes his mouth in an attempt to speak. Eventually gives way to the silence when he realizes they would wait however long to hear his thoughts.

“I’m, ah, well that is to say…”

Valdas chuckles in bemusement. “Still speechless?”

“Give the poor thing a chance. You did keep him on the edge well until dawn.”

Adrian finally finds his voice — if strained. “When I agreed to join you two for… last night’s events, I wasn’t aware you were —”

“The Trinity?” Valdas supplies for him. Makes Adrian give a curt nod.

Kamilah, meanwhile, is fuming. “You spent La Soirée with the Trinity?”

“Don’t sound so pious, Kamilah. Your age surely hasn’t affected your memory so. I seem to recall…”

Isseya trails off when Valdas holds up his hand — but she doesn’t really need to say anything more. It’s all in her eyes. And Nadya’s struggle to keep up really doesn’t need the visuals.

Everything in Kamilah’s glare to Adrian screams ‘We’re not done.’

The tension is starting to make Nadya sweat and that’s the last thing she wants in a room full of people with enhanced noses. So she does the most Nadya thing she can and offers her hand out to the pair.

“Well since you all know each other I guess I’m the only one left,” she says cheerily; “I’m Nadya — Adrian’s assistant. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

She squeaks when Isseya brings her hand up to kiss the back. Feels the smolder in that immortal gaze that makes it harder to breathe than it already is. Her hand is traded off like a party favor. Valdas’ beard tickles his kiss.

“Yes… he mentioned having a mortal companion.”

“All good mentions — I hope?”

Valdas nods. “Adequate, indeed. I am Valdas of Persepolis. I present Isseya; High Priestess of Valdemaras.”

Something about the title makes Kamilah twitch — Nadya catches it out of the corner of her eye.

“Is that some Roman god they didn’t cover in the history books?”

Valdas’ eyes flash red.

“I assure you I was worshiped long before the Romans invented their feeble pantheon.”

If there’s ever a time to say “Well, this is awkward” it would be now — only she doesn’t because she prefers her head right where it is on her neck.

Luckily Marcel comes to the rescue. Pushes his way in the middle of the older vampires and grabs their hands — definitely the most uncomfortable family-style image Nadya’s ever seen — to drag them off in another direction. More guests to greet. More awkwardness to not have in their immediate vicinity.

The world narrows down like some sort of slow-motion film; Kamilah turning her heel with an entire scolding already on the tip of her tongue. Nadya looks around in a panic for something — anything — to not, and spots the most dangerous weapon of all approaching on a literal silver platter.

“Hold it!” She holds up a literal finger to pause them and makes a mad dash; returns to watch the vampires’ confusion quickly evolve into rightly-felt panic.

Kamilah looks between Nadya and her prize with pursed lips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Giving you… uh…” should’ve thought this through better… “— a choice. I’m giving you — both of you — a choice.”

Adrian holds up his hands with caution. “Nadya, think about what you’re doing.”

“I don’t think. Come on, now. All my best ideas are complete erratic impulse.”

“I wouldn’t mark this down as one of your best.”

“What exactly is this… choice?” Kamilah asks.

Now filled with a confidence unlike any before, Nadya gives both of them a stern finger.

“Your choice is this: either you two table whatever is going on — or I eat this.”

She holds up the metal skewer in all its glory; slowly turns the handle so Kamilah and Adrian can see every gruesome detail of each of the five cubes of gourmet cheese impaled on it. She’s never been a fan of fancy cheeses; prefers her food to smell as good as it tastes which is very rarely the case with such things.

But she’s deadly serious and they know it. Especially when Adrian steps forward to take it and Nadya jerks away into the path of another server.

“Okay — okay. We’ll save it for later. I’d rather wait anyway.” He looks to Kamilah and feels his panic rise at her stubborn refusal. “Kamilah…”

“You’re going to let a mortal threaten you with something so trivial?”

He doesn’t even have to think it over. “Yes.”

Only when she looks between them and realizes their seriousness — and possibly loses a chunk of respect for both of them — does Kamilah relent.

“Fine,” with a flippant wave of her hand, “very well, whatever you must hear. But this will not go undiscussed, Adrian.”

Nadya lowers her dairy-carved threat. “Just don’t do it now. We’re gonna have a good-freakin’-time. Got it?”

Kamilah’s stuffy “Yes” and Adrian’s resigned “Okay” are enough for her. Who ever said lactose intolerance wasn’t useful?

[foxghost]

鎮魂 Guardian [Zhen Hun] extra 4 full translation

Or, the chapter that turns the ending of the Guardian drama into a happy ending. Translated for @lady-eden, to whom i recced 40eps of fluff and pain.

Original Chinese character count: 10201 translated word count: 9184 original text: https://www.bilibili.com/read/cv838549/

(1)

“… and then click on this. Now all you have to do is make up a payment PIN.” Zhao Yunlan hands the cellphone to Shen Wei, but after a moment of thinking he doesn’t wait for Shen Wei to take it and does it for him. “Forget it. I did it for you — it’s not like you have a new one anyway.”

Teacher Shen is stubbornly kind, has no concept of security, and all his PIN codes are just their street number.

Zhao Yunlan says, “Good thing you don’t have much money.”

Theoretically, comrade Shen Wei knows how to live just fine, and if he’s equally competent in handling his personal affairs — food, clothes, a place to live — as he is in administering the three realms, then he must be doing so adequately with plenty of energy to spare.

[TN. Three realms: desires, form, and formlessness]

Realistically, Shen Wei doesn’t know how to take care of himself at all — in chaotic times he would find some place out of the way and seclude himself, and when the world’s at peace he would make do with a rented room. He has wandered among mortals for many years, clean and free without making or worrying about money. Never mind buying property and settling down; until now, aside from a university-issued salary card he doesn’t own anything.

As for what’s between the earth and sky, the world’s mountains and valleys, the country’s administering its own tourism department and it’s not like they put aside a percentage for him.

“Come, let me teach you how to send a red pocket.” Zhao Yunlan hooks an arm over Shen Wei’s shoulder, ruining his dignified pose, and using teaching as an excuse takes his phone and gives himself a red pocket, accepting it happily. “This century’s very last old antique has formally entered the age of mobile payments, an occasion to be celebrated … tch, what now.”

His phone’s ringing before he’s done talking. Zhao Yunlan gives it a mere glance before deciding he doesn’t want to pick it up, turning it over. Unexpectedly, the other side doesn’t give up and calls three times in a row, and as if they know he’s playing deaf, makes the next call on his office phone. Zhao Yunlan stretches a leg over the small sofa and pushes Daqing with a foot, midway through the cat’s focused personal grooming. “Hey, fatso, pick up the phone.”

Because Shen Wei is here, Daqing bristles but doesn’t say anything, angrily whipping his tail as he jumps onto the desk. He pretends the phone receiver is Zhao Yunlan’s face and smacks it with a paw. “Wai? Special … Oh?” Daqing laughs, “Your leadership’s looking for our Chief Zhao? Oh, he says he’s not here.”

Zhao Yunlan remains silent.

He turns his phone over and discovers that the last three calls weren’t made by the same person — the last two were from his dad, so he’s forced to crawl towards his desk with a new headache. “These ghost and goblins. Don’t they have anything better to do? They’re all bothering the old man by the back door.”

The Special Investigative Division, or the “Zhenhun Ling,” used to be also a “Daycare” and “Labour Reformation centre for convicted criminals.”

[TN. Zhen-hun can translate to Calm-Soul, or Guard-soul, but it’s more than that. The word 鎮/zhen is like holding down a sheet of paper beneath a weight, and I don’t want to water it down, so for the rest of this I’m just going to use Zhenhun, as is. When it’s referred to as the Zhenhun-Ling, it’s also a wooden plaque, and sometimes a paper and cinnabar copy. The 'Ling" part is ambiguous — it’s the ‘command’ or ‘authority.’ Zhao Yunlan’s title is Zhenhun Lingzhu, or “Master of the Zhenhun Token,” but often only ‘Lingzhu’ is used, which can be translated to ‘Lord.’]

Outside of the mortal Xiao Guo, or Wang Zheng and Sangzan, comrades who’s been taken in by Zhenhun Lingzhu, the members of their staff can be roughly sorted into two categories: ones like Zhu Hong and Lin Jing, sent by their leaders or family to train and to gain experience in The Way, or the other kind like Chu Shuzhi, a convicted felon working off his time. To begin with, because the Zhenhun Ling was established to coordinate the three realms and to keep peace in the mortal realm, it’s really a thankless job: the everyday chore of wiping the asses of so-called evil perpetrators notwithstanding, they need to adhere to all the minutiae of society’s laws. There’s no real enlightenment to be had following their mortal of a boss around, so not many experts are willing to join them.

But now, things are different since the Great Seal shattered in a big way, the four holy artefacts returning to their places, the Great Wheel established, the Ghost King gaining godhood, Kunlun reclaiming his altar. Even though these facts are not well known, to those who are connected in the three realms, they are not really secrets, either. So the thankless, bitterly low paying work at the S.I.D. has become sweet dim sum overnight and everyone wants to join in order to rub shoulders with gods. Zhao Yunlan just hates to be bothered, and he refuses them all with the excuse of, “Can’t fit so many names on the Zhenhun Ling.”

However, even though the Zhenhun Ling can’t bear so many names, the Special Investigative Division can — The S.I.D. is an administrative agency.

And so in order to gain some connection to the Zhen Hun token, some smart people has gone around making noise, forcing the original S.I.D. into restructuring. Dragon City’s S.I.D. has morphed into “Special Investigative Bureau” and every region gets their own agency; it’s become quite an organisation.

In this way, Department Head Zhao — Zhao Chu — who spends most of his time lying about in the attic of 9 University Road has somehow lain his way into becoming Bureau Chief Zhao — Zhao Ju.

This is the first year the S.I.B. started officially recruiting after their restructuring. The Zhao Yunlan who’s quite happy passing the years quietly planting vegetables in the S.I.B. yard has been dragged out of his attic to manage the recruitment. Even though none of these newbies are to be entered into the Zhenhun Ling, they’re still to join a ‘branch office,’ and Zhao Yunlan doesn’t want to invite a bunch of shoddy staff members on the quality of unformed melons just to make up the numbers — it’s not like he’s short on idiots — and now that the bureau’s manpower’s limited, it’s impractical to have a big recruitment fair. This is why they’ve only sent out a small number of registration forms to each tribe and sect, to let their leaders choose their own candidates.

In order to get a few more registration forms, the experts from everywhere are pulling out all the stops — making like the eight gods crossing the seas, working miracles.

“Wai?” Zhao Yunlan lazily picks up the phone, sighs, “Isn’t an old man like you retired by now? Why are you wasting your time on this instead of organising with some old ladies and going square dancing? Nobody asked you to go around networking — Ugh…”

Daqing perks up his ears, taking in the robust long form essay from the other side in all rounded news-syllables. Zhao Yunlan tries to interrupt, coming up with excuses, “I’m not, I didn’t,” without avail, and finally he gives up and leans on the edge of the table, nothing to do but to go from studying the ceiling to staring at Teacher Shen’s god-level dust-free clean cuffs, finding himself seriously missing Shennong Bo — at least mister broken bowl didn’t have all this desire to monologue.

[TN: Shennong’s ascended medicine pot / 農藥缽 was the one possessing Yunlan’s father in the book.]

Lately, the retired old director’s been the object of too many heartfelt visits by strangers, and once he figures out what’s happening, explodes in a fit of anger. It’s already 2018 and he’s never imagined that there are still people who would go to such lengths — to knock at such an out of the way backdoor — to get some rotten registration forms. How is this organisation run?

So he decides to call his son to give him a thorough lecture.

Zhao Yunlan answers as if reading a Buddhist prayer, “Yes, I know … you said it … no, I’m not using this opportunity to take bribes. The resources really are limited, we have too many applicants, we really can’t meet them all … I have not corroded away, it’s not as if we’re getting acid rain in Dragon City … no, I don’t need to have a smart mouth everyday. I’m facing the wall in serious reflection of my wrongs everyday, really, nipping all the bad in the bud … if you don’t believe me, ask Shen Wei!”

There are three knocks on the office door, and Lin Jing sticks his head in holding a calendar, but not before facing Shen Wei and greeting him with a fist in hand. “Thank you Teacher Shen — leader, tomorrow’s Duanwu, the Dragon Boat Festival. I’m asking on behalf of everyone in the department: are you sending out holiday gifts?”

Zhao Yunlan, craning his neck to keep a phone receiver held between his chin and his shoulder, happens to have no energy for this, points at the door. “I’m sending a notice on how to pass the holiday with integrity. Get out!”

Representative Lin takes the blow and runs away in disgrace.

But Zhu Hong is already knocking just as he leaves. “Thank you Teacher Shen — Zhao Ju, my Sishu asked me to arrange a dinner. A few leaders from the yao tribes want to pay their respects,” she sighs, “I’m only passing on the request. They’re pretty annoying so if you don’t feel like going, don’t go. You don’t have to worry about giving me face.”

[TN. Sishu just means fourth uncle. 蛇/snake is pronounced Shé and after this I’m just going to use that as a last name.]

[TN. 妖 / Yao is generally translated to demon / monster, but in Chinese myth they’re mostly ‘ascended’ souls, not evil by nature. They’re not exactly ‘beasts’ either — you can have an ascended rock or a tree, and in the case of the being that possessed Yunlan’s father, a god’s medicine pot. They’re all ‘yao.’]

Zhu Hong is one of their own, and truly he doesn’t need to worry about such superficial bullshit as giving face when it comes to her, but the yao tribes are Kunlun Jun’s spiritual descendents, and in the ‘face’ of the yao tribe elders he’s left with no choice but to respect them. Zhao Yunlan can only wave at Zhu Hong helplessly.

[TN. Jun is an honorific tacked onto any man from a monarch to a scholar.]

