Chapter 1

The cicadas were screaming.

It wasn't a hum, and it wasn't a chirp. It was a physical wall of sound, a million tiny, vibrating membranes synchronized into a shriek that drilled into the base of my skull. It was the sound of the *Da Shu*—the Great Heat solar term. The air in Lotus Creek Village was thick enough to drink, a soup of moisture, pollen, and the smell of rotting bamboo.

I adjusted the collar of my white button-down shirt. It was stiff with starch, buttoned to the throat despite the ninety-degree humidity. Discipline is not seasonal. Discipline is the spine of the soul.

"You look like you're attending a funeral, young man," the bus driver said as he tossed my duffel bag onto the dusty road.

"Just work," I replied, my voice tight.

I watched the bus rattle away, kicking up a cloud of red dust that coated my polished shoes. I didn't wipe it off. I turned my gaze to the village.

Lotus Creek was a cluster of slate-roofed houses clinging to the edge of a valley in rural Sichuan. To the north, the Bamboo Sea—*Shunan Zhuhai*—rose like a green tsunami, acres of emerald stalks swaying in the stagnant wind. To the south, the river was low and sluggish.

My phone buzzed. A secure message from the Jade Order.

*Target: Tian Gou Descendant. Threat Level: High. Multiple livestock casualties. Purge before the Ghost Festival.*

I deleted the message. I didn't need a reminder. I could smell it. Underneath the scent of frying chili oil and wet earth, there was a musk. It was wild, old, and undeniable.

The Wolf.

I walked to the riverbank first. The tracks had been reported there. The villagers spoke of a beast the size of a pony, black as ink, with eyes like burning paper.

The river was quiet, shaded by weeping willows. I scanned the mud for paw prints.

"You're going to get heatstroke."

The voice came from the water.

I looked up. A man was floating on his back in the center of the lazy current. He was naked. His skin was the color of toasted wheat, slick with river water. Wet black hair plastered to his forehead, framing a face that was too sharp, too amused, and entirely too handsome.

He spat a stream of water into the air like a fountain.

"Who are you?" I asked, my hand drifting instinctively to the concealed peach-wood dagger inside my jacket.

"Lang," he said, rolling over and treading water. He looked at me—really looked at me—with eyes that were a shade of amber so light they were almost gold. "And you must be the new exorcist everyone is whispering about. The one sent to save our pigs."

"I am an Executor," I corrected. "I am here to resolve a disturbance."

Lang laughed. It was a deep, chesty sound that seemed to vibrate through the water. He swam closer to the bank, unashamed of his nudity. He pulled himself up onto a large, sun-baked rock, shaking his hair out like a dog.

"Executor," he tasted the word. "Sounds violent. Why do you wear so many layers, Executor? The heat is a living thing here. If you fight it, it breaks you."

"Propriety," I said, averting my gaze. "Put some clothes on."

"Propriety," Lang scoffed. He grabbed a peach from a pile of clothes on the rock and bit into it. Juice ran down his chin. "Propriety is just a fancy word for fear."

He tossed the half-eaten peach at my feet. It landed with a soft *thud* near my shoe.

"The beast you're looking for isn't in the river, Little Priest," Lang said, his voice dropping an octave. "It's in the bamboo. And it's hungry."

I looked at him then. I saw the scar running down his ribs—jagged, like a lightning strike. I saw the way his muscles bunched, coiled energy waiting to snap.

"How do you know?" I asked.

Lang smiled, flashing teeth that were white, straight, and just a little too sharp.

"Because," he whispered. "I know everything the wind knows."

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