The Temple of Upside-Down Gods
The temple rose from the frozen earth like a skeletal hand clawing toward the sky. Its roof had collapsed centuries ago, leaving the interior open to the stagnant air. Pillars of black jade stood at crooked angles, their surfaces carved with characters that Wei Chenxing could not read—the script shifted when he tried to focus on it, slithering away from comprehension like snakes in tall grass.
He helped Yan Lihua down from the cart. The prince’s weight pressed against him, heavier than it should have been for a man of his build. The black veins had reached his cheekbone now, a dark web spreading beneath translucent skin. His breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale carrying the faint scent of burnt paper.
“There,” Wei Chenxing said, guiding them toward a corner where three walls still stood. “Shelter from the wind.”
“There is no wind.” Yan Lihua’s voice was a rasp, barely audible. “Nothing moves here. Can’t you feel it?”
Wei Chenxing could. The air was thick, stagnant, as if the world had stopped breathing. Even the dust motes hung suspended in the gray light, refusing to fall or rise. He spread his cloak on the stone floor and eased the prince down, trying not to wince at the heat radiating from Yan Lihua’s skin.
“You’re burning up.”
“The curse is hungry.” Yan Lihua’s eyes were half-closed, their usual sharpness dulled to a feverish gleam. “It feeds on the stillness. This place—it’s the mirror’s stomach. We’ve walked into its belly.”
Wei Chenxing’s hands trembled as he uncorked the waterskin. He pressed it to Yan Lihua’s lips, watching the prince drink in small, painful swallows. The water dripped down his chin, staining the collar of his robes a darker shade of blue.
“We should rest,” Wei Chenxing said. “Regain our strength before we push deeper.”
“Rest.” Yan Lihua laughed, a hollow sound that turned into a cough. “In a dead temple, at the edge of a dead world, with a dead man’s curse eating me from the inside. Yes. Rest sounds perfect.”
Wei Chenxing did not rise to the bait. He had learned, in the three days since they crossed the Border Gate, that Yan Lihua’s cruelty was a shield. The sharper his words, the more pain he was hiding. So Wei Chenxing simply gathered dry brush from the temple’s corners—miraculously, some of it still burned—and coaxed a small fire to life.
The flames cast dancing shadows on the jade pillars. The carvings seemed to writhe in the firelight, the shifting script forming faces that watched them with empty eyes.
“Do you see them?” Yan Lihua asked, his voice softer now.
“The faces in the stone? Yes.”
“They’re not faces. They’re memories. The mirror’s memories.” Yan Lihua’s hand moved weakly, gesturing at the pillars. “Every person it consumed, every soul it trapped—their last moments are carved into the jade. This temple was built from the dead.”
Wei Chenxing’s stomach turned. He looked at the nearest pillar, at the face that stared back at him—a woman with hollow cheeks and open mouth, frozen in a scream that would never end. He forced himself to hold her gaze, to acknowledge her existence, before turning back to the fire.
“How do you know this?”
“I dreamt it.” Yan Lihua’s eyes had closed. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm. “Every night since we left the capital. I dream of being trapped in glass, watching the world move outside while I cannot breathe. I dream of screaming until my throat tears, and no one hears.”
Wei Chenxing’s throat tightened. He wanted to reach out, to touch the prince’s hand, to offer some comfort. But he had learned that lesson too—Yan Lihua flinched from touch, as if physical contact burned him. So Wei Chenxing sat with his hands in his lap, watching the fire consume the dry brush, listening to the prince’s labored breathing.
“I will find a way to break the curse,” he said quietly. “I did not come all this way to watch you die.”
“You came because the Emperor ordered you.”
“I came because I chose to.”
Yan Lihua’s eyes opened. For a moment, the feverish glaze cleared, and Wei Chenxing saw the prince beneath—sharp, calculating, dangerous. “Why?”
The question hung in the stagnant air. Wei Chenxing considered lying, considered offering some diplomatic answer about duty and honor and the preservation of the empire. But the temple demanded truth. He could feel it in the weight of the jade pillars, in the watching faces, in the stillness that pressed against his skin like a held breath.
“Because when I touched your wrist at the Border Gate, I saw a woman’s face in a mirror,” he said. “And she was crying. And I knew her.”
Yan Lihua’s expression did not change. “You knew her from where?”
“I don’t know. But I felt her grief as if it were my own. I felt the weight of a vow I could not remember making.” Wei Chenxing’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And I felt you. Not the prince, not the curse—you. Falling. And I caught you.”