The moment Zhu Hong turns around, she nearly run right into Chu Shuzhi, who’s is in such a hurry he only had time to nod at her. “Wait — Lao Zhao, something’s happened. Someone’s … pulled a trick on the application forms.”

Shen Wei, who has been firmly focused on playing with his phone hears this and raises his head. “What is it?”

In the everyday work of the S.I.B, Shen Wei tend not to participate in conversations unless someone asks him a question; this time, when he cuts in on his own, it is because the “watermark” on the application form is something he helped create. The Zhanhun Shi guarded the Great Seal and did not misspent these five thousand years; every leader of every tribe, from their celebrated beginnings to their bitter ends lived beneath his watchful eye. His entire person is a living “Lost Magics library” … but since no one dares to come buy the rights from him, this “library” remains poor.

[TN. Zhanhun Shi / 斬魂使 literally: cut-soul-person. I could call him “Soul Slayer” but a name is a name. Shi is an honorific, of sorts. In this case an occupational one.]

Chu Shuzhi says, “The application deadline’s still ten days away, but the applications we’ve received has already exceeded the numbers we sent out — oh, right, thank you Teacher Shen.”

Shen Wei creases his brows.

“Gather them all and let me take a look.” Zhao Yunlan puts down the phone and walks over. “Ai, speaking of which, what kind of code word is ‘Thank you Teacher Shen’? Why is everyone coming in saying that?”

Shen Wei says, “Ugh…”

Chu Shuzhi says, “It’s for the red pockets Teacher Shen’s been gifting — Duanwu holiday bonus, right?”

Zhao Yunlan takes the phone out of Shen Wei’s hands to have a look. Within the time he took his call, Student Shen Wei has firmly grasped the concept of mobile payments. He even seriously worked in some after class practice — he went through his contact list and sent out a red pocket to every person in the bureau.

It’s not even a group red pocket, a free for all battle, first come first served. Teacher Zhao hasn’t managed to teach that lesson. He’s sent them out one by one.

He’s gone through half the contact list and still has the other half left, but there’s no money left in his account.

Their Teacher Shen treats money like game money — instant redeeming, the kind that doesn’t require exchange to virtual dollars.

Zhao Yunlan is silent.

Shen Wei silently questions.

“No…thing,” Zhao Yunlan drags the word out to two miles, and from outside the two miles sends back a painful smile, “If you don’t have money I’ll send you some. Don’t leave the other half, keep sending them until you’re done. Ah,” he laughs, “You’re a fast learner.”

[TN. A 裡 / li is a Chinese mile, in modern times, it is half of a km.]

And in this way at this year’s Duanwu, everyone still received their holiday bonus, sponsored by a certain Mr. Zhao. They were all extremely thankful.

(2)

All of the problematic registration forms has been piled into the basement. Though the light isn’t on, it isn’t dark, either; the faint silvery glow of the forms gathered together rivals an entire row of fluorescent tubes.

Wang Zheng and Sangzan works into daylight overtime. When Zhao Yunlan and his group comes down the stairs, they’d just finished grouping the forms by tribe and area.

The registration forms were elegantly designed, sent out in white envelopes with a little stamp, and all of them were made by Shen Wei. The form belongs to whomever can open the seal, and if someone else takes it they won’t be able to record anything in it. It’s the equivalent of a written exam — as a standard written exam would be impractical. For one, each person has their own speciality, for two, lots of experts hiding in the forests and the mountains to train can’t read simplified Chinese.

Sangzan says, “Zhao Ju, Speaking Of Which, we have sent out 729 registration forms, and At This Very Moment we have received just over 1560.”

[TN. Sangzan is using unnecessary 4-character idioms. When he does, I capitalise the words.]

Zhao Yunlan says, “The difference is that much?”

Sangzan sighs, “Yes, What A Splendid Sight.”

Zhao Yunlan doesn’t say anything.

Brother Sangzan has been exceedingly ambitious in his years working for the S.I.D, studious in his studies. By now his spoken Mandarin is already clear and concise and he’s discarded the terrible nickname of “jieba,” so having raised standards for himself he’s teaching himself idioms, often tries to quote old texts wholesale. Thus began another round of trying his colleagues’ patience.

[TN. The word 結巴 / Stammer is pronounced Jiēbā. Daqing used to call Sangzan this, and when asked what it meant, Daqing replied that it’s an honorific denoting respect. 潔扒 / Jiébā was how Sangzan mispronounced the word for stammer. It doesn’t mean anything.]

Zhao Yunlan is nearly used to this already, and with familiar ease disregards all the four-character words out of Sangzan’s mouth, waving dismissively to say, “You’ve worked hard.”

“Where Be Such Reasoning? It wasn’t hard at all,” Sangzan answers with a smile. “I Own Nothing But What I Need, and what I am able to contribute is merely A Hair From the Backs of Nine Bulls.”

Zhao Yunlan feels as though his life is being shortened, but Wang Zheng doesn’t seem to care as she stands to the side with an indulgent expression, only know to look at him and smile like an idiot.

“Whatever, as long as you’re happy.” Zhao Yunlan says helplessly, “Hurry up and clock out, you two.”

Shen Wei’s ‘watermark’ isn’t something that just anyone can make bootleg copies of — not to mention to imitate it so expertly. During the time Zhao Yunlan and Sangzan had their conversation, he already managed to flip through all of the forms.

Chu Shuzhi says, “Teacher Shen, what do you think? Honestly, I can’t tell the difference.”

Shen Wei doesn’t make a sound; after contemplating a moment he makes a waving gesture and the glowing registration forms scatter like butterflies, moving away from the order Wang Zheng and Sangzan’s sorted them in. In a confusion of light and shadow the forms fall into two piles, one obviously thicker than the other.

Zhao Yunlan pulls on his pants’ cuffs and half crouches, checking a few out of each stack. He points at the thicker pile and asks, “All of these are identical?”

Shen Wei nods.

Listening in, Chu Shuzhi is confused. “And if it’s not? If they’re identical doesn’t that mean you can’t tell if it’s fake?”

“No,” Shen Wei says. “He means the seal on top of each envelope.”

Even though every seal on each envelope looks exactly the same, the method to open them are different. This way, they can sort among the talents and the abilities of each, and it prevents the registrants from comparing their answers with each other.

When they sent out the registration forms, the different types of seals were sent out according to the tribes. For example, the snake tribes favour water, and opening the seal requires burning it with the Samadhi true flame, forcing the registrant to do something they wouldn’t want to do.

Of course, all the seals of the returning envelopes have already been broken, but the scent left behind is enough for its creator to see the problem — every seal in the thicker stack of forms are identical, obviously made by taking one and making duplicates.

Shen Wei says, “When we sent out the forms, I left a trace on each and every one. We can figure out which sect or tribe we’ve sent this one to.”

Chu Shuzhi stares, wide-eyed and shocked. “No way … wait a second! Seven hundred odd forms, every single one is different? And you’ve left an identifying trace?”

“Mmhmm.” Shen Wei adjusts his glasses. “What about it?”

Chu Shuzhi is silent.

No wonder the bureau has never mentioned requisitioning labour costs for their consultant; if they get charged the market rate, it seems they would only be able to afford him by selling off Kunlun Jun.

With a clue, the rest is easy. After a simple check of their records, they find out that the problematic form went to a yao tribe — the water tribes of the South China Sea.

Zhao Yunlan stands. “Tell Zhu Hong to call her Sishu.”

In general, the yao tribes are separated into birds, beasts, water-dwelling, and the ascended, which is to say: ones that fly in the sky, ones that run on the earth, ones that swim in the water, then there are the stones, grass, and trees that’s gained spirits. Those are then sorted into specific types, each with a place they call home.

Because the S.I.B.'s Zhu Hong is a part of the snake tribe and their leader Sishu is quite capable, treats his work and private matters as separate entities, the snake tribes can be said to have someone on the inside, but knows to not exploit their position, and he’s become especially respected. In a few short years he’s already become the leader of the yoa tribes, and whenever something goes wrong with the yao tribes, they speak to the She Sishu.

Not even five minutes after the She Sishu takes his niece’s phone call, he’s braved the blazing sun to arrive at 9 University Road. He’s briefed, and apologising formally to Kunlun Jun, knows he hasn’t face to ask for more registration forms. Turning, the old man personally rolls up his sleeves — heading off to the South China Sea to catch the bastard.

[3]

“Actually it is rather strange, if you think about it,” Shen Wei says as he slices up ham in the kitchen after they’ve come home. “There are mountains beyond mountains, talents I cannot imagine, so I can’t absolutely guarantee something I make can’t be duplicated. But that envelope is quite simple, and a real expert would be able to tell every seal is different. Why would they do something so stupid as to make hundreds of copies?”

Zhao Yunlan leans uselessly on the kitchen counter; he never helps, only ever gets in the way. He picks pieces of ham off the the cutting board to snack on as Shen Wei slices. “What about a holy artefact? The pollution in these times hasn’t helped the quality of the yao tribes any, but each tribe has their own history — maybe some holy item passed down from their ancestors.”

Shen Wei finishes slicing the ham, and after a moment of silent contemplation turns to get a plate. “But I can’t think about what it could be, right now …”

Something so amazing it can duplicate the seal of a natural ghost king, and to use it to do something as silly as this — what holy artefact could it be?

Creator God Pangu branded Photocopier?

By the time he turns around with a plate for the sliced ham, Shen Wei discovers that someone’s taken all the ham off the cutting board.

Shen Wei doesn’t say anything.

Zhao Yunlan follows his gaze like he’s slow on the uptake, and chewing with lightning speed swallows the ‘evidence.’ He stretches like a cat, as if the case of the missing ham has nothing to do with him at all.

Shen Wei asks, “… It’s not too salty?”

He hears a sound like a click in his chest before Zhao Yunlan escapes the kitchen fearing the repercussion of his crimes, and both of them turn to look toward the southern skies.

Shen Wei asks, “What was that?”

“I don’t know, but …” Zhao Yunlan squints. “It feels like the three sovereigns. Wai, Zhu Hong?”

[TN. The era of the three sovereigns and five emperors. In Zhen Hun, there was a battle between the three sovereigns and 蚩尤/Chiyou. I’ll link all the myths at the end of this.]

“Lao Zhao, something’s happened to my Sishu!”

“Calm down, tell me slowly.”

“Didn’t he leave for the South China Sea? The tribe just sent news, the leader’s life lamp has suddenly gone out! My Sishu he …”

“Don’t panic,” Zhao Yunlan says. “When a yao as great as he falls there would be visions — it wouldn’t be without a trace like this. Maybe he’s had a bit of an accident and his connection with his life lamp’s been severed. Let’s do this — have the snake tribe bring your Sishu’s life lamp, and I’ll go look for him with Shen Wei.”

They don’t have time to eat dinner properly so Shen Wei hurriedly stuffs their half prepared ingredients into the fridge. It looks like they’ll just have to order in when they come back later.

Another elder from the snake tribe sends over She Sishu’s life lamp. Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei shortens the distance into a mere inch, and within the blink of an eye they arrive at the South China Sea.

Ever since the tourist industry began developing the South China Sea, the water tribe’s shrimp soldiers and crab commanders, useless to begin with, has somehow gotten worse. The little yao, seduced by the twin promises of sunny beaches and palm trees, spend their days wearing tropical swim trunks to pass their days among the humans. But the humans finish their vacations and go back to work and school, do what they’re supposed to do, while these dumbass little yao simply follow the next set of tourists and continue to play around. Their cultivation has flat-lined, and even their study towards enlightenment has been delayed as they sun their shrimp shells and fish scales to a golden malt.

It stands to reason that when the snake tribe’s leader make a personal visit, this gang of under-trained garbage must greet him with a banner. Which sea urchin gave them the courage to rebel?

[TN. 海膽 / Sea urchin is written literally “sea gallbladder.” In English, you say someone with courage as having “guts,” in Chinese, you say they have “gallbladder.”]

Could it be their daily chore of sitting on the shore drinking fresh water has done something to their osmotic pressure, and their gall’s gone swollen?

Anyway, Zhao Yunlan can’t figure it out.

When they arrive at the South China Sea, it is to find the water tribes there in disarray; when they heard that Kunlun Jun and the Ghost King Dianxia has come for them, the ones in charge of the tribes started pissing themselves. They’re all kneeling on the sand, in their shorts and bare arms, faces towards the sand and backs to the sky; each person’s back has been tattooed a single word, and strung together it reads, “This generation has committed sins worthy of ten thousand deaths, to the gods above we offer an apology.”

[TN. Dianxia is an honorific for kings/queens]

It’s such an amazing sight even the hermit crabs dare not show their faces.

“Get up. What are you all doing? We’re here to talk. Stop being so embarrassing!” Zhao Yunlan sits at the edge of a cloud, and so struck by the sight he can feel a constant pulse at his temple — they can’t even get down, there isn’t any space on the beach. “I don’t get it. It’s been a hundred years since we buried such an archaic cultural practice — how is it that it’s still intact among you yao tribes? Think before you act!”

The South China Sea is rich in resources, the seafood … no, the types of yao belonging to the water tribes varied, and this branch of the water tribe tend to live all mixed together, with the tribe leaders forming an alliance. The alliance’s director is a 3000 year old big turtle, with the vice director being a 2500 year old sea cucumber.

the two directors are a golden partnership without conflict, and Zhao Yunlan listens to the weepy sounding report as they relate the cause of the problem but only manages to get through half of it before he feels his immortal soul go eight turns around the thirty-six mountains and valleys — his gaze going unfocused — and for the first time feels as though their Guo Changcheng is a smart and cunning boy.

It must be difficult, but Shen Wei listens to the end. “That is to say, your honourable tribe leader in charge of watching over the forbidden sanctuary did not receive a registration form, and in indignation he stole one and used the sanctuary to make a large number of copies?”

The sea turtle director says, sighing, “Yes, that person’s original form was a barracuda, and they sold the fake registration forms making massive profits. He used the proceeds to buy areca nuts in bulk and has already gone on the run.”

