Shares

Su Jin was woken early the next morning by birdsong.

Not birds in cages, but wild ones, perched in the centuries-old oak outside her window. There was no telling how many, their calls overlapping, rising and falling, like someone far away tuning a harp that had not been played in years.

She opened her eyes. A fine line of golden light slipped through a gap in the curtains and fell across the white dome of the ceiling, like an arc drawn by a finger that would never fade.

She lay there for a while, then threw back the covers and stepped barefoot onto the floor.

The floor was dark oak, exposed to centuries of sunlight and moonlight, trodden by centuries of footsteps. Its surface was warm, not cold, like a stone worn smooth by a river for too long.

She pushed open the window. Lake Como had not yet woken in the morning mist. A thin layer of gray-white haze drifted slowly over the water at the foot of the mountains on the opposite shore, like a river that could not move.

A swan floated on the lake, white, her long neck curved and her head tucked beneath a wing, still asleep.

She stood at the window in a white silk nightrobe, her hair loose. The wind came across the lake, carrying the scent of water and the distant pine woods, lifting the collar of her robe. It was cool, like a gentle pat on the shoulder.

She stood there a long time, long enough for the mist over the lake to begin to lift, long enough for the swan to wake and stretch, spreading her wings to slap the water once before folding them again and beginning to swim slowly, without direction.

She turned and walked into the dressing room.

It was enormous, even bigger than the one she had in Boston. Dark walnut cabinets lined three walls, their doors shut, their contents unknown.

She opened the first door. Clothes. Not hers, but clothes that had been prepared for her, neatly folded and arranged by color, from light to dark, from white to black.

She opened the second door. Shoes, each pair in a transparent acrylic box with a small label on the outside noting the size and color.

She opened the third door. A riding outfit. A dark gray riding jacket, fitted at the waist, with two silver buttons at each cuff, engraved with an eagle and mountains;

Beneath it was a white cotton shirt with a stiff collar that could be turned up;

For the lower half, there were fitted breeches with a patch of hard-wearing suede on the inside of each knee;

At her feet stood a pair of dark brown leather riding boots, their shafts reaching just below the knee, their square heels neither high nor low.

A silver brooch was pinned to the jacket collar: an eagle's wing, outstretched and very small, but etched with such fine detail that every feather was distinct.

She reached out and touched it. The fine etching was cool beneath her fingertips, like a real feather that had been dried by the wind but would not crumble.

She put on the clothes one piece at a time. She turned up the shirt collar and fastened it to the top button. The stiff collar rested against her jaw, like a hand gently cradling her chin. She put on the jacket, its fitted waist defining her figure, not tight, but sharp.

The breeches stretched over her legs, the suede inside the knees soft against her skin, like the gentle pressure of a gloved hand.

Her boots stepped onto the floor, their heels striking the oak with a muted, rhythmic sound.

She gathered her hair into a low ponytail and tied it with a dark gray velvet ribbon, its ends hanging behind her ears, neither too long nor too short.

Su Jin stood before the mirror, looking at the person in it. The dark gray riding jacket drew her figure into a clean line. The upturned white collar made her neck look slender and long, while the silver eagle-wing brooch shone coldly just below it.

She did not smile. There was the faintest curve at the corners of her mouth, not a smile, but something quieter still, the expression one might wear while standing on high ground and looking into the distance.

When she went downstairs, Su Heng was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs.

He was dressed more casually than she was, in a dark blue polo shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, khaki casual trousers, and brown leather loafers.

When he saw her coming down the stairs, his gaze lingered on her for a moment.

"Can you ride?" Su Jin looked at him. "No." Su Heng froze for a moment. "Then why are you dressed like that-"

Su Jin walked past him and said lightly,

"You can teach me."

The riding grounds were on the opposite side of the lake. They walked through the centuries-old oak grove, then crossed a stone bridge so narrow that only one person could pass at a time. Beneath it was the deep green water of Lake Como, clear enough to see the stones and swimming fish at the bottom.

Su Heng walked ahead of her, crossed the bridge, and waited on the far side.

She walked across the bridge, her riding boots stepping on the stone slabs. There was dew on them, and her heel slipped. She collected herself, steadied her footing, and continued.

Su Heng watched her from the end of the bridge without reaching out.

He waited for her to come across and said, "Aren't you afraid of falling?" She said, "No." The corners of Su Heng's mouth curved, and he turned toward the stables.

The horse was in the stall furthest inside the stable, its door standing open.

She stood in the doorway and saw her.

She was white, not a dazzling white, but the kind that came from a whole day in the sun, with a warm golden sheen on her coat.

Her mane was long, hanging down one side of her neck in fine braids, each tied at the end with a dark blue ribbon.

Her head was lowered as she ate. The dry grass had been tied into small bundles and placed in a stone trough. She ate slowly, chewing for a long time before swallowing. After each mouthful, she raised her head and sniffed the air, then lowered it and continued eating.