The fire crackled. A face on the nearest pillar seemed to turn toward them, its stone eyes glinting in the flames.
Yan Lihua looked away first. “You’re a fool, Scholar Wei. A romantic fool who sees poetry in a dying man’s fever dreams.”
“Perhaps.” Wei Chenxing added another branch to the fire. “But I am a fool who is still here.”
Silence settled between them, thick as the dust that refused to fall. Wei Chenxing busied himself with the fire, feeding it carefully, watching the flames consume the dead wood. He did not look at the faces in the pillars. He did not look at the prince.
But he heard Yan Lihua’s breathing grow slower, deeper. The fever was pulling him under, dragging him into sleep. Wei Chenxing risked a glance—the prince’s face was slack, the black veins pulsing faintly with each heartbeat. Even in rest, he looked like a man being devoured from within.
Wei Chenxing pulled his cloak tighter and settled against the wall, keeping watch. The fire would last another hour, maybe two. After that, they would have to decide whether to push deeper into the Mirror’s Heart or turn back. And turning back was not an option.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Yan Lihua was screaming.
The sound tore through the temple like a blade, sharp and raw and full of terror. Wei Chenxing lunged forward, his heart hammering, his hands reaching for the prince—but Yan Lihua was not awake. His eyes were open, but they saw nothing. His body arched off the stone floor, back bowing, fingers clawing at the air.
“No—no, don’t—Yue’er, don’t leave me—”
The name struck Wei Chenxing like a physical blow. He felt it resonate in his chest, in his bones, in a part of him that had no name. Yue’er. The woman from his vision. The woman in the mirror.
“Yan Lihua.” He grabbed the prince’s shoulders, shaking him. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
But Yan Lihua did not wake. His hands found Wei Chenxing’s wrists, gripping them with desperate strength, his nails digging into skin. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—please, don’t go into the light—”
“I’m here.” Wei Chenxing’s voice broke. He did not know why he was crying, only that tears were streaming down his face, hot and relentless. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
Yan Lihua’s eyes focused. For a heartbeat, he looked at Wei Chenxing—really looked—and something in his expression shifted. The terror faded, replaced by a grief so vast it seemed to swallow the temple whole.
“Yue’er,” he whispered. And then his eyes closed, and his body went limp.
Wei Chenxing caught him before he could hit the ground. He cradled the prince in his arms, feeling the fever heat, the shallow breath, the pulse that fluttered like a trapped bird against his palm. The name echoed in his skull, a bell that would not stop ringing.
Yue’er.
He did not know why it hurt so much to hear it. He did not know why his hands were shaking, why his chest ached, why he wanted to scream at the frozen sky. He only knew that somewhere, in a life he could not remember, he had loved someone with that name. And he had lost her.
The fire died. The faces in the pillars watched. And Wei Chenxing held the cursed prince in his arms, weeping for a grief he could not name, while the temple of upside-down gods bore witness to their brokenness.
When dawn came—or what passed for dawn in this dead place—Yan Lihua woke.
He did not remember the nightmare. He did not remember calling out a name. He only looked at Wei Chenxing with those sharp, calculating eyes and said, “You look terrible, Scholar. Did you not sleep?”
Wei Chenxing’s throat was raw from crying. His eyes were swollen. But he forced a smile and said, “I slept enough. How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been chewed up and spat out by a demon.” Yan Lihua sat up slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at his curse-ridden skin. “But I’m alive. That’s more than I expected.”
“We should move deeper today. The oracle said the Mirror’s Heart is close.”
“The oracle said a lot of things.” Yan Lihua’s gaze flickered to the pillars, to the watching faces. “She also said we must remember what we swore to forget. Do you know what that means?”
Wei Chenxing thought of the name. Yue’er. He thought of the woman in the mirror, the grief that had torn through him like a blade. He thought of the vow he could not remember making.
“No,” he lied. “I don’t know what it means.”
Yan Lihua studied him for a long moment. Then he stood, brushing dust from his robes, and walked toward the temple’s broken entrance. The frozen light fell on his face, illuminating the black veins that crawled up his cheek like a map of some forgotten country.
“Then we’ll find out together,” he said. “That’s what curse-breakers and cursed princes do, isn’t it? Walk into the unknown and hope they come out the other side.”