“…It doesn’t matter what he bought in bulk, let’s leave that aside for now.” Shen Wei says, “Is it convenient for us to know what your honourable tribe is holding in the sanctuary? How were the registration forms duplicated?”

The sea cucumber answers with a bitter expression. “Your honour, aside from generations of barracuda charged with watching the sanctuary, none of us yao dare approach the area. According to the ancestors, an old holy artefact was sealed away there. Right — the leader of the snake tribes has come by, said he didn’t understand our explanation at all and insisted on investigating the sanctuary. We didn’t dare keep him, but not long after he went inside, the South China Sea had a sudden and huge quake, and he never came back. We still don’t know what happened!”

Shen Wei tuns his head so he could meet Zhao Yunlan’s gaze, and Zhao Yunlan wakes from his nap, straightening his back. “Ai, then quit blabbering and lead the way.”

By this time, the night has darkened. It is not yet Duanwu and the moon is hidden, the sea heavy and thick seeming, but it looks like something restless and gigantic has awoken in the deep, causing unending waves that seem to resonate with the beating of Zhao Yunlan’s heart. They’re still more than two hundred miles from the sanctuary, but the two directors from the water tribes are already so terrified their faces have turned white, and cannot be convinced to go another step.

The vice-director says, “In the past we dared to patrol the sanctuary during the holidays, but from the day that stinking fish moved what it ought not, the sanctuary has become more horrifying day by day. At first, it was only the ten miles outside it, and now over a hundred miles, we can’t — can’t breathe …”

As he says this, the vice director’s eyes roll and turn white and they sinks into the water as if they’re lacking in both blood and air. The blade in Shen Wei’s hand flashes like a dark shadow, and the Zhanhun blade appears, then in the blink of an eye stretches to dozens of feet long. With the scabbard still on, he promptly fishes up the sea cucumber from the deep.

Director sea turtle has no time to bother with politeness just now, and with a quick fist in hand bow changes into their natural form, picks up their partner, and swims away quick as a torpedo.

Two dark shadows quickly skim over the undercurrent towards the South China Sea forbidden sanctuary.

The nearer they get to the sanctuary, the quieter the water becomes, and as they near at the fifty mile mark, the surface becomes unnaturally still, as if an invisible hand is flattening it by force until there isn’t even a ripple, until the water seem stagnant.

Very quickly, Zhao Yunlan and Shen Wei arrives at the heart of the sanctuary. There’s a strange whirlpool here, its diameter no wider than two metres, spinning rapidly, and like a needle it pierces all the way down to the sea floor. There’s a saying that even the sharpest blade cannot part water, but the water within and the water without looks like it’s been parted with something — The inside spins at breakneck speed; the outside doesn’t move a hair.

There’s a hint of darkness woven into the air above the whirlpool, calling Shen Wei’s Zhanhun blade — they’re as related as waters that flow from the same stream.

“If it’s a holy artefact left behind by some god during the time of chaos, it could very well react negatively with me.” Shen Wei says, “If they’d tried to copy anything else it may have been fine, but that registration form carried a trace of me. It must have provoked what’s sealed here — loosened the seal… And when She Sishu rushed in here he must have added flame to the fuel. I think the seal is already mostly broken — do you have any inkling of what’s in here?”

Zhao Yunlan creases his eyebrows and thinks for a while before shaking his head. “I haven’t seen it, but …”

Something inside the briefcase in his hand suddenly flashes; it’s She Sishu’s life lamp, brightening. A life lamp is actually a candle protected by a dragon pearl; it’s like a crystal lamp, shuddering as if it’s about to stop breathing. Its weak light falls onto the surface of the sea and quickly gathers into a line, pointing towards the whirlpool.

Soon after, the dragon pearl outside the life lamp cracks without warning, and quickly disintegrates. Its feeble flame jumps once, and Zhao Yunlan instinctively tries to protect it with his hand, but the whirlpool on the water suddenly explodes in all directions, and the stars above scatter like dust in a storm. Nearly at once, Shen Wei pulls Zhao Yunlan close behind him with a sweeping arm and wields his blade like a shield in front of them.

But soon Shen Wei can feel that something is wrong — his hand did not touch Zhao Yunlan.

Shen Wei turns to look in surprise, and finds that though they are barely apart, there is a transparent membrane between them. Zhao Yunlan is saying something, but his voice can’t reach him, so Shen Wei can only read his lips. He’s saying, “These bubbles are …”

Bubbles?

Shen Wei looks all around him. She Sishu’s life lamp reflects and refracts, light and shadow overlapping. It reveals the countless membranes surrounding them, tight like densely packed soap bubbles. A faint mirage-like shadow can be seen on each ‘bubble,’ and for a shocking moment they can see a million Zhao Yunlan, a million Shen Wei. As the two people in their individual bubbles drifts apart, Shen Wei’s eyes redden, and he unsheathes the Zhanhun blade, immediately cutting at whatever’s between them.

With a sudden boom, the Zhanhun blade that can cut through anything feels as though it’s been stuck in thick mud, and countless strange ‘bubbles’ are shattered by that single stroke. But many more ‘bubbles’ are rising from the sea floor as waves high as mountains crowd the surface of the sea. With a sharp and loud sound like an axe wielded by Pangu parting chaos to form the sky and sea, the mountains shakes and the ocean boils, and Shen Wei’s view darkens —

(4)

When Zhao Yunlan wakes with a start, he’s still holding onto the short candle from a life lamp with a pea-sized flame. He tries to move and is momentarily stunned, a shocked expression flashing across his face.

Slowly, Zhao Yunlan lowers his eyes, his gaze falling onto his right foot … he’s sprained an ankle.

Kunlun Jun’s incarnation is impervious to blades and guns, and neither the cold nor the heat bothers him. Since his god soul awakened six years ago, Zhao Yunlan has forgotten what a mosquito bite looks like. He never imagined he’d end up spraining his ankle at the South China Sea!

On the one hand he’s gritting his teeth over the pain, on the other he finds it rather interesting. He runs a hand over it, determines that it’s not serious, and carefully leans on the wall to stand. As he stands, he realises something is wrong; his arms and legs feels so heavy they don’t seem his own — Kunlun Jun’s ability to move freely between the heavens and the earth and to crush the three realms beneath his feet has simply disappeared.

Not only that, but his Bright-Mirror wristwatch has stopped, the half dozen charm papers left in his wallet has turned into regular newsprint that doesn’t react at all, he can’t summon his bullwhip — and even the Zhenhun Ling bound to his blood is laying in his palm without a hint of life, turned into a perfectly normal plaque of wood.

Zhao Yunlan raises She Sishu’s life lamp and takes a look around him — it’s desolate to the extreme. With a glance he can see that none of the street lamps are lit, and the street is lined on both sides by uneven, half broken down houses, and the air is thick with dust.

It’s like an old ruin.

He takes a couple of unsteady steps before he has to stop, shaking out the sand in his shoes. Each breath feels like acupuncture, needles pricking at his lungs, and an ache in his heart come and goes, making it hard to breathe. When he was a mortal, Zhao Yunlan can’t say he was perfectly healthy, but he wasn’t plagued with illnesss either … maybe he’s become unused to mortality?

Zhao Yunlan, dragging his somewhat heavy body, walks around the street once. His cell phone has no signal as he checks the time.

20:45.

The little plate of ham he pinched from the cutting board before dinner had been barely enough to fill the gaps between his teeth, and after the sprained ankle and the aching chest, this mortal body is making him remember what it feels like to have stomach problems.

He hears something go “meow” and sees a black cat jumping from the branch of a dead tree near him onto a roof, padding delicately over the broken up stones on the top of a wall, tail raised high and in no hurry at all. From every angle it looks like little Daqing — with a neck and a waist and all, a picture of the youthful days before he got fat!

Zhao Yunlan has a habit of calling cats and dogs whenever he sees them, so he whistles at the cat. In the moment the cat’s green eyes turn his way, Zhao Yunlan notices it holding a paper charm in its mouth. Before he’s able to have a good look, the sky and the earth suddenly spins — the cat disappears, the street twists and warps, and Zhao Yunlan loses his footing as though stepping on air, falling heavily towards the ground. His right foot, pain finally fading from the last fall, twists again.

Zhao Yunlan hisses in pain, then he’s stunned to find out he’s right back where he woke the last time.

He helps himself up against the same wall, and barely walks a step before he feels that something doesn’t feel right with his feet — the sand he’s spilled out of his shoes are back.

Zhao Yunlan’s pupils shrink a bit as he realises something, and taking out his phone, he checks the time.

20:35.

This is … ten minutes ago?

Zhao Yunlan takes quick steps along the street, holding onto his phone to keep track of the time. Ten minutes later, sure enough, that black cat appears again in the same pose, jumping out from the same place. This time, Zhao Yunlan doesn’t try to catch the attention of the magical cat, but stays in the corner to observe for a bit instead.

The cat holding a charm in its mouth raises a paw and takes five steps … and the sky-spinning-street-warping feeling is back!

Again, Zhao Yunlan returns to ten minutes ago.

This goes on for two, three times, and Zhao Yunlan doesn’t even bother standing up again — it’s not easy taking off these shoes.

This world is like a repeating song; the song is about 10 minutes, the space within isn’t overly large, either. He’s been trapped within these 10 minutes, time cycling over and over again.

Zhao Yunlan runs his hand along the wall, and he thinks about the strange ‘bubbles’ he saw when he was separated from Shen Wei.

‘Bubbles’ … time that goes in a cycle …

Suddenly, Zhao Yunlan stands, and again he pours the sand out of his shoes, and this time, he runs through the desolately empty streets. In the very moment that cat appears, he clamps onto the life lamp with his mouth and takes a running start, grabbing the edge of the roof so he can run up the short wall onto the roof. With one arm he sweeps up the spitting, angry cat, and digs the paper charm out of its mouth, flipping over for a landing. Before his feet hit the ground the time for space and time to orient back to its starting point has nearly come. Zhao Yunlan quickly moves the paper charm onto the flame of the life lamp. It catches fire. At the same time, Zhao Yunlan hears a bang next to his ear as if something has shattered, and the cat in his hand turns into a spiral of pale smoke.

Zhao Yunlan stumbles for a few steps, and when he looks up again he discovers that he hasn’t been sent to the starting point — the street in front of him has undergone some subtle changes. A single street lamp has been lit, the air is far less dusty, the tree is no longer bare. Though it only gained a few leaves, it is at least alive.

Zhao Yunlan brushes off the dust on his clothes. “Is that so.” He sucks his teeth, says, “I thought there was some treasure here in the South China Sea, but no, I find only problems.”

Everyone knows that you can’t actually turn back time, and a person can’t run wild over their own timeline. By the same token, cause and effect is unbreakable.

Before Kunlun Jun returned to his altar, Zhao Yunlan once travelled back eleven years to 2002, but in reality that wasn’t true time travel. It was the agricultural god Shennong taking an eleven year reincarnation wheel and storing it in a scale of Nuwa, the half snake mother goddess. The “little wheel” was a world like a mustard seed moulded by Shennong: a world much like our own but only an illusion. He’s taken a turn in a mustard seed.

[DN. 壬午年 is utterly untranslatable but it’s 2002, okay? See: sexagenary cycle. ‘Mustard seed world’ is likely named for the parable of the Sumeru mountain contained in a mustard seed, or ‘The Sumeru Mountain contains a mustard seed, and a mustard seed contains the Sumeru Mountain’ and the ending of THAT story states that the worlds are ever-changing and therefore unreal.]

Back then, when She Sishu passed the Nuwa scale to him, Zhao Yunlan walked into this mustard seed on his own without suspicion. The time in the seed cycles and so Zhao Yunlan flows along with the wheel, arriving at eleven years ago … until Shen Wei used the Zhanhun blade to cut the seed open from the outside, dragging him back to reality.

The ‘bubble’ that separated him and Shen Wei must be just like the little wheel that was eleven years long — every ‘bubble’ is a world undergoing a repeating segment of time.

There exist simple worlds that cycles every ten minutes, and there also could be worlds that cycle only once a million years, infinitely realistic, vast and infinitely complex.

So this isn’t any sort of ‘holy artefact’ at all. When the ancient gods were trying to create the true reincarnation wheel they’d gone down the wrong road, and this is the left over garbage from their experiments, sealed away in the South China Sea — unexpectedly disturbed by the Ghost King’s life force via this copy incident, and then crashed into by a great yao, causing it to resurface in the human world.

Zhao Yunlan raises his head to look at the street lamp, and thinks, “I knew it — none of you would leave me any actual inheritance. You all only ever leave me messes that need cleaning up.”

Now, he has no idea which year and month Shen Wei’s been stolen off to; it would be impractical to expect his blade as reinforcement. Each of these endlessly repeating worlds can only be broken through from the inside.

This isn’t difficult — each mustard seed has a connection with reality, and it is from this connection that Zhao Yunlan can enter from the outside. Find it, break it, and the seed will have nothing to cling to, and disappear like a flame after it dies.

For example, the ‘connecting point’ of the eleven-year wheel from back then was the mysterious book, ‘Unusual Ancient Legends.’

At the time, the Zhao Yunlan from the real world had one, and there was another one in the little Wheel. When he brought the book into the little Wheel, the two identical ‘Unusual Ancient Legends’ became one, the seed world and the real world ‘sticking’ together; illusion and reality overlapping.

That Zhao Yunlan urgently wanted to find out what Shen Wei was hiding from him, and followed the book desperately without any thought of destroying it. But if, when he’d acquired the ‘Unusual Ancient Legends’ in the little Wheel, he’d burned it, the cause and effect of the little wheel would have seriously departed from the cause and effect of reality, and the world within the wheel would disappear like smoke, not needing Shen Wei to cut through it with his blade.

If he’d burned the copy of ‘Unusual Ancient Legends’ from inside the wheel and returned to reality, the real book should still be in his hands, and wouldn’t forever stay in the little wheel to cycle forever.