Su Heng went in and patted her neck. She raised her head, gave Su Jin a look with her moist eyes, then lowered it and went on eating.

Su Heng smiled and stroked her head.

"She's wary of strangers. Come over and let her smell you."

Su Jin walked over and held out her hand, back facing up, in front of the horse's nose.

The horse raised her head and sniffed. Her nose was damp and cool, and her breath was warm, carrying the smell of fodder. She sniffed for so long that Su Heng thought she was going to bite Su Jin, but she did not. She brought her face close, pressed it against the back of Su Jin's hand, and rubbed.

Her coat was soft and smooth, like a bolt of silk that had been washed many times, faded but still glowing.

Su Heng looked at her.

"She likes you. She doesn't like strangers. Grandpa had been coming for three years before she let him touch her."

Su Jin gently stroked her face. Her eyes were large and dark brown, with oval pupils in which Su Jin could see her reflection.

Su Heng led the horse out of the stable and explained a few essentials: how to hold the reins, where to put her feet, and how to move with the horse's rhythm.

He spoke slowly, afraid that if he made it too complicated, she would not understand.

The corners of Su Jin's mouth rose. Before he had finished his lecture, she took the reins, put her left foot in the stirrup, pressed a hand to the saddle, and swung herself up. She did not move quickly, but she was steady.

Su Heng stood below, looking up at the sly glint in her eyes.

"Well, you tricked me. You clearly know how to ride."

Su Jin looked down at him, the corners of her mouth curving. "I don't. But the horse knows how to run."

She gently nudged the horse's belly, and the horse started walking. Very slowly, as if out for a stroll. Her hooves made a crisp, rhythmic clatter on the gravel path.

Su Heng followed, not riding another horse but walking, his hands in his pockets as he went along beside her.

Her body swayed gently with the horse's rhythm, her dark gray riding jacket fluttering in the morning breeze. The silver eagle-wing brooch flashed beneath her collar.

She patted the horse's neck again, and the horse turned her head and nuzzled her knee.

"Go a little faster." She gently nudged the horse's belly, and the horse quickened her pace, breaking from a walk into a trot. On the gravel path, the clop-clop-clop of her hooves became a quicker clop-clop-clop-clop, the rhythm faster, the sound crisper. Wind blew in from the lake, lifting her ponytail and sending the ribbon streaming. In the sunlight, the dark gray velvet shimmered with a fine sheen like an animal's fur.

Su Heng ran a few steps after her, then stopped in the road and watched her ride away.

She did not look back.

The horse ran through the oak grove. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the leaves, casting shifting, dappled patches of light and shadow over her.

She bent low, close to the horse's neck, and the braids in her mane brushed the back of her hand, tickling her.

The wind rushed into her ears, whooshing like someone singing far away.

She closed her eyes and let the horse run, feeling her breathe, feeling her muscles flex and relax beneath her coat, feeling her hooves strike grass, gravel, and earth, each impact different.

The world was as quiet as a painting on which someone had pressed pause. She suddenly felt that this was not her first time here. She had been here before. Many years ago, in a dream, a faded dream she could not quite remember, as though it had been washed in water many times.

She rode slowly back.

The horse's hooves struck the gravel path. Clop, clop, clop.

She went slowly, like someone in no hurry to get home because she knew someone was waiting for her there.

When she returned to the castle, Grandpa was waiting at the entrance.

He sat in his wheelchair with a dark blue blanket embroidered with an eagle and mountains over his knees.

When he saw her riding back, his eyes grew a little moist.

"You rode her."

Su Jin swung down from the horse and walked up to him. "She knows the way."

Grandpa reached out and patted the horse's neck. She lowered her head and nuzzled his palm. "She knows you. She doesn't recognize strangers. She's taken you for family."

Su Jin stood there with dew and a few olive leaves on her dark gray riding jacket, her white shirt collar blown slightly askew. The silver eagle-wing brooch was still pinned beneath it, gleaming coldly in the morning light.

She wore no makeup. Her skin had been exposed to the wind all day, and a natural pink showed through from beneath the surface on her cheekbones.

Grandpa looked at her with relief for a long while, then took an envelope from beneath the blanket. It was dark blue, sealed with wax bearing the emblem of an eagle and mountains.

He held it out to her.

Su Jin tilted her head, took it, and opened it.

Inside was a sheet of very thick paper, covered in writing. It was in Italian, which she could not read, but she saw the number: twenty percent.

Grandpa said slowly that it was twenty percent of the family's shares. Shipping, banking, real estate-twenty percent of everything was hers. More than her brother. Her brother had only fifteen percent.

Su Jin looked at the paper without speaking.

Grandpa looked into her shocked eyes. Her brother had no objection. He had said it was what she deserved. During the years she had been away, he had kept it safe for her. Now that she was back, he was returning it to her.

Su Jin closed her eyes for a moment, folded the paper, and put it back in the envelope.

