Ji Xia blinked back to awareness amidst the victory banquet's clamor. Seated at the head of the obsidian dais, he surveyed the hall:
Lu Yu and Ji Qianqing flanked his immediate left and right, their postures rigid even in celebration.
Below them sat Archivist Zhao Qu and two middle-aged officials in ceremonial robes, their faces still pale from weeks in the dungeons.
Further down, the rest of Taicang's bureaucracy—released just hours prior—chewed their meager rations with gusto, all resentment toward their imprisonment forgotten in light of the Hyena-Dog rout.
The so-called "feast" was a grim affair:
Ji Xia's stone platter held a mysterious dark-green vegetable, crimson beast meat, a clear broth, and a bowl of jagged-grained rice.
Common officials shared dishes between three, pouring broth over their rice with the reverence of men savoring ambrosia.
"Can it truly taste so good?" Ji Xia wondered. He nibbled the greens—bitter at first, then unexpectedly fragrant—followed by the meat, which was surprisingly tender.
Then came the rice.
A mouthful of splinters. The grains scraped his throat like sawdust, carrying the aftertaste of rotted timber. He forced it down, pushing the bowl away. "This isn't food—it's punishment."
His musings were interrupted as Ji Qing—his third uncle—rose, wiping his mouth with a threadbare handkerchief. "Today's victory was the Great Wind's blessing! Let us pay homage!"
Six armored guards hauled in a one-zhang-tall stone effigy of the Great Wind Totem—dragon-headed, human-bodied, its feet crushing a continent of carved enemies. The hall erupted:
"GREAT WIND! GREAT WIND!"
Ji Xia, startled by the sudden fervor, hastily joined the chant under Zhao Qu's pointed stare.
As the totem was removed, Ji Qing turned to Ji Xia. "With the late king departed, Taicang cannot linger without a ruler. What says the crown prince?"
Ji Xia dabbed his lips. "Where is the Ritual Master?"
A white-haired elder shuffled forward. "By tradition, the throne passes to the late king's eldest son."
Ji Qing's brow furrowed. "Nephew, you're Shang's only heir—normally, this would be unquestioned. But Taicang teeters on collapse. Perhaps... another should steward the throne until—"
Ji Ze—Ji Xia's eldest uncle and the abdicated former crown prince—stood next. "Your father was forty when he died. You're barely nineteen. The burden of kingship..."
Ji Xia recalled how this man had renounced the throne decades prior, declaring before the court:
"My brother Shang stands upstream in life's river; I, downstream. Were Taicang at peace, I'd gladly rule. But against the Hyena-Dogs and Zhouqing monkeys? Only he could buy us breath."
Now, Ji Ze suggested: "Your seventh uncle, Ji Su—"
"—Has been missing five years," Lu Yu interjected. The hall sank into silence. Of the royal family's four bloodlines, only a dozen survivors remained—none fit to rule.
Ji Xia's fingers tightened around his cup. "I have no home but this." The nearest human nation lay 3,300 li away, and even the legendary Zhaohuang Kingdom was a lifelong journey beyond the Heavenly Abyss.
Rising abruptly, Ji Xia descended to the hall's center and produced the Soulkeeping Gourd. Uncorking it, he intoned:
"O radiant Shang's soul, return to this vessel;
O radiant soul, heed your land's call—
O radiant soul, come home!"
A green-gold light coalesced into the phantom of Ji Shang, his features sharp as in life. The百官 fell prostrate, weeping.
"Father," Ji Xia asked, "am I worthy?"
The specter laughed—a sound like thunder—and raised his hand. "Rise, my ministers. My son is Taicang's king."
As the light dissolved into the gourd, the hall shook with cries:
"HAIL THE KING!"