As for the real ‘Unusual Ancient Legends,’ it was in all likelihood sneaked into the S.I.D. by Shennong Bo.

Now, these overlapping mustard seed worlds look like ‘bubbles,’ with Zhao Yunlan’s shadows projected into them, and each one would duplicate something he carries, becoming the ‘connecting point’ between each seed world and reality: his stopped Bright-Mirror wristwatch, the paper charm that’s now wastepaper, the Zhenhun Ling becoming normal wood, the bullwhip he cannot summon … even the immortality of Kunlun Jun.

Zhao Yunlan doesn’t know which object each world corresponds to, he can only search them one by one. He has to destroy something in each world and destroy the seed before that object will follow him back into reality.

“This is so much trouble,” Zhao Yunlan sighs. “If I knew this would happen I would have just gone back and organised an exam.”

This is all because of the imprudence of the South China Sea water tribes; when he gets back, he’s going to have a feast of sea food at a street food stall.

(5)

Zhao Yunlan has already forgotten how long he has lingered in countless seeds.

In the beginning, all the seeds were only simple scenes: a single broken down street, a dark and sunless city, the suburbs, underwater … and there were no other people at all. The cycle of time was as short as ten minutes and as long as three days, and what they duplicated were just small, inconsequential things.

But soon afterwards the seeds became more and more complicated, more and more immense, and other people began to appear, even the people he knows — for example, the seed that was about his Bright-Mirror wristwatch cycled for a full three years, the setting being Zhao Yunlan’s previous incarnation, living in the early years of the Republic.

The Bright-Mirror was passed down by the last Lord Zhenhun, or his last incarnation. He was chasing a kidnapper then, a mountain ghost or demon, and in the process shattered the face of his watch. The hostage was a child from an orphanage, and a man who proclaimed himself the Dean of the orphanage rushed to him and took away the child, and, on seeing that his watch was broken, told him he knew a good craftsman and he could have it fixed. When it’s returned the watch was already able to see between yin and yang, had become the magical treasure ‘Bright Mirror.’

Zhao Yunlan, observing coldly from the outside, watches the incarnation who shares his face slowly realise what’s happened to his watch, thus running off to the orphanage to find the dean only to find out that the dean is a short and stout nun and not at all the same person who took his watch away.

“Shen Wei ah,” Zhao Yunlan follows his past life, thinking of the origin of his watch, shaking his head and can’t help laughing, “you sneaky son of a gun.”

The repeating time loops become longer and longer, and when it exceeds fifty years, Zhao Yunlan finds himself no longer an observer of a seed world, but rather a part of it with his own identity, following the movie script of the world.

What happens in each seed world isn’t necessary from his memory; there are some that are very much like the memory of an incarnation with some subtle changes, and some are utterly strange and wonderfully new with flashes of familiarity in between. Zhao Yunlan prefers the latter, because in the five thousand years of memories of the time he spent in the wheel of reincarnation, Shen Wei made few appearances. On the rare occasion that they run into each other, he only catches a glimpse before Shen Wei is gone. But in the fabricated worlds, Shen Wei wears different identities and spends lifetimes by his side until they each find the object that breaks open the world … the real Shen Wei — as expected, Shen Wei’s Zhanhun blade has already been trapped inside. But even if he has the blade, he doesn’t dare use it, because if the world breaks from the outside, the duplicated item will become just like the book ‘Unusual Ancient Legend,’ forever left behind in this particular wheel.

Zhao Yunlan breaks through eighty mustard seeds. Each time he leaves one behind, the time reverts back to 20:35.

It feels like he has already lived through every life possible in the blink of an eye.

Fortunately, Kunlun Jun’s immortal soul was forged through a million years of reincarnation, and his mind remains as clear as when he took his first step. Finally, he arrives at the eighty-first seed.

Eighty-one, or nine by nine.

Zhao Yunlan has a premonition that this should be the very last world. Shen Wei is here too, but they couldn’t imagine that the cycle of time here runs as long as ten thousand years. The long stretch of time makes this feel real, and its binding force boundlessly strong. As he approaches the end of time, Zhao Yunlan still hasn’t found this world’s connecting point.

Everything he’s brought into these worlds, large and small — including the blood he carries in his heart and the bones of his spine — has already been shattered in the various Wheels. What could it be?

What is left?

(6)

Oh, right. His very self is what’s left.

The ego is enslaved by the physical body.

The heart is but a slave to material ambitions.

(7)

Zhao Yunlan emerges from the very last seed, and the world shakes as if a hundred thousand mountains are jumping like birds. A giant wave descend as though coming from the nine heavens, and the water parts before him like it wishes to make for him a road, to let the chaos-era mountain god rise between them.

At the same time, a sound like a shrill wind whistles by his ear and the Zhanhun blade appears out of nowhere to land on the ocean’s surface, the entire South China Sea looks about to be sliced in two. Zhao Yunlan suddenly opens his eyes, reaching into the rolling waves for the hand holding the blade. “Shen Wei!”

The giant wave recedes, revealing Shen Wei’s silhouette, looking even more distressed than him. At first glance Shen Wei seems like he hasn’t woken from the endless reincarnations, and for a while he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s alright,” Zhao Yunlan says quietly. “We’re back.”

Shen Wei falters, stumbling into him, strength leaving his body. His Zhanhun blade flutters downwards — onto the back of a giant snake, surfacing from the deep.

Oh good, Zhao Yunlan lets out a breath. She Sishu’s life lamp is still lit and the old wyrm is alive and well. Zhu Hong can keep sticking around at the S.I.B. to muddle up a salary and not have to be dragged back for a succession.

(8)

“Oh? Oh … oh! Then okay, that’s great.”

Early morning in the offices of 9 University Road, one can hear Guo Changcheng’s tone change many, many times. From shock, to helplessness … to embarrassment — Guo Changcheng says into the phone, embarrassed, “There isn’t anything I want, thank you leader. Really, I really don’t need … anything from the duty-free shop, you don’t need to worry about it, what’s important is that you have fun … ai, have fun, have a good vacation …”

Before he’s even finished passing on the last blessing, Chu Shuzhi and Lin Jing have already slapped their desks and are standing in anger, and Daqing has turned into an angry ball of fur.

Chu Shuzhi says, “Is that Lao Zhao — what did he mean? What do you mean good vacation? Is he serious?”

Lin Jing says, “He ran away? He just dropped everything and left? Where be the laws of the heavens?”

Daqing up jumps from the couch. “Why that shameless son of a — give me the phone.”

Guo Changcheng puts down the receiver apologetically. “He, he already hung up.”

Daqing roars, “Call him back! If he doesn’t pick up then call Teacher Shen!”

Predictably, Zhao Yunlan habitually turns off his phone after he hangs up.

But none of them can predict that —

Shen Wei stands barefoot on the beach, one hand clutching his collar, the other wrapped around his belt. His cheeks are already red from struggling, but he’d rather die than follow the local custom and change into a pair of swim trunks.

What is this? Such impropriety! Such indecency!

Zhao Yunlan runs after him. “Just try it, if you don’t try it how can you say it’s not a good thing? I promise you’ll like it. Shen Wei, Xiao Wei, my darling treasure … Doesn’t it bore you wearing black from head to toe all the time? This could be a gateway into a new world … Ai! Fine, you don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to, no need to throw yourself into the ocean!”

Shen Wei, having been forced to the edge of the water, steps into the sea, his cell phone falling out of his pocket right on time for an incoming call. It rings once before the cell phone heroically sacrifices itself, the screen going black.

At 9 University Road, Gua Changcheng announces with an innocent expression, “Teacher Shen has hung up.”

“Meow —” Daqing collapses and yells, “How can Teacher Shen with his big eyes in such an honest face be capable of betraying us?!”

[TN. “沒想到你個濃眉大眼的都叛變革命了” / “I did not imagine a person like you with such thick eyebrows and big eyes would end up becoming a rebel” is a quote… from a 90’s movie.]

myths: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pangu https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nüwa https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shennong https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kunlun_(mythology) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chiyou https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Flood_(China)

Anyway, that’s the entire thing, translated once, checked twice, feel free to send asks if unclear about anything. (You are not bothering me at all by asking me about the thing I love.)

[hysterialyywrites]

From Rue to None (Multichaptered)

One

If there's one good thing about this particular school, it's not having to worry about choosing what outfit to wear every day.

Swiping my phone off the table, I hastily slipped on my blazer and double checked my image.

Pressing the lock button on my phone, I noted the date.

September 1st.

Looking back into the mirror, I considered our uniform tolerable enough: a white blouse tucked into a dark, sort of army green skirt, with a navy blue striped bow tie under the collar adorning our necks. The blazer was the finishing touch; it shared the same shade of army green as the skirt, with the school emblem sitting proudly on the right breast pocket. Ironic how evidently dark, male, and militaristic our colors were, seeing as we attend an all-girls academy. You'd expect the colors to look a bit more chipper and charming, the common depiction of a young lady's soul and spirit. I've heard enough complaints from my fellow classmates to know that more than half of the academy has already signed a petition to redress (quite literally) the students' concerns on uniform colors. If all goes well, the uniforms might be different next year. Quite a shame though, since I liked the way the colors complemented my eyes: dark, hollow, and grey. A stark contrast to the rest of my family's irises.

I spotted Minella a few ways back from my reflection in the mirror. Without turning back, I called out to her. “Minella?” “Yes, my lady?” she replied, her accent rather distinguished in only three words. “Adelia is fine, Minella. Are we late for the opening ceremony?” “Not yet, my lady, although we will be in a few minutes.” I hummed in response. “Then, let's get going. It wouldn't look good for me if I were to be late on the first day.” I brushed past her without a second glance as she took my bag and followed me out of my room, down the long hallways of my family's prestigious manor, until she finally saw me off at the courtyard. She gave me a small smile, one that I did not acknowledge, as she closed the car door and nodded at the driver. My eyes were on the sky, taking in the grey of the clouds and the gloom of the weather. Reports say there might even be rain later afternoon. On the 15-minute ride to Hopewell, I felt my stomach churn at the memory of Minella's fallen expression at my surly response to her smile, but I brushed it off, held my head high, and kept my eyes undeterred. A Calloway does not lose face because of a simple, trivial regret. I hear the booming of thunder as the car drives on.                                                             * * *

