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Lanmeijiang. Separate from the world. Separate from the Hans and their gods, their swords, their fire-clubs — separate from their greed. A paradise in the wilderness at the southern border of the great red sorghum plain, nestled between jagged mountain peaks, it tied its houses and bridges from branch to branch in the canopies of the giant goldenrain trees, hanging above the flowing waters of the Blueberry River, hidden in the ever present mists, a haven for the Tui people and their children.

One of whom wept and prayed on this day at the waterfall shrine.

They had been happy once. Xiaomi, 14 years old, remembered when life on the river meant peace and the calm benevolence of a community of simple fishermen. They had lived for the glory of the sky, the sweetness of the rain, and the bounty of the rushing waters, subsisting on the fruit of the forest and the plentiful schools of carp and salmon in their autumn trajectory. They embraced every day and every new meeting as a gift, and they revered their ancestors, memorialized on the small islet by the great waterfall cliff under wooden and stone carvings, each one depicting small images of contented, smiling men and women in positions of quiet repose.

But now, those carvings were blackened, cracked, and disfigured. The faces of Xiaomi’s grandmothers and grandfathers, even the face of her beloved father, were all burnt or gouged away.

Sichou had desecrated the shrine only a few days ago, on the day he left the river valley, a swath of scarred trees, shattered homes, and corpses in his wake. “The Great Sorcerer” Sichou, the “genius,” the “giver of life.”

He had arrived, at first, a contrite man, a lonely stranger, his horse packed with scrolls — useless to the fishermen of Lanmeijiang. But he made himself essential to the community with his skills as a healer and magician. He entertained families not only with brilliant showers of colorful sparks from his hands, but with tales of daring and wonder from the world outside. Over the course of almost a year, he had attained a position of scholarly leadership, his advice essential to the decisions of the village elders, and with his unattainable, special wisdom, he taught several of the village girls how to read.

Xiaomi had been among them. Like her peers, she held Sichou in awe, and had come to revere the gaunt, ugly, but formidable man. Unlike her peers, she possessed an intelligence that was unique among humans and an intuition that told her, almost from the beginning, that something was strange about the charming outsider.

Her intuition became unease as he collected only young, beautiful girls to mentor. Her unease became suspicion as he flattered and then manipulated the village’s young men into accepting his opinions and bullying those who dissented. Her suspicion became fear as he gathered several of the strongest young men, including all those who were betrothed to his female students, and led them out of the valley on a “military expedition.” Finally, her fear became terror and despair when he returned a few days later, no men at his side.

Instead, he had brought back four new friends, and though they dressed in the black and purple robes of imperial scholars, and though they had eyes and noses and mustaches, they most certainly were not men. They had the stink of death on them.

Sichou ordered the villagers to serve his friends and wait on him hand and foot, and anyone who did not comply was killed, their treehouse burnt. He gathered the whole community to the Great Granite Stone in the river valley’s center, and in view of everyone, he executed the Lanmeijiang elders — grandmothers and grandfathers. As he did all of this, his new friends leered, their black eyes gazing from wrinkled, bloodshot sockets, and their rictus, yellow-toothed grins cracking their unnaturally pallid faces. Anyone who showed even the slightest trace of defiance was silenced by one look from these demonic creatures. Their piercing eyes seemed to freeze even the bravest of souls in his or her tracks. They stood there and laughed as the blood of the elders seeped into the earth, and Sichou gave one more warning.

“I must go out on another errand, but I will return to your pathetic land in four days’ time,” he said, in a voice devoid of any humanity. “I expect you to be hospitable to me and my brothers when we come back.”

He raised his arms high, and the whole community cowered. The reaction satisfied him, and it showed in the smirk on his bony, narrow face.

“Do not even imagine that you can stop me,” he said. “Your daughters will be mine. My brothers will take your children. You have no one to pray to and no one to call for help. You are weak, I am strong, and you will revere me as your king.”

When his arms descended, he and his vile brethren disappeared in a brief but violent whirlwind. The entire village wailed and tore at their clothes, feeling totally hopeless, except for Xiaomi.

The wizard had not counted on her progress in reading and understanding his forbidden texts. Within hours, she had returned to Sichou’s private sanctum in the darkest shadows of the forest and broken his mystical seals.

Within, she knew he kept some of his most precious and profane spells, and she searched through them frantically, driven by rage from seeing the elders killed. Very few had been left behind that could be of any use to her — Sichou had kept the best magic for himself, and much of what he left was still too enigmatic for a novice’s understanding. In a crude wooden chest tucked away in a dusty corner, she finally found a series of crumpled parchments, all bearing the character “bao,” for revenge, and all of them were incomplete, save one: a small, red piece of lamb skin that began with a scribbled note.

“This spell will cost you your life,” it said.

“So be it,” Xiaomi thought.

She recited the incantation through bitter tears and slaughtered a red monkey there on the islet. In a haze of mystic euphoria, she went through the motions of the prescribed dance, and the evil essence of the magic tasted like oil and rot on her breath. Last of all, she screamed and swore her vengeance upon the mad tyrant, Sichou, and when his name left her lips, the earth shook.

With a cataclysmic crash, a huge being erupted from the waters. It stood up to a terrifying height, taller than the falls, taller than most of the valley’s trees, and it moved with menacing strength and grace — a being unlike anything the people of Lanmeijiang had ever seen, appearing like a colossal man, but with a terrifying visage cloaked in vermillion light.

Had she been more knowledgeable, she would have recognized his accoutrements — foremost being the obsidian sword clutched in his right hand, itself as long as the waterfall was tall and gleaming in its otherworldly blackness. In his right hand he held an iron ball, polished smooth, but large enough to crush any man. On his titanic body, he wore scales of shimmering scarlet that only slightly hid the bulging strength of a warrior’s physique beneath. On his shoulders, forearms and shins rested plates and bands of burning bronze. Around his waist was tied a silver sash of flowing silk that matched the pair of shining silver shoes on his feet, pointed upward at the toes.

Most terrifying of all, however, was his face, cruel and unmoving, frozen in a draconic snarl with bulging alabaster eyes, black lips, and a halo of flame around his head. Smoke poured from his mouth as he roared in a voice straight from the undying fire of the inferno:

“LOOK UPON ME, WORLD OF MAN! BEHOLD THE PRINCE OF VENGEANCE! BEHOLD THE DOOM OF FOOLISH MORTALS, ZHUHOU XUN!”

The combined shock of performing the spell and seeing this monster standing over her sent Xiaomi into convulsions. She shrieked and covered her ears.

“WHO DARES SUMMON ME? WHO CRIES OUT FOR BLOOD? WHO …”

The giant tilted his face downward and saw the quivering human below.

“Who … um …” he said, as the aura of ferocity began to dissipate.

Xiaomi collapsed onto her back, and the giant warrior crouched over her. His terrible face shimmered and became like smoke, revealing itself as a mere mask for the beast’s true countenance. Xiaomi gasped as she saw that the demon of vengeance, while still enormous, looked like a young child, no older than her little brother, who had seen 11 winters.

He was like the people of her village, with short black hair and fair skin, but his almond eyes shone as bright gold. Right now, they were wide with surprise.

“You … you’re just a little girl …” he said.

He sheathed his ebon sword and slowly reached for her with his gauntleted hand.

Xiaomi’s vision blurred, and the huge boy’s resonating voice was the last thing she heard before she lost consciousness.