The inn at the base of Mount Cangshan was called the Wandering Peak, and its owner had the look of a man who had seen too much and cared too little. He served Yun Che a bowl of rice porridge and a cup of bitter tea without asking questions, which was exactly the kind of service Yun Che needed.

'You're headed up the mountain,' the innkeeper said. It wasn't a question.

'Yes.'

'People who go up that mountain don't come back down.'

'I know.'

The innkeeper nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something he'd long suspected about the world. 'There's an old path on the eastern face. The rebels don't watch it because it's haunted.'

'Haunted by what?'

'Don't know. Don't want to know.' The innkeeper refilled his tea. 'Good luck, young man.'

Yun Che found the eastern path at dawn. It was overgrown with thorn bushes and slick with morning dew, but more importantly, it was unwatched. He climbed for three hours, passing through bands of mist that grew thicker as he ascended, until he reached a plateau where the mist seemed to congeal into something more solid.

The ghost appeared between one step and the next.

It was a woman in ancient robes, her form translucent but sharp-edged, as if she'd been carved from moonlight. Her expression was not malevolent — merely curious, the way a child might study an unfamiliar insect.

'You carry the blood of the Evil God,' she said. Her voice echoed oddly, as if it came from a great distance.

'Yes.' Yun Che had learned not to bother denying things that spirits already knew.

'Interesting. The last Evil God I met destroyed a continent. You seem smaller.'

'I'm working on it.'

The ghost smiled — a thin, ancient expression that suggested she hadn't had reason to smile in a very long time. 'Pass, child of the Evil God. But remember: the mountain remembers what the valley forgets. And the mountain does not forgive.'