Minella is, for the lack of a better word, my maid. I found the term quite derogatory, so I asked her if she knew of another word to describe her line of work. She told me that back in her country, she was often called ate, and prior to the Calloways, her family in the Philippines had her siblings call her ate or ate Ella instead of her given name alone. When I asked her what it meant, she told me it was a term used to refer to an older sister, or any girl a few years older than you. As I tested the term myself, I found it rather awkward on my tongue, so I resorted to calling her by her first name instead. She didn't mind one bit. Minella, 20 years old at the time, first came to the estate when I was only 3 years old, and was a general housekeeper before she was reassigned to me as my personal maid. My parents have noticed that I've taken a particular liking to her after her first two weeks, and decided that it would be better if she were to care for my needs instead of the manor's. It was a good call on my part, since I consider Minella the first friend I've ever made. She was incredibly kind, caring, selfless, and very family-oriented. Her movements were kept to a minimum and she worked with such poise that I once thought of her as a long lost queen. She told me I described her as mahinhin. Ever since then, she's been teaching me her language little by little everyday. She was younger than she looked as well, so I really did treat her like an older sister instead of a maid. We were inseparable. I would have her teach me how to play games such as sungka, play hide-and-seek with her around the garden, have her teach me how to braid my own hair, and she would tell me stories about her family back home. As mentioned before, she had siblings about my age, and she told me we would get along very well if we were ever to meet. I started writing them letters then, and they would always write back. Minella was right; we did get along. As I grew older, however, my priorities started to change. As the only daughter of the estate, I was expected to take over the family's well-renowned railway company in the future. My growing fluency in Minella's language was replaced with French, Spanish, and German. My expertise insungka was replaced with chess and card games to entertain guests and clients that I would accommodate in the future. Stories of Minella and her family were replaced by both world history and the history of the company. I started taking my studies a lot more seriously. I stopped writing letters. A rift grew between me and Minella, until finally, I became the very description of my eyes: cold, dull, and lifeless.                                                            * * * I stepped out of the vehicle, ignored the familiar gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach and made my way over to the front gates of Hopewell Academy, one of the finest institutes in the country. We followed standard protocol that was expected to be adhered to by every student on opening day, and proceeded with orientation. As lunch break rolled by, I was greeted by two girls, Henley and Kristina. We've been friends since primary school, and I would trust them with my family's wealth, precisely because they have no intentions of exploiting it. “Ada, how have you been? Is your family alright? I haven't heard from them in a while,” said Henley as she took a bite of her sandwich. She comes from a small, working class family in the south. She got into the academy on a scholarship, triumphing over her status with her smarts. “Yeah, they've been busy. They're in Germany right now on business.” “Oh, really? That's too bad, I would've made them something for their trip,” replied Kristina. Her family owns a small bakery downtown. My parents often love to bring home cake fresh from their oven from time to time. Like Henley, Kristina is here on a scholarship. I'm the only one in the group who got in with their family's wealth. Money, however, is not the base of our long-standing friendship. We talked and caught up for the rest of the break, rejoicing as a drizzle started to pour. As the bell rang, we were off to our separate classes, familiarizing ourselves with our new schedules. As I walked along the school courtyard, I fell witness to a girl tripping over the now wet asphalt as she fell flat on the floor, her bag spilling its contents, getting soaked in the rain. The girls around her paused, then laughed (rather heartlessly), and carried on with their own businesses, without even bothering to help the poor girl. I sighed. Still as obnoxious as ever. These girls never change. I was a good distance away from the scene, about to run and help her when I realized who she was. Zelda Fitzgerald, the daughter of the rivaling railway company who threatened to buy out the Calloways. Her older brother, Nathan, was a sly and crafty young man who had the audacity to bribe my parents with their wealth, offering a sum that totaled in millions for the sake of getting his hands on our business. Of course, my parents refused the outrageous offer, albeit regretfully, as they realized the weight of the new responsibility they have placed upon my shoulders. Nathan Fitzgerald was sure to strike another bargain, and I had to be ready when I take over in a year. I told my parents there was nothing to worry about; I would take matters into my own hands and ensure that the company stays ours for as long as I can manage. I turned a blind eye to the situation and walked straight to my next class. My parents despise the Fitzgeralds. I do too. I ignored the churning in my stomach.                                                            * * * “Hello, young Delia, how was your day?” Leo, my afternoon driver, asked as I got into the car, shaking off my wet umbrella. A headache was forming since the last period started and it hasn't gotten any better. “It was okay. Quite tiring, if I may add.” “Ah, first-day fatigue. A cup of tea would be the perfect solution! Would you like to try that newly opened café just a few blocks down from Miss Henley's place? The weather shouldn't be a problem; we've had tea with rain and thunder as our accompaniment before, haven't we?” “Yes... oh, today was the opening day for that too, wasn't it?” I started massaging my temples. “Indeed, my lady! I hear their crêpe−” “It's okay, Leo. Let's just go home.” “Ah... alright. Right away, my lady!” I tried not to think about Leo's sudden drop and forced change in energy and his apparent disappointment as we head back home in silence.                                                             * * * I sit at my desk later that night, working on some papers father sent me as Minella comes in with a cup of tea and some waffles. The waffles, doused in chocolate sauce with strawberries at the side, caught my attention. “This is unusual for a midnight snack. Aren't waffles supposed to be served for breakfast?” “Ah! Um...” Minella stutters and starts mumbling in a panic. “I'm sorry, I couldn't hear what you just said. Could you repeat that?” “Um, well, one of the maids told me that you liked to eat waffles for dinner sometimes, while you work on some papers. Since I was on kitchen duty tonight, I thought I'd make you some.” I looked at the dessert again. “You slightly overburnt the waffles, I noticed, and the chocolate sauce was messily spread around. Your hands were shaking. Did you wash your hands after ironing again?” Minella looked down at her feet and pursed her lips together. “Yes... I'm sorry, I forgot.” I sighed, and with the paperwork in front of me I could feel the day’s events taking a toll on my body. The Fitzgeralds have been a huge bother recently. Half of these papers are largely attributed to their ever growing interest in our company. Without glancing up from my desk, I said, “it's okay, Minella, there's no need to apologize. Look, I can always ask Kristina if you want to learn a new dessert recipe. She knows loads and she's willing to help you out.” I looked up, and saw how Minella was still looking down at her feet and pursing her lips. She was aimlessly fumbling with her apron. My stomach churned all of a sudden. “You must be tired. Go to sleep, Minella. It's been a long day.” She looked up. At me, specifically, and smiled as if she knew something I didn't. “Speak for yourself, young lady,” she said, her Filipino accent clear as day, her hands on her hips, pouting in a rather futile attempt to seem intimidating, all while using the formal term to address me. “You've been working ever since you got back from school, and you have the nerve,” she continued, pointing a finger at my face, smiling and so close to laughing, “to tell me to go to sleep?” I stared at her, wide-eyed, slightly shocked because she never told me off like this before, and all the while wondering what was so funny; she was basically shaking from trying to suppress her laughter. I took note of her slightly deranged face, contorted into an expression that can't seem to choose between anger and light-hearted playfulness. I'm guessing she was aiming for both. Her face, still a sight to behold, brought me close to laughing as well. I was trying to keep it to myself, although it was useless as we both burst out laughing at the same time. Minella's laugh came with a snort, making it as funny as you can imagine, so I laughed harder until I could feel tears pricking my eyes. We both calmed down after a full minute or two. It was quiet once again, but less tense than before. I haven't laughed like that in ages. Minella spoke first. “Sige na, since you skipped dinner, I advise you to finish your burnt waffles and your tea so you can finally go to sleep. Don't overwork yourself with those papers; you might get a papercut,” she said as she walked to the door, half-closing it as she made her way outside.     Her drop in formality gave me a warm feeling of ease that I knew all too well. “A papercut can't kill me, Minella.” She smiled. This one I acknowledged. “Good night, langga.” I watched as the door shut behind her. It's been a while since she used that nickname with me. I felt the churning in my stomach again. As I did before, I pushed it away once more. I finished my tea and the last of my paperwork, and I felt my eyelids grow heavy. The last thing I heard before passing out was the sound of my head hitting the desk.                                                            * * * I woke up in the comfort of my bed, snuggled up in my sheets, extremely confused. Didn't I fall asleep at my desk last night? I sat upright and looked around, eyeing my desk, questioning the missing paperwork from the night before. Maybe Minella just kept the paperwork in one of the drawers after she brought me to bed. I'll ask her when she comes in. I hear the click of the door as it opens. Minella comes in, wearing a look of shock on her face. I'm never awake when she comes in. “Good morning, my lady. This is a surprise; I hope you slept well last night.”

I noticed how she reverted back to using the formal term to address me. “I did, actually. Thank you, Minella.” I climbed out of bed and walked to my desk, checking the drawers as Minella proceeded to fluff my pillows. My eyebrows raise at the still missing stack of paperwork, because they arenowhere to be found. “Minella, where did you put the paperwork from last night?” “Paperwork?” “Yes, the ones Father sent me yesterday after I got home from school.” “My lady, I don't remember your father sending you any paperwork yesterday. Plus, school? I'm quite sure opening ceremony is today.” “What?” I laughed. “That's funny, Minella. Today's the second day. Plus, you saw me doing the paperwork last night; you even said I might get a papercut!” Minella looked utterly confused. I slowly felt my heart race and my breath hitch in my throat. I walked to my closet. I had three sets of uniforms. I threw the one I wore on the first day in the laundry yesterday. If today really is opening day... I threw open the closet doors, and there I saw three uniforms, ironed, pressed, and ready to be worn. I looked out the window, saw the familiar gloom of the sky, the grey of the clouds, the resounding boom of thunder. I've watched the weather forecast for this week. Today, September 2nd, was supposed to be sunny. I was too freaked out to check my phone. “Minella, what day is it today?” She looked up from her chore, smoothing out the covers as she warily replied. “September 1st, my lady.”

Two

There's no mistaking it. September 1st has repeated itself. I was convinced of this fact the moment the school decided to proceed with first day's orientation. Ever since then I started telling myself that this was nothing but a dream. A weird dream, in fact. Everything, from when Minella saw me off at the courtyard that morning, Zelda's fall after lunch break, Leo's invitation to that newly opened café after school, up to the hysterical laughter that ensued after I blatantly pointed out the flaws of Minella's waffles, everything, was in fact, the same. The only differences were the shortened amount of time it took me to finish the paperwork, seeing as they're the exact same paperwork from “yesterday”, and that annoying gut-wrenching feeling in my stomach. That feeling was multiplied tenfold today, making it almost impossible for me to ignore it. But I still did. In fact, I was surprised I didn’t throw up today. As I lay in bed that night, I was one hundred percent convinced that this was just a weird dream, and that when I wake up tomorrow, all I'll be seeing is the sunny September 2nd that was supposed to play out today. But in the back of my mind, I knew for a fact that this was not a dream, however impossible it may seem, because for all these years I've been alive I was never once conscious of my dreams, and I saw no reason to start now. I pushed away the thought, closed my eyes, and let my mind wander off as I slept. I was thinking about tomorrow. But tomorrow never came.                                                            * * * “A god is out to get me.” “What?” “Oh, nothing. Sorry, today’s just been really freaky.” “Well, our first day at school has never exactly been a road trip in the first place,” commented Kristina. “Plus, the weather itself is kinda freaky. It’s the only gloomy day this week.” “We’re still happy it rained though,” Henley chimed in. “There’s no denying that.” “Oh, do you remember that one time I snuck out in the middle of the night with a baseball bat because I was convinced there was something supernatural going on in the bakery?” “As if I’d forget! You wouldn’t stop calling me that night! I was this close to throwing my phone out the window!” Henley and Kristina’s recollection of that night slowly drowned out with the background noise as I found myself staring at my feet, thinking long and hard about my current situation. I’m thankful my sense of panic disappeared after meeting with Henley and Kristina, despite not telling them that this was actually my third time meeting them. As if they’d believe my nonsense about warped time travel, or whatever this was; I would be the first Calloway to go insane. Everything screamed September 1st; every single event on replay like a broken record, and I still have no idea why. I could no longer ignore that uncomfortable feeling in my stomach, for my heart was starting to become affected as well. Turning a blind eye to Minella’s smile and leaving the car without a word were all followed by a churn in my gut and an ache in my heart, and I thought maybe I was dying, but that still doesn’t explain my life’s fondness for the first day of September, and I thought, I can’t go on like this. I need to find out what’s wrong, and fast. Think, Adelia, think. I let the day’s events play out. I noted the familiar gut-churning and heart-aching after Zelda’s fall and Leo’s invitation, wrapping my brain around the mess that I’ve become. As I sat at my desk later that night, the paperwork finished in record speed, I got back to thinking. The next time these feelings would turn up again would be after my encounter with Minella an hour later, and if I don’t do something, I’ll never get out of this mess. Think, Adelia, think. Why is time so bent on making sure you know that you’re dying, replaying this day because you’re too dense to figure it out? I recalled those particular events: Minella smiling as I left, leaving the car without a word as I entered the academy, Zelda falling, receiving no help, Leo’s invitation. And right now, Minella charring my waffles. And after all of those events come the gut-churning, and just recently, the heartache. Suddenly, I was invaded by a memory.                                                            * * * I was 5 years old, playing tag with Minella and the family butler, Victor. I was running down the halls as Victor was chasing me with half his speed, giving me time to run with my little legs as I raced through the manor. I veered right, dashed left, sprinted up the stairs, and made another left. I kept looking back after every turn. This, on my part, was a mistake. As my eyes were trained on an exhausted Victor, I failed to notice the stand that held my family’s heirloom: an incredibly valuable 18th century pocket watch that once belonged to Howard Kenneth Calloway; in other words, the founder of my family’s company. In my haste, I knocked over the stand, breaking the glass box that encased the prized heirloom. The pocket watch did not break, that is, until I accidentally stepped on it. At the age of 5 I already knew how important this heirloom was to the family legacy, so of course, I was horrified. And it was when Victor and I stood side-by-side, getting an earful from my mother, that I first realized I was also a coward. “Adelia is not to blame, Madam Sophia. It was my fault; I knocked over the glass case and accidentally stepped on the pocket watch while I was running after the young lady. I apologize, Madam. It was my mistake.” Victor held his head high, kept his eyes undeterred, and did not lose face because of an irresponsible 5-year-old girl. I saw this in Victor for a mere second before I hung my head low in shame. I forever burned this image of Victor’s fortitude in my mind, as if that alone was enough to make up for my lack of courage at the time that Victor was temporarily excused from the estate. He returned a few days later (I’m honestly thankful my parents loved the staff), but he was no longer a butler. I couldn’t look him in the eyes ever since, even though he told me I had nothing to worry about. I felt my gut churn and my heart ache. That was my earliest memory of guilt. My earliest memory of regret.                                                            * * * All of a sudden I felt stupid; of course I wasn’t dying. What was I thinking? I’m the first Calloway to go mad. I understand now. When I didn’t acknowledge Minella’s smile, I felt regret. When I left the car without greeting my driver, I felt regret. When I left Zelda to embarrass herself, I felt regret. When I heartlessly dismissed Leo’s invitation, when I criticized Minella’s waffles, I felt guilt. I felt regret. I still feel those now. But now I know what to do. Minella comes in, tea and waffles at hand, still slightly charred with the chocolate sauce all over the place. I eyed the waffles warily. “This is unusual for a midnight snack. Aren't waffles supposed to be served for breakfast?” “Ah! Um...” for the third time, Minella stutters and starts mumbling in a panic. Tonight was going to be different. I giggled, then smiled. “I’m kidding, Minella, thank you. How did you know I liked to eat waffles while I worked on some papers?” Her face instantly lit up. “Ah, well, I was on kitchen duty tonight, and one of the maids told me you preferred waffles whenever you had paperwork… or whenever you skipped dinner,” she smirked and gave me a knowing look. I raised my hands in mock surrender. “Guilty as charged.” We both laughed, and I’m thankful she took it as a cue to enter my room without waiting for my permission. The formality was making me feel lonely. She walked to my bookshelf, right at the foot of my bed, and took a photo album out of the top shelf. She turned to me and said, “Since it looks like you’ve finished your paperwork, would you care to join me for a trip down memory lane?” I chuckled at her use of the phrase. “Hardly anyone says that anymore, Minella.” “Oh, hush. Just come sit with me,” she said, followed by a mutter of Filipino words that I couldn’t quite catch. We spent the next few minutes flipping through the pages of the album, constantly laughing at my hilarious antics caught on camera when I was much younger. We stumbled upon a picture of my parents, my mother smiling next to my father despite the burden of pregnancy on her shoulders. My father had stunning green eyes, and my mother’s a beautiful blue. I looked up at Minella, seeing her warm brown eyes for the first time in years. I looked back down at the photo. “It’s a shame I didn’t take after my mother’s eyes.” “Ah, I remember you telling me blue was your favorite eye color,” Minella said. She always had the better memory. “Yes, and it still is,” I sighed. “My eyes are such a bland color. This must be a recessive trait… but I don’t remember my grandparents or my great-grandparents having grey eyes.” I looked up again at Minella, and saw her giving me a sad smile. She must pity me right now. I usually hated it when people gave me pitying looks, as if I couldn’t take care of myself. My pride couldn’t allow that. But looking closely, I could see that that wasn’t Minella’s intention at all. She didn’t show me a smile that pities; she showed me a smile of hope. Once again, it’s as if she knew something I didn’t. “A lot of things aren’t always going to go the way you want them to, langga. There are times you’ll feel frustration and anger over some of the things that you do, and other times, guilt and regret for the things you didn’t do. There are times when you’ll feel like you’re stuck in a never-ending nightmare, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wake up from it.” I was in awe; her words were spot-on. She closed the album, returned it to the shelf, took the empty tea cup and plate, and turned back to look at me. “You’ll learn to love your eyes, langga. Just wait for it.” She gave me a wink before closing the door. I was sound asleep that night, my mind chasing dreams despite the nightmare that surrounds it. Tomorrow didn’t come, but that’s okay. Because now I knew what to do.          