Wei Chenxing followed him, his heart heavy with a name he could not speak. Behind them, the temple stood silent, its jade pillars holding the memories of the dead. And somewhere in the distance, the Mirror’s Heart pulsed like a second sun, waiting to show them what they had sworn to forget.
He helped Yan Lihua down from the cart. The prince’s weight pressed against him, heavier than it should have been for a man of his build. The black veins had reached his cheekbone now, a dark web spreading beneath translucent skin. His breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale carrying the faint scent of burnt paper.
“There,” Wei Chenxing said, guiding them toward a corner where three walls still stood. “Shelter from the wind.”
“There is no wind.” Yan Lihua’s voice was a rasp, barely audible. “Nothing moves here. Can’t you feel it?”
Wei Chenxing could. The air was thick, stagnant, as if the world had stopped breathing. Even the dust motes hung suspended in the gray light, refusing to fall or rise. He spread his cloak on the stone floor and eased the prince down, trying not to wince at the heat radiating from Yan Lihua’s skin.
“You’re burning up.”
“The curse is hungry.” Yan Lihua’s eyes were half-closed, their usual sharpness dulled to a feverish gleam. “It feeds on the stillness. This place—it’s the mirror’s stomach. We’ve walked into its belly.”
Wei Chenxing’s hands trembled as he uncorked the waterskin. He pressed it to Yan Lihua’s lips, watching the prince drink in small, painful swallows. The water dripped down his chin, staining the collar of his robes a darker shade of blue.
“We should rest,” Wei Chenxing said. “Regain our strength before we push deeper.”
“Rest.” Yan Lihua laughed, a hollow sound that turned into a cough. “In a dead temple, at the edge of a dead world, with a dead man’s curse eating me from the inside. Yes. Rest sounds perfect.”
Wei Chenxing did not rise to the bait. He had learned, in the three days since they crossed the Border Gate, that Yan Lihua’s cruelty was a shield. The sharper his words, the more pain he was hiding. So Wei Chenxing simply gathered dry brush from the temple’s corners—miraculously, some of it still burned—and coaxed a small fire to life.
The flames cast dancing shadows on the jade pillars. The carvings seemed to writhe in the firelight, the shifting script forming faces that watched them with empty eyes.
“Do you see them?” Yan Lihua asked, his voice softer now.
“The faces in the stone? Yes.”
“They’re not faces. They’re memories. The mirror’s memories.” Yan Lihua’s hand moved weakly, gesturing at the pillars. “Every person it consumed, every soul it trapped—their last moments are carved into the jade. This temple was built from the dead.”
Wei Chenxing’s stomach turned. He looked at the nearest pillar, at the face that stared back at him—a woman with hollow cheeks and open mouth, frozen in a scream that would never end. He forced himself to hold her gaze, to acknowledge her existence, before turning back to the fire.
“How do you know this?”
“I dreamt it.” Yan Lihua’s eyes had closed. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm. “Every night since we left the capital. I dream of being trapped in glass, watching the world move outside while I cannot breathe. I dream of screaming until my throat tears, and no one hears.”
Wei Chenxing’s throat tightened. He wanted to reach out, to touch the prince’s hand, to offer some comfort. But he had learned that lesson too—Yan Lihua flinched from touch, as if physical contact burned him. So Wei Chenxing sat with his hands in his lap, watching the fire consume the dry brush, listening to the prince’s labored breathing.
“I will find a way to break the curse,” he said quietly. “I did not come all this way to watch you die.”
“You came because the Emperor ordered you.”
“I came because I chose to.”
Yan Lihua’s eyes opened. For a moment, the feverish glaze cleared, and Wei Chenxing saw the prince beneath—sharp, calculating, dangerous. “Why?”
The question hung in the stagnant air. Wei Chenxing considered lying, considered offering some diplomatic answer about duty and honor and the preservation of the empire. But the temple demanded truth. He could feel it in the weight of the jade pillars, in the watching faces, in the stillness that pressed against his skin like a held breath.
“Because when I touched your wrist at the Border Gate, I saw a woman’s face in a mirror,” he said. “And she was crying. And I knew her.”
Yan Lihua’s expression did not change. “You knew her from where?”
“I don’t know. But I felt her grief as if it were my own. I felt the weight of a vow I could not remember making.” Wei Chenxing’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And I felt you. Not the prince, not the curse—you. Falling. And I caught you.”
The fire crackled. A face on the nearest pillar seemed to turn toward them, its stone eyes glinting in the flames.