She pushed the envelope back. "I don't want it."

Grandpa looked at her, the corners of his mouth curving a little more than before.

"Even if you don't want it, it's yours. When your mother left, I kept her share. I kept it for many years, waiting for you to come and claim it. Now you're here. Take it."

Su Jin stood there, clutching the dark blue envelope. The eagle and mountains on the wax seal pressed into her palm, not painfully, but distinctly.

She paused.

"Then I'll keep it. Not to use now, but later. When you need it, I'll bring it out."

Grandpa looked at her without speaking.

He reached out, and she offered him her hand. He took it.

His hand was still cool, still trembling, but his grip was tight.

"You are the heir to the family. Not in the future, but now. Standing here, you are the heir. Whether or not you came back, whenever you came back, you were always the heir."

Su Jin stood before him, not knowing what to say.

But this was the time she had been most grateful to the system.

Grateful to it for bringing her back to them.

That evening, the family lawyer flew in from Lausanne with several documents.

Su Jin sat in an armchair in the study, Grandpa beside her and Su Heng standing by the window.

Outside, Lake Como was silver-white in the moonlight. A path of moonlight stretched across the water from the foot of the mountains on the opposite shore to the base of the castle walls, like a motionless road laid upon the lake.

The lawyer spread the documents out on the desk one by one and read them in French, while Su Heng translated into Chinese.

Su Jin listened, then picked up a pen and signed her name on each document.

Her handwriting was like her: steady, without a tremor, each stroke like a person walking through snow, unhurried but planting every step firmly.

Once she had signed, the lawyer put the documents in his briefcase and left.

Only the three of them remained in the study.

Grandpa sat in his armchair, hands on his knees, looking at her with reluctance to part.

"You're leaving tomorrow."

Su Jin nodded.

"Then when will you come next?"

Su Jin looked at the forlorn old man with some amusement.

"Whenever you miss me, I'll come. If you call, I'll come. Even if you don't call, I'll still come."

Grandpa looked at her and pursed his lips helplessly.

It was the following afternoon when Su Jin returned to Beijing. Fang Ying met her at the airport, and Zhou Ye drove.

The car left the airport expressway and joined the East Third Ring Road. Spring in Beijing was different from spring in Italy.

Spring in Beijing was poplar fluff and streams of traffic, the glass curtain wall of China World Trade Center Phase III reflecting a dazzling white light.

Su Jin sat in the back seat, clutching the silver eagle-wing brooch, then pinned it to her jacket collar.

The car stopped outside Huace Starlight, where Zhao Mingyuan was waiting for her at the entrance.

He had a stack of documents in his hands and hurried over as soon as he saw her get out of the car.

"President Su, the game team is waiting for you in the conference room. Gu Yan, Zhou Di, and the girl who does fluid simulation are all here. They've been waiting for two days, working on revisions to the worldbuilding the whole time."

Su Jin took the documents and leafed through them briefly.

They were Zhou Di's selection of Liaozhai stories: twelve chosen from more than four hundred, each accompanied by a reason for its selection.

Five people sat in the conference room.

Gu Yan sat by the window, his laptop open in front of him, displaying a preview of the procedurally generated terrain he had programmed. Zhou Di sat beside him with an open copy of Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio before her, its pages stuffed with notes, each covered in densely packed writing. The girl who worked on fluid simulation sat opposite them in a gray hoodie printed with "MIT," an iPad in front of her displaying an animation of a drop of water.

The other two-the partners who worked on procedural generation-sat at the far end of the long table. One was drawing a geological cross section in a notebook; the other had their eyes closed, fingers tapping unconsciously on the tabletop.

Everyone looked up when Su Jin came in. She sat down and placed the documents on the table.

"You've been discussing it for two days. What have you come up with?"

Zhou Di opened the copy of Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, packed with notes. She had chosen twelve stories.

Not the most terrifying, nor the most moving, but those that would leave readers silent for a while after finishing them.

Nie Xiaoqian was first. Yingning was second. The Painted Skin was third. The Taoist Priest of Mount Lao was fourth.

In each story, the player would not be watching, but living it. While living Nie Xiaoqian's story, the player would be Nie Xiaoqian. She was controlled, exploited, and treated as a tool.

Live through twelve stories, fall silent twelve times.

Su Jin nodded. That was the effect she wanted.

"What about combat?"

Gu Yan met her gaze.

"Combat isn't a fight. Combat is emotion. Nie Xiaoqian's combat isn't fighting, but fleeing.

"She's fled for years, but she can't escape the person controlling her.

"And combat in The Painted Skin isn't fighting, but seeing. The painted-skin ghost wears a human skin, and beneath it is something hideous, rotten, and no longer human in form.

"The character the player plays sees that skin not with their eyes, but with fear. Fear itself is combat. The more afraid you are, the stronger it gets. When you stop being afraid, it disperses.

"The player's fight is against their own doubt. If you believe it, the wall is gone."