Three

This was my fourth September 1st, and I’m going to make sure this is the last.

I looked up from my seat in the car just in time to see Minella smile at me, and I returned the action as I rolled down the windows and said, “Leo and I will be going to that new café after school. Would you care to accompany us in this dangerous endeavor against the forces of nature?”

Minella chuckled at my dramatic flair. “Why, of course, my lady,” she said with a curtsy. “Now hurry up before you’re late for the ceremony!”

I did as I was told, and rolled up the windows with a smile on my face.

The 15-minute ride to Hopewell was a good one; I was in my best mood.

As I was about to leave the car, I turned to the driver. “Did you hear me invite Minella to the café after school?”

“Yes, my lady,” the driver replied.

“Good, because that invite is for you too. Tell Leo about our plans once you get back.”

I stepped out of the car and was about to close the door when I forgot to do one last thing: greet the driver a nice day.

I knocked on the driver’s side window, and saw his look of surprise as the window rolled down. This is the first time I’ve ever looked into his eyes after he was temporarily dismissed from the manor all those years ago.

“Thanks for dropping me off. Have a nice day, Victor!”

                                                           * * *

“Someone looks happy today,” Henley remarked.

“Did that guy from France send you flowers again?” Kristina suggested. Her eyes were hopeful.

“Knock it off you guys, that’s not it,” I countered. “But yes, he did. I got them last week.”

The girls squealed and bombarded me with questions.

I shouldn’t have said that last bit.

As expected, rain fell as the break ended and we parted ways for the next class. Zelda slipped (for the fourth time) and I watched as the girls around her neglected helping her. I rushed to the scene, gathered her belongings, among them an open sketchbook, and held out my hand for her to take. As I did so, I noticed her face. Her cheeks were blushed and her eyes red and puffy. She looked like she was about to cry.

No, she had been crying even before she slipped in the rain.

She took my hand, and I helped her up. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

I gave her a small smile. “What’s your next class?”

“Um, chemistry. With Ms. Margaret.”

“Oh, we’re in the same class then! Let’s walk there together.”

She looked surprised (I’ve been getting a lot of those lately), but she smiled in return and nodded at the offer.

As we walked, I got to know a lot about Zelda. I first asked her about her sketchbook, and she told me she wanted to be an artist someday.

“I was made fun of by the other girls during art class because my paintings were “too simple”, “too boring”, or “lacked artistic sense”. They trashed my canvas and somehow made the teacher believe I’ve gone mad. I dashed out of the classroom halfway through the period and stayed in the bathroom. I’ve been crying ever since.”

I flipped through her sketchbook, and I sort of got what they meant when they said “lacked artistic sense”. Her pieces consisted of mostly black paint smeared across the page, with some red and blue here and there. I could make out a few shapes as well. They all focused on a central theme, with simple colors and simple designs. I knew nothing about art, so I asked her what exactly she was working on.

Her face lit up at my question. “It’s called minimalism. It’s an art form where the subject is eliminated of any unnecessary details and is stripped down to its barest form. In other words, “experiencing reality in the most direct way”.”

The whole walk to class consisted of Zelda explaining her pieces to me with a glint of passion in her eyes, and never once did she falter when I failed to understand. She would simply rephrase her explanation, and she made it look so easy. Up until then, I completely forgot she was a Fitzgerald.

But I guessed not all the Fitzgeralds were that bad.

                                                           * * *

Zelda came up to me after school, once again thanking me for helping her out after she slipped.

“It’s no problem, Zelda. Thanks to you, I got to know a little bit about art. I’m not a very good critic, but I can tell you’re really talented. Keep it up, and don’t let other people dictate your art for you.”

She gave me a look I couldn’t quite fathom, but I saw how her eyes softened. I noticed we both donned the same shade of grey.

“Y’know, I used to think the Calloways were a bunch of stuck-up snobs who didn’t care about anything else but their pride and wealth. My brother was wrong about you guys. I’m sorry I thought otherwise.”

I laughed, then replied, “And I used to think the Fitzgeralds were a bunch of hot-headed children who flaunted their money and didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer. I’m just as guilty as you are. I’m sorry too.”

After talking for a few more minutes, we finally waved each other goodbye. Upon opening our car door I was met with the Calloway staff fiasco, their arguing and shouting spiraling out of control like a bunch of children. I then realized what all the fuss was about.

Leo, who once took pride in his slicked black hair, now sported a neon pink afro.

“Leo, if you wanted to join the circus that badly­−”

“That’s not it, my lady!”

Four

(One Month Later, October 1st)

It took extreme concentration to block out the distractions that threatened to impede my journey to victory.

And by ‘distractions’, I meant Zelda’s incessant chanting.

“It’s going to fall.”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

“Oh, hush now Zelda. I’m trying to win here.”

“Pft, yeah. Note, “trying” to.”

My thumb and forefinger worked closely together to remove a wooden block from the tower, and so far, with Zelda annoying me to my wit’s end, things are not looking good for me. While slowly moving the block, I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I was holding, which was, of course, a bad mistake, considering how the tower wobbled and fell to the ground with a regretful clanking of wood against ceramic.

Like the blocks, I fell with my back to the floor in one fluid motion. I give up, I thought. I’ll never beat Zelda at Jenga.

“Care for another round?” she suggested, wiggling her eyebrows.

“Oh, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Of course; it’s not every day you get to beat a Calloway at something. You may have an advantage over me in cards and chess, but when it comes to Jenga, nothing beats Zelda!”

“That rhyme was awful.”

“You’re awful.”

We both laughed as Victor knocked on my door, tentatively opening it halfway to reveal an envelope in his hand.

“Is that from Mico and Micah?”

“Definitely so, my lady! They just arrived this morning, I presume.”

I got up from my position on the floor and walked over to Victor, taking the envelope from him. After one week of numerous repetitions in the first week of September, I thought, if I was clearing as much guilt and regret as possible, I might as well continue writing letters to Minella’s siblings in the Philippines. I’m not able to write as frequently as I could before, but at least we’re keeping in touch.

“Thanks, Victor. Where’s Minella, by the way?”

“She’s over at Miss Kristina’s, probably to hunt for new dessert recipes.”

I chuckled at that. “She’s taking her new hobby quite seriously, isn’t she?”

“Why yes, she is. At least she isn’t burning pancakes or waffles anymore, right?”

I remembered those days, and smiled fondly at the memory.

“I shall leave you and Miss Zelda for now; if you need anything, please let me know.”

“I will, Victor. Thank you.”

He gave a quick bow before closing the door behind him.

I returned to my seat on floor, across the low table from Zelda, and opened the envelope.

“A lot’s changed this past month, huh?”

After four September 1st’s, two September 2nd’s, three September 15th’s, five September 22nd’s (that was a horrible day), Victor being reinstated as the family’s butler, Leo growing fond of his pink afro, and the Fitzgeralds reaching a compromise with the Calloways, I’d say “a lot” is an understatement.

““A lot” is an understatement,” I actually said.

“Your parents will lose their minds when they find out what you’ve been doing without them.”

“Considering my parents, as long as I don’t go anywhere near the kitchen, I’m safe.”

“You seriously almost burned the house down?” Zelda asked in shock.

“I seriously almost did,” I replied. I was never a magician in the kitchen; always a witch.

The sounding of the grandfather clock in the hallway tells us it’s 6 PM sharp, and Zelda stands up to gather her things.

“Thanks for having me over, but I have to go. My family’s expecting me for dinner.”

“Alright, I’ll see you off.”

We both walked together to the courtyard, where her driver was waiting for her at the gates. We waved each other goodbye, and I watched as her car drove off, thinking

wow, I never expected to befriend a Fitzgerald just a month ago, and now both families have reached a compromise, too. Mom and Dad will never believe this if I told them.

As I walked back to my room, I passed the Calloways’ “Hall of Fame”, where portraits of every single family member were hung on the walls. There were too many frames to count, so I only paid attention to the portraits of my parents and my own. I stared at my mother’s portrait, taking note of her blonde hair tucked neatly into a braid, crossing her right shoulder. The evening gown she wore looked regal, her smile bright and shining, and I remembered this photo was taken when she was about my age, several years ago. I looked over to my dad’s portrait and noticed his slicked-back hair, as brown as Minella’s eyes, and thought, this must be where Leo got his style, before he got his afro.

I ran a hand through my own hair, the same shade of brown as my father’s, as I took in his posture and branded dress suit. His smile matched my mother’s, and it looked as if he hasn’t been carrying the weight of the company his whole life. A carefree smile, to put it simply.

I shifted my focus to their eyes: my father’s a striking green, and my mother’s a beautiful blue, a color I envied to have. These familiar hues are what I should have seen in these portraits, just like all the other portraits of my parents in this manor, however, I’d be lying if I said I did. Instead of their rightful colors, both my parents’ irises were a dull shade of grey, just like my own, as if they mirrored all the struggles they’ve carried, all the frustration, anger, guilt, and regret they’ve felt. I blinked once, twice, rapidly three times, and hastily rubbed my eyes, but the portraits’ irises did not change. Upon closer inspection, they don’t seem to have been painted on either. I’ve looked into my parents’ eyes countless times, and they’re nothing like my cold, lifeless, grey ones at all. But these portraits seem to be saying otherwise.

I suddenly remembered Minella’s words on the third night of September 1st.

“A lot of things aren’t always going to go the way you want them to, langga. There are times you’ll feel frustration and anger over some of the things that you do, and other times, guilt and regret for the things you didn’t do. There are times when you’ll feel like you’re stuck in a never-ending nightmare, but that doesn’t mean you can’t wake up from it.”

I realized she wasn’t just spouting random advice; she was actually speaking from experience. Minella, my parents, they must’ve gone through a ‘nightmare’ of their own, and it may or may not have been warped time travel like mine.

It must’ve been something they had to overcome by themselves, a struggle they had to grasp before their eyes changed the way they saw the world.

I then remembered Minella telling me at random instances recently that I seemed a lot happier, I smiled a lot more, and I asked her, “What made you think so?”

And she replied with, “Your eyes made me think so.”

I looked into Mico and Micah’s envelope as I slowly walked back to my room. In their last letter, they said they would send me a photo of themselves from a few years back, when Minella was still living with the family. I fished out said photo, and saw the three siblings smiling at the camera, Minella in the middle, tightly hugging her little brother and sister. She must’ve been no more than 19 years old here.

Her eyes in the photo were the same shade of grey as my own.

No camera tricks, no Photoshop, no faded filters; in fact, the photo seemed newly developed.

This further confirms my suspicions, but I still had no concrete evidence to prove what I had just concluded, other than my own experiences this past month. But how and what can I prove with that? This past month has been nothing but pure insanity; no one would believe me.

But to think that my parents and Minella once had eyes like mine, I’m not sure which one I believe to be more insane: changing eye colors or days that repeat itself? Both are, realistically speaking, impossible.

I return to my room with a headache, still racking my brain for answers that I can’t seem to find, until I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t believe what I just saw.

“You’ll learn to love your eyes, langga. Just wait for it.”

I walked closer to the mirror, making sure I saw what I saw.

This past month, I have never really cared to pay attention to little details in my reflection, one of them being my eyes. I looked at them closely.

Since when exactly have my eyes turned blue?

Written: July 16, 2016

[irenenorth]

New Post has been published on Irene North

New Post has been published on http://www.irenenorth.com/writings/2017/09/there-are-no-signs-of-the-times-and-the-world-is-not-ending/

There are no "signs of the times" and the world is not ending

Far too many people are caught up in speculation about the end of the world. While we are doing a good job at ignoring actual climate change, the hurricanes currently ravaging parts of Earth are not the end of the world, nor do they have anything to do with Jesus Christ, the book of Revelation, or any other such nonsense. Yet, in a letter to the editor to the Star-Herald, a reader thinks that is exactly what is happening.

We have heard the term, “Sign of the Times are everywhere.” We also know that Jesus said we cannot know the day of his return.

Well, right there you should stop writing, because you’re also going to start telling us what those signs were. You don’t even see that the bible says there are going to be signs everywhere, but you won’t know when he’s returning. Why does that statement not make your head hurt?

He also said in Matthew 16:3: “You know how to interpret the appearance of the sky. But you cannot interpret the signs of the times.” Matthew 25 encourages us to be ready, not like the unwise five virgins who had no oil in their lamp when the bridegroom arrives. God has always warned His people of judgment to come.

Did you also know Matthew 16: 2b-3 does not appear in many early manuscripts? When you look at contextual and grammatical similarities and differences between the passage and Luke 12:54-56, they seem similar in English. But we all know the bible wasn’t written in English. Some scholars, such as Bernard Weiss, professor emeritus of languages and literature at the University of Utah, argue the Matthew passage is older than the Luke passage and came from an earlier source.

In “Q: A Reconstruction And Commentary,” Harry Fleddermann argued, “In addition the form πυρραζει appears only in Byzantine writers, a further sign that the passage is a late interpolation into Matthew’s text.” (Pg. 652)

You can’t quote from something that shouldn’t be in your holy book. However, both this passage and the quote from Matthew 25 are dealing with the end of the world. Matthew 25 is telling you to be prepared for the day of judgment, which you don’t know when it will occur.

It’s supposed to be a lesson about being good every day. By not knowing when this judgment is coming, you’ll be good all the time.