Yan Lihua looked away first. “You’re a fool, Scholar Wei. A romantic fool who sees poetry in a dying man’s fever dreams.”
“Perhaps.” Wei Chenxing added another branch to the fire. “But I am a fool who is still here.”
Silence settled between them, thick as the dust that refused to fall. Wei Chenxing busied himself with the fire, feeding it carefully, watching the flames consume the dead wood. He did not look at the faces in the pillars. He did not look at the prince.
But he heard Yan Lihua’s breathing grow slower, deeper. The fever was pulling him under, dragging him into sleep. Wei Chenxing risked a glance—the prince’s face was slack, the black veins pulsing faintly with each heartbeat. Even in rest, he looked like a man being devoured from within.
Wei Chenxing pulled his cloak tighter and settled against the wall, keeping watch. The fire would last another hour, maybe two. After that, they would have to decide whether to push deeper into the Mirror’s Heart or turn back. And turning back was not an option.
He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, Yan Lihua was screaming.
The sound tore through the temple like a blade, sharp and raw and full of terror. Wei Chenxing lunged forward, his heart hammering, his hands reaching for the prince—but Yan Lihua was not awake. His eyes were open, but they saw nothing. His body arched off the stone floor, back bowing, fingers clawing at the air.
“No—no, don’t—Yue’er, don’t leave me—”
The name struck Wei Chenxing like a physical blow. He felt it resonate in his chest, in his bones, in a part of him that had no name. Yue’er. The woman from his vision. The woman in the mirror.
“Yan Lihua.” He grabbed the prince’s shoulders, shaking him. “Wake up. You’re dreaming. Wake up.”
But Yan Lihua did not wake. His hands found Wei Chenxing’s wrists, gripping them with desperate strength, his nails digging into skin. “I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—please, don’t go into the light—”
“I’m here.” Wei Chenxing’s voice broke. He did not know why he was crying, only that tears were streaming down his face, hot and relentless. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
Yan Lihua’s eyes focused. For a heartbeat, he looked at Wei Chenxing—really looked—and something in his expression shifted. The terror faded, replaced by a grief so vast it seemed to swallow the temple whole.
“Yue’er,” he whispered. And then his eyes closed, and his body went limp.
Wei Chenxing caught him before he could hit the ground. He cradled the prince in his arms, feeling the fever heat, the shallow breath, the pulse that fluttered like a trapped bird against his palm. The name echoed in his skull, a bell that would not stop ringing.
Yue’er.
He did not know why it hurt so much to hear it. He did not know why his hands were shaking, why his chest ached, why he wanted to scream at the frozen sky. He only knew that somewhere, in a life he could not remember, he had loved someone with that name. And he had lost her.
The fire died. The faces in the pillars watched. And Wei Chenxing held the cursed prince in his arms, weeping for a grief he could not name, while the temple of upside-down gods bore witness to their brokenness.
When dawn came—or what passed for dawn in this dead place—Yan Lihua woke.
He did not remember the nightmare. He did not remember calling out a name. He only looked at Wei Chenxing with those sharp, calculating eyes and said, “You look terrible, Scholar. Did you not sleep?”
Wei Chenxing’s throat was raw from crying. His eyes were swollen. But he forced a smile and said, “I slept enough. How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been chewed up and spat out by a demon.” Yan Lihua sat up slowly, wincing as the movement pulled at his curse-ridden skin. “But I’m alive. That’s more than I expected.”
“We should move deeper today. The oracle said the Mirror’s Heart is close.”
“The oracle said a lot of things.” Yan Lihua’s gaze flickered to the pillars, to the watching faces. “She also said we must remember what we swore to forget. Do you know what that means?”
Wei Chenxing thought of the name. Yue’er. He thought of the woman in the mirror, the grief that had torn through him like a blade. He thought of the vow he could not remember making.
“No,” he lied. “I don’t know what it means.”
Yan Lihua studied him for a long moment. Then he stood, brushing dust from his robes, and walked toward the temple’s broken entrance. The frozen light fell on his face, illuminating the black veins that crawled up his cheek like a map of some forgotten country.
“Then we’ll find out together,” he said. “That’s what curse-breakers and cursed princes do, isn’t it? Walk into the unknown and hope they come out the other side.”
Wei Chenxing followed him, his heart heavy with a name he could not speak. Behind them, the temple stood silent, its jade pillars holding the memories of the dead. And somewhere in the distance, the Mirror’s Heart pulsed like a second sun, waiting to show them what they had sworn to forget.