Seizing the Throne

The mountain peak pierced the clouds. The young man stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing down, but all he could see was a haze of drifting mist. He wore a simple white shirt and black trousers, appearing pale and frail. He tilted his head back and spread his arms; his slightly long hair was swept across his cheeks by the wind, fragmenting his expression.

“Qiyi! Don’t!” A man’s desperate, fearful voice called from behind. The youth did not turn, but his bloodless lips curved almost imperceptibly. He spoke softly: “Brother, I do not hate you, but only that—I do not hate you.”

His voice was gentle, but it struck the man behind him like a blow, draining all color from his face. He looked at the youth, his eyes begging, “Qiyi, come back with me. I won’t force you anymore, as long as you... just come back with me…” By the end, the man’s voice was choked with emotion.

The young man seemed to smile faintly. He lowered his arms and turned around, his weak body trembling in the wind. The man grew anxious, stepping forward, longing to embrace him tightly. “Brother, you don’t need to come any closer.” The youth tilted his head, smiling faintly. He reached out slender fingers to brush aside the hair blown across his forehead, revealing a red cinnabar mark at its center. He spoke quietly, “I will not return with you. I was never meant to live long anyway…”

The man felt a stabbing pain in his heart. He looked at the youth’s pale face, eyes reddened, and said, “I won’t let you die! I absolutely will not let you die—never!”

But the youth only shook his hea