Are you aware that some Jewish Rabbis and others who have spent their lives studying the Word of God, believe that a total eclipse is a sign, a warning of judgment to a nation?

It’s not just Jewish Rabbis who spend their lives studying. Many ultra orthodox Jewish men do this while their wives do all the work, in and outside the home. It’s a bit controversial. Also, they are studying the Torah, not the Christian bible, so Old Testament only.

Is it supposed to make a difference that two religions misinterpret the same information? Have you researched every single eclipse in history and what happened after to a nation which had experienced such a scientific phenomenon? If you have, you wouldn’t says it’s a, “sign, a warning of judgment to a nation” because you would know that’s wrong.

His protection may no longer be present for a nation who chooses to take him out of their schools, kill unborn babies, disobey his law regarding marriage, live lives of immoral behavior and lawlessness. We reap what we sow.

Here we go with this bullshit again. God was not taken out of schools. Anyone in a school is allowed to pray to their god. What is not allowed is for faculty or staff to preach to children in the school. It’s a form of proselytizing and is illegal. As long as my tax dollars are going toward public schools – about 70 percent in Scotts Bluff County – you’re not preaching any religion within a public school.

We shouldn’t kill unborn babies? Tell that to your god. There are many examples of the bible being pro-abortion. And don’t give me that bullshit excuse “it’s in the Old Testament” because you follow the entire bible. You don’t get to pick the nice bits out or the bits that adhere to your personal beliefs. You take the whole thing.

Hosea 13:16: The people of Samaria must bear their guilt, because they have rebelled against their God. They will fall by the sword; their little ones will be dashed to the ground, their pregnant women ripped open.

II Kings 15: 16: At that time Menahem, starting out from Tirzah, attacked Tiphsah and everyone in the city and its vicinity, because they refused to open their gates. He sacked Tiphsah and ripped open all the pregnant women.

Numbers 5:11-21 describes how to induce an abortion. In Numbers 31:17, Moses is commanded by God to kill women that might be pregnant. Hosea prays for God’s intervention in Hosea 9:11-16. God responds by making all the women who are pregnant miscarry.

God has also clearly laid out what biblical marriage is, yet Christians get upset at same-sex marriage. I’m more horrified by biblical marriage. If we are bad people because we “disobey his law regarding marriage” then I’m a terrible person because I don’t want any part of it.

Within a few days after the eclipse, I was not surprised to hear words like “unprecedented,” in describing the flooding.

Yeah, people always say this when catastrophic things happen. Also, please go read some books about climate change. This has nothing to do with total solar eclipses or a god, or anything else “end timers” people want to grasp onto.

Are you aware that after the last total eclipse in 1918 approximately 670,000 people lost their lives from a pandemic flu?

There are total solar eclipses every few years. You don’t see most of them because they occur over the ocean and/or are difficult to get to. The last total solar eclipse in the United States was February 26, 1979.

“After the last total solar eclipse in 1918” is an inaccurate statement. Here’s a list of other total solar eclipses that touched some part of the United States:

June 24, 1778 October 27, 1780 July 18, 1860 August 7, 1869 July 29, 1878 Jan 24, 1925 Aug 31, 1932 July 20, 1963 March 7, 1970 February 26, 1979 July 11, 1991 August 21, 2017

Do you notice something missing there? Oh yeah, there’s nothing around the time of the Spanish Flu in the United States. So let’s look at the entire world. Looking at NASA’s website on May 29, 1919, we have a total solar eclipse passing through South America and Africa. It also touched a teeny bit into Central America. It was during this eclipse that Einstein tested his theory of relativity.

Okay, we have a date, but the author of the letter to the editor is claiming “670,000 people lost their lives from a pandemic flu” after a total solar eclipse in 1918. I’ve already shown there was no total solar eclipse in 1918. It was in 1919. So let’s look at the claim.

The Spanish Flu pandemic lasted from January 1918 to December 1920. It infected 500 million people worldwide and killed 50-100 million people, or 3-5 percent of the world’s population at that time. The letter’s claim of 670,000 is not accurate. According to a page that no longer exists for the U.S. Government, “An estimated 675,000 Americans were among the dead.” Stanford University concurs with this number.

This claim still isn’t completely accurate, because the letter to the editor claims these deaths happened after the eclipse, which I, scientists, and people who were there, established as happening in 1919. Researching before writing the letter to the editor would have helped clear up this erroneous information.

There never has been any correlation between a solar eclipse and deaths of any kind, flu or otherwise. It’s delusional to think this is true.

The only place you’re going to find any connection between the 1919 total solar eclipse and the Spanish Flu is on websites filled with fear about “the end times.” You won’t find it anywhere logical, thinking human beings go.

How I feel right now. (Photo: http://cdn.iwastesomuchtime.com/October-18-2011-20-12-49-DoubleFacePalm.jpg)

I read an article recently by Anne Graham Lot. I quote in part: “A few years ago I was teaching through the book of Joel when the ancient words of his prophesy came up off the page. Joel 2: 31: ‘The sun will be turned to darkness … before the coming of the great dreadful day of the Lord.’”

So what? Do you realize how many eclipses – lunar, solar, and hybrid – have occurred over the centuries? Which one was supposed to be this dreadful day? Are we supposed to cower in fear each time an eclipse happens?

Most of us are not knowledgeable of the relevance of the Jewish feasts and God’s appointed times.

Then why bring it up? Are you just taking someone’s word for it instead of doing your own research? I’m sorry you like to be ignorant of these things.

We are not aware of the signs in the heavens that speak of his program. (Not the astrology that is commonplace.) The wise men of the Christmas story used their knowledge of the star that led them to the Christ child.

What the hell do these two sentences have to do with each other or the overall point? Seriously. You’re just writing word salad at this point.

The year 2017 is the year of Jubilee of Israel’s being back in their homeland as a nation. (1967)

No. This is not happening. You’re misinterpreting the 49th and 50th year listed in the bible and assuming it’s going to happen. According to biblical law, the year of Jubilee cannot happen because the 12 tribes of Israel are not united. It doesn’t matter that some people think it can happen when some of the tribes are united.

The Revelation 12 woman is seen in the constellation for the first time since the approximate time of Adam and Eve.

Again, this is more “end times” bullshit. The book of Revelation doesn’t have anything to do with the end times.

If you want to get a grasp on the book of Revelation, you should read “Revelations” by Elaine Pagels. This partial review in Salon will give you an idea of what Pagel’s book is about.

The Revelation of John of Patmos, however, did make it into the official Bible, and in “Revelations” Pagels explains why. It qualified not because it was written by John of Zebedee, one of Jesus’ apostles, as the text’s great champion, Athanasius, the bishop of Alexandria, claimed. It wasn’t. In fact, the author of the Book of Revelation “belonged to the second generation of Jesus’ followers,” part of a cohort struggling to come to terms with the fact that Jesus’ promise — that Judgment Day and the Kingdom of God would arrive within the lifetimes of some of his disciples — had not come to pass.

He was also not a Christian as we currently understand the term. Pagels makes a persuasive case, using what should be obvious to any careful reader of Revelation, that John regards himself as a Jew who has recognized Jesus as the messiah. That’s why he’s so exercised about “them which say they are Jews, and are not, but are the synagogue of Satan.” Pagels believes that these “false” Jews were, like John, members of the radical sect founded by Jesus. John regarded them as dangerously corrupt and idolatrous because they did not observe traditional Jewish strictures surrounding food and sex. Many of them, she suspects, were Gentiles converted by the faction of Jesus’ followers led by Paul, the religion’s first great evangelist.

The Book of Revelation was written at a time when the significance of Jesus’ legacy was furiously contested, and that’s one reason why it gets hauled out so readily at times of similar discord. Presented as a divinely bestowed vision, filled with rains of fire, burning mountains, seas turned to blood and angels with swords flying from their mouths, as well as costarring the ever-popular Four Horsemen, the Whore of Babylon and, of course, the Beast, the text is essentially an over-the-top cry of “You’re doing it wrong.” John of Patmos felt that his religion was being threatened by purported faithful who had assimilated into the dominant culture of the Roman Empire (eating meat from pagan temple sacrifices was a big issue for him), and he wanted to remind them of the hideous fate awaiting that evil empire and anyone who had gotten too cozy with it.

Because the prophetic imagery of the Book of Revelation — much of it derived from the Hebrew Bible and legends — is so figurative and surreal, it has proven remarkably adaptive. John had to cloak his meaning in bizarre symbols because his text was, as Pagels puts it, “anti-Roman propaganda,” of the sort that had probably gotten him exiled to begin with. In the following 400 years or so, John’s Revelation continued to be interpreted in this way, as Roman authorities smashed Jewish rebellions and persecuted Christians who refused to participate in the obligatory civic tributes to Rome’s gods.

Then Constantine converted to Christianity in 312 and gave the religion a favored place in his empire. The Book of Revelation was refitted by leaders like Athanasius for use as a hammer against Christians who did not bow to Church hierarchy. Ironically, a prophecy intended to demonize Rome (in the figure of the Whore of Babylon, that ancient oppressor of the Israelites) was used by those who, with Constantine’s approval, “adopted the Roman army’s system of rank, command and promotion to create effective control over a wide network of congregations,” a network that become the Catholic (“universal”) Church. Then, in a doubled irony, the same old Whore was, centuries later, said to symbolize the Catholic Church by Protestants who viewed Roman Catholicism as depraved and despotic.

Pagels’ sympathies clearly lie with the small religious communities that had sprung up throughout the region (though particularly in Egypt) in Athanasius’ time. These are the inward-looking, simple-living mystics who incorporated into their Christian worship spiritual ideas and practices from all over the ancient world and who preserved the gnostic texts found at Nag Hammadi. Some of those texts are as weird and visionary as the Book of Revelation, and some are far more beautiful, egalitarian and inspiring to many modern eyes. But they were not politically useful, and the Book of Revelation was. So it ended up in the New Testament and they did not.

The book of Revelation is merely a political tool to keep you in line. It has nothing to do with an eclipse or any “end times” garbage.

I’m watching with interest the Jubilee Feast of Trumpets this September.

Your “Feast of the Trumpets” is more commonly known as Rosh Hashanah (רֹאשׁ הַשָּׁנָה), is the Jewish New Year. Its biblical name is Yom Teruah (יוֹם תְּרוּעָה‎), literally, a day of shouting. It is the first of the Jewish high holy days, described in Leviticus 23:23-32. It is a celebration which takes place over two days and marks the traditional anniversary of the creation of Adam and Eve.

The celebrations include a ram’s horn, or shofar, festive meals, symbolic food and lots of noise. The Mishnah, the first major written redaction of Jewish oral tradition and first major work of Rabbinic literature has the second known reference to Rosh Hashanah. In the Mishnah, it is known as the “day of judgement.”

So, Rosh Hashanah is the new year, but it is also Yom Hadim (sometimes seen as Yom HaDin), judgment day. On Yom Hadim, three books are opened – the book of life, the book of death, and a book for those living in doubt with non-evil sins.

During this time, God balances a person’s good deeds against their wrongdoings for the past year. Rosh Hashanah is a time of reflection, penance, and to ask God for forgiveness. (As a side note, I miss this time of year in New York. There is fresh Challah bread everywhere.)

Rosh Hashanah gets even more complicated when you learn about Yom Kippur and Sukkot and how they all relate to one another. I don’t know why the author of this letter to the editor is “watching with interest.” If they think it’s a day of judgment like in Revelation or the “end times,” that is wrong. Rosh Hashanah happens every year.

God is in control and He is faithful. I’m listening, watching and want oil in my lamp.

Then go fill your lamp. Did you not read the passage? You’re supposed to be prepared with your own oil, not waiting on other people to fill it for you.

“Come quickly, Lord Jesus.”

He’s not coming. He doesn’t exist. Stop wishing on a fantasy and live in the here and now and make a difference in the world today.

This nearly 3,000 word refutation is far longer than I intended it to be. When I read this letter to the editor, I knew instantly all the inaccurate claims. I couldn’t let it pass without refuting it.

I’m just going to say, don’t believe what you are told. Take the time to find the truth. Then, you won’t share lies and misinformation and I won’t have to spend five hours refuting you.

[click2watch]

Bitcoin SV’s Delisting Isn’t ‘Censorship.’ But It’s Still a Problem

Michael J. Casey is the chairman of CoinDesk’s advisory board and a senior advisor for blockchain research at MIT’s Digital Currency Initiative.

The following article originally appeared in CoinDesk Weekly, a custom-curated newsletter delivered every Sunday exclusively to our subscribers.

Is cryptocurrency exchange Binance’s delisting of bitcoin SV a form of censorship?

And if so, doesn’t that make hypocrites out of all the Bitcoin Core supporters and Craig S. Wright haters who cheered the downgrading of the latter’s competing bitcoin project? Are they not applying a double standard by simultaneously arguing for immutable, “censorship-resistant” blockchains?

These are the questions bitcoin skeptics are putting to a cryptocurrency community they view as failing to comply with the Voltairean maxim that one should fight for someone’s right to say something regardless of whether you agree with it. (Yes, I know it wasn’t actually Voltaire who said that…)

Whether this “gotcha” is fair or not, it has given rise to a far more interesting crypto debate than the tiresome, yearlong squabble between Craig Wright-supporting BSV holders and Craig Wright-loathing BTC holders, the one that triggered the delisting in the first place. (Before Binance CEO Changpeng Zhao, known as CZ, made his decision, BTC supporters had pressured him to punish Wright for filing defamation lawsuits against Twitter accounts that had refuted the bitcoin SV founder’s claim to be Satoshi Nakamoto.)

A popcorn-worthy debate

It’s not all that clear who’s winning this debate. If anything, it has provided a reminder that the words used by both blockchain utopians and their hard-nosed realist critics often fail to adequately capture the nuances of what’s happening in the crypto ecosystem or, for that matter, in the wider world of social media and online communities.

