Prologue: Regret

Many preludes, prologues, or opening chapters existed because a novel's foreshadowing was buried so deeply that only when the author revealed it at the end would you suddenly understand and cry out in delight. Yet because the pit was simply too deep, it needed hints in the earlier text—but the beginning could not reveal too much. Writing so cautiously would make it obscure, leaving people utterly baffled. It was a contradiction. Readers who disliked being tormented could skip the prologue and dive straight into the satisfying main story. When your heartstrings stirred, you could come back and ponder the prologue, then say: So that was it.

Firefly

The weather was stiflingly hot. The mountains and darkness had melted into one, so black that one could not see a hand before one's face. Yet the surroundings were far from peaceful. Gale-force winds swept the sea of forest into rolling waves, while scattered leaves whirled through the sky and across the earth.

BOOM

With an earth-shattering crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning split from the distant dark horizon straight into the ground, blasting open a small grave in the wilderness and revealing a tiny coffin. Several more thunderclaps followed. Amid the flickering flashes, a soft halo appeared and vanished, swaying around the tiny coffin. The coffin was like black jade, phosphorescence flowing across it, making it especially mysterious on this night of thunder and lightning.

Another thunderclap rang out, and the sky seemed to be torn open by a gigantic sword. A figure abruptly appeared before the tiny coffin. Beneath a black cloak was a weathered, desolate face, wrinkles crisscrossing it, its furrows heaped with the endless years.

With a light wave of his hand, the coffin lid flew open. Inside lay a dead infant, with delicate features and a deathly pale little face. At that moment, a savage beast leaped across the tiny coffin in panic, as though it could not see the cloaked figure standing before it.

The beast was already wounded. A large drop of beast blood fell, landing precisely between the dead infant's slightly parted lips. In that instant, the halo surrounding the tiny coffin spiraled down like a vortex, shrouding the infant.

The weathered old man picked up the dead infant. At last, the torrential rain unleashed its fury. Alone and forlorn amid the wind and rain, he departed. The tiny coffin lid suddenly closed over the coffin, then immediately flew up and vanished into the weathered old man's cloak.

Thunder and lightning raged together, and rain poured down in sheets. The weathered old man stood atop a mountain peak and looked below. A manor village nestled among the mountains came into view. Its houses rose and fell in uneven layers, eaves linked and channels winding, scattered like stars across a chessboard. Some lay like crouching Black Tortoises, some like Vermilion Birds raising their heads; following the riverbank of Crescent Shoal through seven bends and eight turns, all order vanished, as though an Azure Dragon were about to spread its wings while a White Tiger lay dormant.

After a long while, the weathered old man appeared before the main residence of the manor village. Two lanterns before the gates swayed in the wind. Upon their dim light appeared four large characters in black and gold: Liu Clan Ancestral Estate.

The weathered old man went around the walls of the Liu Clan Ancestral Estate and came to a small rear gate. He placed the dead infant beneath the threshold, stepped back, and disappeared into the wind and rain.

Almost the instant the dead infant was set down, a lamp lit up in a lady's chamber in the rear courtyard.

"Child, child, where is my child?" A frightened woman's voice rang out from the chamber.

The door was immediately pushed open. A maid rushed inside, found a cloth doll by the bedside, picked it up, and thrust it toward the panicked young madam. "Young Madam, the child is right here."

The young madam's unfocused eyes finally found a point of focus. But contrary to what the maid expected, she did not clutch the cloth doll tightly. She desperately shoved it away and cried in terror, "No, this isn't my child."

"Young Madam, this is your child. Hurry and hold him while you sleep—don't frighten him." The maid coaxed her softly, though her head could not help shaking faintly. Young Madam was too pitiful. Young Master had vanished without explanation during a hunt. He had left behind a healthy, lively posthumous child, but on a stormy night when the child was half a year old, he too had suddenly died of a violent illness. Blow after blow had shattered her mind. She had taken a cloth doll for her own child and held it in her arms all day, never letting go.

"No, this isn't my child!" the young madam screamed. She stared in shock at the cloth doll thrust toward her, backing away step by step. At last, she turned and fled, rushing into the storm-lashed rear courtyard.

"Damn it." The maid muttered and hurried after her. Just as she reached out to seize the young madam, who had opened the courtyard gate, she saw her bend down and pick up an infant.

The infant happened to open his eyes. Ten successive lightning afterimages in the rainy night reflected in his clear, bright eyes as a tiny glowing character. The maid recognized it clearly.

It was the character for regret.

She froze, and the cloth doll in her hand fell into the wind and rain.