In the West, the sun is drawn by gods—Helios drives his chariot across the sky, and dawn is the promise of their return.
But in the East, the sun does not travel alone. It rises from the branches of a single tree that stands at the edge of the world: Fu Sang, the Tree of the Rising Sun.
They say it grows in the farthest east, where the sea meets the heavens, and the wind tastes of salt and light. Twelve suns dwell upon its branches, each waiting for its turn to climb the sky. At dawn, one descends into the mortal realm, carried upon a bird of fire; at dusk, it returns, weary from its flight, and another takes its place. Thus day follows night, and the world endures.
But there was a time when all twelve suns rose together. The sea boiled, the rivers dried, and mountains cracked beneath the heat. The people cried out for mercy. Even the gods turned their faces away, for no hand could unmake the will of heaven.
Then from the west came a lone archer, a mortal named Hou Yi. He climbed to the shores of Fu Sang, his bow carved from dragon bone, his arrows tipped with starlight. The suns above blazed in fury, their flames devouring the clouds.
"Go back," they thundered. "The world belongs to us."
But Hou Yi drew his bow. The first arrow split the dawn, the second tore through smoke, and the third fell like rain. One by one, nine suns fell burning into the sea, their cries echoing for a thousand years. The sky dimmed; the earth cooled. Only one sun remained, trembling upon the highest branch.
Hou Yi lowered his bow. "The world needs your light," he said. "But light, too, must learn mercy."
Since that day, the sun rises alone from the branches of Fu Sang, carrying the memory of its fallen kin. And when the sky turns red at dawn, it is said the tree still remembers the fire that once consumed it—the fire that taught even the heavens to be humble.