Every time he looks up, he sees a sky that is alive with omens. Ruddy sunrise, bleeding moons, weakly shimmering stars blotted out by inky blackness. The unrest, sparking like lightning portending a storm, electrifies his being. The hairs on the back of his neck quaver, and he waits, even as he is gripped by a restlessness so powerful it is enough to sweep away any restraint, no matter how strongly rooted. Yet, in vain, he seeks to exercise his control and influence, in attempts that seem as futile as trying to ignite invisible matter or breathing in ether.

Down the hill, in the parched plains of his oppressed land, people rejoice. Their sky blazes with brilliant comets, and gazes down at them with limpid, loving eyes. He sees not the sun, but a fierce countenance, multihued and crackling with power, promising retribution.

The Qilin had arrived, and justice would soon follow in its wake.