The Last Dahlia

038

What little Yuehwa knew of the elusive Horanjit Temple came from the mouths of storytellers she had met along her travels. They spoke of towering stone pillars and roofs with overhanging eaves and white jade tiles hewn from the Jilin mines, blending in with the snowy peaks. Within them stood the statues of the gods, standing head and shoulders above their loyal servants, carved out of the very same rock that made these mountains. The monotonous chants of the ascetic temple monks would meld with the voices of the wind, the rhythmic drumming of their wooden bowls perfectly harmonious with nature's heartbeat.

It had once been a sanctuary of peace, tucked away from the muddy reaches of civilisation in this hidden valley.

None of that remained.

Looking at the wasteland that lay before her, Yuehwa understood why Ru Fei never spoke of Horanjit, even though he was the sole survivor from within its hallowed halls.

The once-regal and imposing temple had been reduced to a pile of rubble by the fires that raged through it. Only mere stumps of its large, cylindrical pillars remained jutting from beneath the thick layer of snow and the cracked likeness of the gods lay abandoned and forgotten.

Yuehwa stood in front of what used to be a majestic colonnade, staring down at the frozen face half buried by the snow beside the carved emblem of an eagle, the temple's guardian.

The worst part of this was that the frigid weather had left the entire place frozen on the day its inhabitants drew their last breath. Those who were burnt to ash were the lucky ones, for they could be carried away upon the wind. Then there were those who were not so fortunate, whose bodies remained where they had fallen, mouths gaping and eyes widened, doomed to spend an eternity trapped in this final nightmare.

She bent over and gently closed the eyes of the petrified monk, saying a prayer even though she did not believe in them.

They gave the dead a fiery send-off, sending them on their final journey to reunite with their compatriots, twelve years late. There were twenty-eight in total. The billowing smoke rose like a tower towards the skies, until nothing was left of their remains except scorched earth beneath melted snow.

"He'll need some time to collect himself," Shoya said.

Ru Fei was standing in the centre of what used to be the temple's grand hall, still staring silently at the dying embers of the makeshift funeral pyre. They could only imagine the depths of sorrow that was running through him now, coming back to a place that had once been his home and being forced to face the death and ruin once more.

Yuehwa nodded, walking over to a different section of the temple grounds instead. "I don't think he ever thought he would return again," she said. "I wouldn't want to if I were in his shoes, knowing that everyone I ever cared for is dead and gone. All this for what? A few relics in exchange for some gold?"

"How are we so sure that bandits were responsible for this?"

It was a good question. Yuehwa had never considered this before, because she had no reason to disbelieve what she had been told about the Horanjit massacre. What other reason could there be for the cold-blooded murder of so many innocent lives?

She tilted her head, trying to read Shoya's expression.

"Have your visions shown you something different? Did Wan Jue tell you the answer?" she asked.

"No," Shoya replied with a shake of his head, "nothing about the massacre from twelve years ago. But there was something else. When Hwang Nanzhe was trapped within the mountain, the Horanjit monks were the ones who helped them survive the long wait, supplying them with provisions through that secret passageway we just came through."