Chapter 1: The River of Whispers
The wind came softly over the marshes that morning, carrying with it the scent of fish, wet bamboo, and something less easily named—something older. The villagers of Dazhu Port called it "the river's breath," and they said if you listened long enough, the River of Broken Swords would whisper your fate.
Li Shenhai sat on the worn dock's edge, barefoot, legs swinging above the tide. Below him, water lapped gently against the moss-darkened posts, its surface shimmering red in the early light. Not from the sky, but from the Crimson Moon that still hung above the peaks like a half-closed eye.
Behind him, the village was just beginning to stir. Straw-roofed huts leaned into each other like gossiping elders, and smoke began curling from the cracked chimneys. Nets dried on poles. The scent of salted eel drifted on the wind. Ordinary life.
But Shenhai was not ordinary. And the village knew it.
A frog croaked nearby, and a serpent slithered out from a reedbed to investigate—but stopped short when it sensed him. It hissed once and turned back toward the shallows.
He didn't flinch. He was used to it. Birds wouldn't nest near his window. Dogs barked when he passed. Paper ink bled if he touched it too long.
"Demon child," they whispered when they thought he couldn't hear. "Curse-born."
He glanced down at his reflection. Twelve years old. Thin. Pale. A sharp nose and storm-gray eyes that always looked like they'd seen too much. His hair fell past his shoulders now, tangled and black. No scars. No markings. Nothing strange—except everything.
The dock creaked behind him. "Shenhai," came the soft, familiar voice. "Come eat before the rice hardens."
It was his grandmother, Old Lady Li—blind since before he was born. She stood with her stick in one hand and a bowl in the other, her white hair bound in a loose knot.
He stood quickly and took the bowl with both hands. "Yes, Grandma."
They sat in silence beneath the weeping pine tree that overlooked the river. She poured him tea—though her eyes were white and empty, she never spilled a drop.
"Dreams again?" she asked.
He hesitated. Then: "Yes."
She didn't press. She never did.
He looked at her face, the lines like river paths on old rice paper. She had never told him the truth about his parents—only fragments.
"Your mother was a healer," she would say. "Kind, quiet. She made tinctures for the lungs, teas for sleep. People smiled around her."
And his father? A swordsman. A wanderer. A ghost.
"Grandma… do you remember the night Mother died?"
She held the cup still. For a long moment, only the wind replied.
"I remember the sound the river made," she said finally. "Like metal grinding in the deep."
Shenhai looked down again. The water now was calm, but that night in his memory it had boiled black with foam and crimson light.
A flash—he could still see it if he closed his eyes:
The door had burst open. His mother's robes were torn, her breathing shallow. She had pressed something into his hands—a small scroll bound in red thread.
"Hide this," she had whispered. "If they come—run to the river. Trust no one but blood."
Then a sound like thunder—and when he woke, she was gone. No body. Just the smell of burnt herbs and scorched paper.
"I dreamed of her last night," he said. "But it wasn't her. It was her voice… calling from under the water."
His grandmother's hand found his.
"There are things the river remembers," she said. "But they are not meant for boys. Not yet."
The tea cooled. The wind rose.
And from the reeds, the whisper came—not wind, not voice, but something between them:
Shenhai…
He turned toward it, but there was nothing. Just the endless winding ribbon of the river, flowing past like time itself.
He didn't know it yet, but the world was already watching. The scroll in the floorboard of their hut would not remain hidden for long. And before the next moonrise, blood would fall upon the water again.
But for now, he sipped his tea. And the River of Broken Swords whispered on.