The bitcoin critics’ main point is compelling.  It’s that a decision to delist BSV cannot be about whether CSW is a jerk (there is almost universal consensus that the Australian “Faketoshi” meets that characterization). Jerks should not be censored just for being jerks, and doing so contradicts the Cypherpunk ideal of censorship-resistance to which many bitcoin believers subscribe.

(Full disclosure: Craig Wright blocked me on Twitter for using the j-word against him – this from his @ProfFaustus account, which, intriguingly, appears to have been deleted in recent days.)

As I munched on my popcorn, I found myself sympathizing with the ever-astute Angela Walch, a constant, formidable critic of blockchain advocates’ sweeping, hand-wavy claims to the magic of “decentralization.”

In a stage-setting tweetstorm, Walch pointed out that the cheerleading for Binance’s move exposed the “cognitive dissonance in what the space claims to be about.”

Do I have this right…one guy thinks what another guy said is not true so says no one can trade a censorship-resistant, decentralized digital asset on the first guy’s exchange. #crypto #blockchain #veilofdecentralization

— Angela Walch (@angela_walch) April 15, 2019

But then, along came investor Ari Paul, who gave the whole thing a different context.

You see, Paul said, the standard of censorship resistance does not extend to private entities that provide services on top of open systems, much as Binance does with the bitcoin protocol and those of other blockchains. These private agents are free to deal with their clients as they wish.

1/ Freedom of speech is a value near and dear to my heart, so it’s frustrating seeing people misuse “censorship” and conflate radically different cases.  It’s not censorship for Amtrak to have a quiet rail car.  Let’s explore Binance/BSV:

— Ari Paul (@AriDavidPaul) April 16, 2019

That seemed fair enough too. It accurately distinguished between the decentralized rule-setting of each system’s underlying blockchain – the layer to which the aspiration for censorship-resistance applies – and the centralized entities that access it.

And on that basis, Paul’s point matched how U.S. courts approach First Amendment lawsuits. To preserve free enterprise, courts routinely allow privately-owned entities to pick and choose whom they deal with and what information they publish, whereas they will curtail government entities’ efforts to restrict the speech of private citizens and businesses.

Similarly, we could argue that a price-quoting and trade-executing crypto exchange whose business decisions occur off-chain isn’t subject to the rigid, quasi-constitutional on-chain rules for equitable treatment that govern the decentralized network running a blockchain’s publishing protocol.

An exchange can refuse the prices and transactions of whomever it pleases. Doing so does not compromise the integrity of the free-speech/anti-censorship standards of the underlying blockchain’s governance system.

Holding the big guys to account

The problem is there are countless different blockchains. And within that environment, exchanges such as Binance don’t so much operate an application (i.e. run a private business) and subject it to a single blockchain’s governance system, but rather service the needs of people moving across those systems.

Using the same constitutional analogy, they are flag-less shippers carrying information across borders; they aren’t jurisdictionally bound by any one government.

In playing this role, cryptocurrency exchanges aren’t executing the censorship-resistant rules of a blockchain but, as the on- and off-ramps between different blockchains’ assets, they are nonetheless vital to the functioning of the wider cryptocurrency ecosystem.

That’s why critics like Walch are rightly highlighting their actions. So far, exchanges represent pretty much the only proven business use-case in this space. They are the cryptocurrency industry. Surely, they should be held to high standards of neutrality.

Comparisons can be drawn to the debate over “deplatforming” on Twitter, Facebook and other social media entities. On the one hand, these can be viewed as private entities free to censor whomever they like.

On the other, because of their giant networks, the public naturally wants to hold them to a different standard. Given the enormous role they play in our communication system, there’s a strong case for regulating their publication decisions, much as governments regulate public electricity or water utilities.

Due to its size, Binance could be characterized as the cryptocurrency equivalent of a dominant social media network. Just as being banned from Twitter and Facebook can seriously hurt the economic performance of a social media influencer, so too can a Binance delisting seriously hurt the value of a crypto token.

The role of regulation

That brings us to another analogy proffered by critics of Binance’s actions. Imagine the outcry, some said, if leaders of the New York Stock Exchange or the Nasdaq – both integral to a functioning capital market ecosystem – suspended trading in a company because they didn’t like the comments of its CEO. The point: Binance should be held to similar standards of impartiality.

But the comparison is imperfect. The NYSE and Nasdaq, as well as countless other formal stock exchanges around the world, frequently delist companies for reasons of wrongdoing. It’s just that they apply a highly regulated framework when doing so.

Take a look at the most up-to-date list of “issues pending suspension or delisting” at Nasdaq and you’ll see that the reason many companies are on that list is, very often, one of “regulatory/non-compliance” issues.

In other words, whatever “censorship” decisions that sophisticated, traditional exchanges make tend to occur on the basis of rules set by an external governance system.

In the U.S., it’s an interconnected hierarchy that includes exchange members; self-regulatory organizations such as the Financial Industry Regulatory Industry (FINRA); the exchange’s own internal compliance teams and oversight boards; various bodies of legislation; and external enforcement agencies such as the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC).

Now consider a thought for CZ. He was under enormous pressure from both sides of the BTC vs. BSV fight to decide what he felt would best serve his and the industry’s long-term interests. But he did so without a set of external rules to refer to. If he had one, he could more comfortably have argued that his hands were tied.

I don’t expect CZ to call for more regulation. But the fact is that regulation, by externalizing the listing rules criteria, would, at least in these kinds of matters, help crypto exchanges manage their public image.

It might be tempting to believe these are just temporary problems because new decentralized exchange models will let clients maintain custody of their assets and independently execute their trades. But execution isn’t the main reason we depend on exchanges; it’s that, as centralized hubs, they bring many buyers and sellers together in one place, enabling effective price discovery.

The harsh reality is that, until someone achieves the extremely difficult goal of creating an effective, fully open-source trade-matching and price-discovery algorithm running on an entirely decentralized network, cryptocurrency ecosystems will depend upon the network effects that these necessarily centralized entities generate. And that’s why consistent listing standards, and the question of how to enforce them, matter.

In the absence of consistent, externally enforced rules, it’s perhaps unfair to hold Binance – a centralized entity, not a miner in a blockchain – to a “censorship-resistance” standard. CZ had to make a decision amid the chaotic hurly-burly of a boisterous community. By the same token, we can perhaps excuse the seemingly hypocritical stances of many BTC investors who supported that decision.

But that should not stop users from demanding that crypto exchanges establish and adhere to more consistent standards and rules. A company of such size and influence over the crypto ecosystem must be held to account – a standard no different from what we should demand of banks in the fiat ecosystem.

This, and not the tortured discussion over what “censorship” means, is the most important lesson to take from the latest bout of crypto agita stirred up by my Aussie compatriot.

Censorship image via Shutterstock

This news post is collected from CoinDesk

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The post Bitcoin SV’s Delisting Isn’t ‘Censorship.’ But It’s Still a Problem appeared first on Click 2 Watch.

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[thetruthseekerway]

Has Islam Liberated Women?

New Post has been published on http://www.truth-seeker.info/jewels-of-islam/islam-liberated-women/

Has Islam Liberated Women?

By Aisha Stacey

Words like “beaten,” “repressed” and “oppressed” are bandied about by the Western media in a desperate attempt to convince the readers that women in Islam have no rights.

For centuries, Muslim women in all corners of the world have been aware of the liberation that is achieved by adhering to the concept of hijab.  Current world events have once again brought the issue of women’s liberation in Islam to the forefront of people’s minds.

Can a Woman Who Adheres to Hijab Be Liberated?

Can a religion that considers morality to be a part of faith clearly define the equality of men and women and their rights and responsibilities?  The answer is a resounding “yes.”  In a day and age when the basic tenets of Islam are being questioned by Muslim and non-Muslim alike, we must be cautious when evaluating Islam.

The general picture that is painted by the media is biased and unsubstantiated.  The impression that some Muslims give to the world is often not a true reflection of the religion, one that is the completion of all religions.  Islam, the religion for all people in all places and times, which takes the equality of men and women very seriously.  It sees the liberation of women as essential and considers modesty, good character, and manners to be the way to achieve such liberation.

Too often, the image of a covered woman is used to represent what much of the world views as oppression.  Her very existence is described in terms that convey ignorance and unhappiness.  Words like “beaten,” “repressed” and “oppressed” are bandied about by the Western media in a desperate attempt to convince the readers that women in Islam have no rights.  Descriptive and intrinsically oppressive terms such as “shrouded” and “shackled” are used to portray an image of women who have no minds and who are the slaves or possessions of their husbands and fathers.  In the 19th century, T. E. Lawrence described women in Arabia as “death taking a walk,” and from that time forward, the true status of women in Islam has been shrouded by misunderstanding.  The truth about women and Islam is far from this melodramatic portrayal.

Over 1,400 years ago, Islam raised the status of women from a position of oppression to one of liberation and equality. In an era when women were considered possessions, Islam restored women to a position of dignity.

In order to gain a true insight into the real and lasting liberation that Islam guarantees women, we must first examine the concept of liberation as viewed by the West.  In Western countries where liberation encompasses unlimited freedom, many women are actually finding themselves living lives that are unsatisfying and meaningless.  In their quest for liberation, they have abandoned the ideals of morality and stability and found themselves in marriages and families that bear little resemblance to real life.

What is liberating about working all day and coming home at night to the housework? What is liberating about having babies who, at six weeks old can be deposited in childcare centers to learn their behavior and morality from strangers?  Girls as young as 6 years old have been diagnosed with eating disorders, teenage pregnancy is rampant, and women who choose to stay at home to raise their families are viewed as old fashioned or unemployable.

Women in the West are liberated: liberated to the point that they are no longer free to choose the life that is natural for them.  They are free only to choose from the selection of consumer goods offered to them by their masters.  The so-called liberated women of the West have become slaves.  Slaves to the economic system, slaves to the fashion and beauty industries, and slaves to a society that views them as brainless machines, taught to look desirable, earn money, and shop.  Even the career woman who has managed to push her way through the glass ceiling is a slave to the consumer society, which requires her to reside in a spacious house, wear only the latest designer clothes, drive a luxurious car, and educate her children at the most exclusive and expensive schools.

Is This Liberation?

The natural inclination of women is to please, comfort, and support their men: their husbands, fathers, brothers, or sons.  The natural inclination of men is to protect, support, and provide for the women lawfully in their lives: wives, mothers, sisters, and daughters.  Islam, the only true religion and infallible guide to life, requires that we follow such natural inclinations.  It allows us to abandon ideas that are intrinsically foreign to human nature and supports us in developing and sustaining natural family relationships that spread out to form part of the wider Muslim community.

A Muslim woman knows her place in society and knows her place in the family infrastructure.  Her religion is her first priority; therefore, her role is clear-cut and defined.  A Muslim woman, far from being oppressed, is a woman who is liberated in the true sense of the word.  She is a slave to no man or to any economic system; rather, she is the slave of God.  Islam clearly defines women’s rights and responsibilities spiritually, socially, and economically.  Islam’s clear-cut guidelines are empowering; they raise women to a natural and revered position.

Women in Islam have no need to protest and demonstrate for equal rights.  They have no need to live their lives aimlessly acquiring possessions and money.  With the perfection of Islam as the natural and only true religion came the undeniable fact that women and men are equal, partners and protectors of one another.

“So their Lord accepted from them; Never will I allow to be lost the work of any of you, be they male or female. You are of one another; so those who emigrated or were driven out from their homes, who suffered harm in My cause, and fought and were killed, I will verily expiate from them their evil deeds and admit them into gardens under which rivers flow: a reward from God; and with God is the best rewards.” (Al `Imran 3:195)

“And whoever does righteous good deeds, male or female, and is a true believer in the Oneness of Allah, such will enter paradise; and not the least injustice, even to the size of a speck on the back of a date stone, will be done to them.” (An-Nisa’ 4:124)

Women in Islam have the right to own property, to control their own money or money that they earn, to buy and sell, and to give gifts and charity.  They have formal rights of inheritance.  They have the right to an education; seeking and acquiring knowledge is an obligation on all Muslims, male or female.  Married Muslim women are completely free from the obligation of supporting and maintaining the family, yet may work if they wish too.

They are in no way forced into marriage, but have the right to accept or refuse a proposal as they see fit.  Women in Islam have the right to seek divorce if it becomes necessary, as they also have the right to save their marriages.

Islam teaches that the family is the core of society.  In Western cultures, the fabric of society is being torn apart by the breakdown of the family unit.  It is in these crumbling communities that the call for the liberation of women arises.  It seems to be a misguided and feeble attempt to find a path of security and safety.  Such security is available only when the human being turns back to God and accepts the role for which he or she was created.

Liberation means freedom, but not the freedom to do as one pleases.  Freedom must never be at the expense of oneself or of the wider community.  When a woman fulfills the role for which she was created, not only is she liberated but she is empowered.

The modestly dressed or covered woman you see in the street is liberated.  She is liberated from the shackles that have tied the feet of her Western counterparts.  She is liberated from the economic slavery of the West, and she is liberated from the necessity of managing a house and family without the support of her husband or the help of a wider community.  She lives her life based on divine guidelines; her life is filled with peace, happiness, and strength.  She is not afraid of the world, but rather embraces its tests and trials with patience and fortitude, secure in the fact that true liberation is only achieved by full and willing submission to the natural order of the universe.

Oppression is not defined by a piece of material, but rather by a sickening of the heart and a weakening of the mind.  Oppression grows in a society that is crumbling because its members have lost sight of the true purpose of their existence.  Liberation arises and takes root in a society that is just, cohesive, and based on natural order and divine guidelines.  Islam is such a society, and this is what makes a Muslim woman is liberated.

———

Taken with slight editorial modifications from islamreligion.com.

Aisha Stacey is an Australian revert to Islam. She currently spends her time between Australia and Qatar. Aisha works as a writer at the Fanar Cultural Islamic Centre in Doha, Qatar while studying for an Arts/Psychology degree.

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