01 The Way Of The Open Palm

02 Jade Empire Main Theme

03  Hills And Fields / Dance Of The Bab

04 Fist:_Test Your Mettle

05 Dawn Star Theme

06 The Tea House

07 Fury, Hammer And Tongs

08 Anthem Of The Tyrant

09 Buried Secrets Whispers

10 Mischief In The Marsh

11 Empire At War

12 Death’s Hand Suite

13 A Night Out

14 Fires Of Chaos

15 House Of Spirits / The Dark Land

16 Metropolis I And II

17 Ill Winds

18 Ballad Of The Drunken Revelers

19 Call To Victory

20 Into The Fray

21 The Waterdragon

22 Last Rites / Internment

23 Silk Fox Theme

24 Wine And Women

25 Lost In The Wilds_The Hunt

26 Sky Theme

27 Tribute

28 Rending Of Flesh

29 Soaring_Stormclouds

30 Torment: The Way Of The Closed Fist

31 Sanctuary

So much for being a self-proclaimed god – he had it coming.

Twisted amusement, with a flicker of hope merge into one – finally, things can be set right. Princess Sun Lian would be cheering my name right now, well, if she hadn’t been knocked unconscious by her father’s childish display of power.

Oh well.

Master Li, once the venerated Glorious Strategist, last survivor of the ill-fated Sun brothers approaches me. Not what you’d call a clingy paternal figure, he’s still the closest person I have to a father.

For not the first time in my orphaned life, I notice Li’s usual humble, if self-assured posture has a subtle tenseness. Must have been through a lot, having his withered old carcass hauled all over the place by Death’s Hand. Deep lines show on his leathery, bearded face; obviously accentuated by the past situation.

My contemptuous smile quickly vanishes as my “esteemed” master speaks. Pride rears its head, as he speaks in his affected, firm but gentle way.

Praise, my friends, makes the heart light and the spirit soar. Hah, I knew I could make the old fool proud. No. Wait–

Turbulent emotions of anxiety, and apprehension manage to infest in the middle of my rejoicing. His voice has changed, become hard, cruel even.

Then the most absurd thing happens; I watch like a dumb village idiot as he intentionally mishandles the Water Dragon’s stolen heart. Throws it into the air. What the hell -

Then it happened.

Stupid bitch, I think to myself, as my body registers a searing blow whip into my chest. Even that ugly hag, Grand Inquisitor Jia, didn’t inflict as much pain. Or Death’s Hand for that matter, when he slammed his foot into my stomach. Thank you very much -

I don’t want to die.

A small part of me laughs maniacally at my naïveté for trusting Sun Li, another is screaming mournfully. This can’t be it. Not now.

A fierce flurry of jabs from my former master brings me crashing to my knees – incapacitated and defeated. I hate feeling weak and vulnerable.

The fiery, choking sensation becomes too much to bear. My vision is blurring, head hurts like hell. Feeling nauseous, the familiar metallic taste of blood is rising in my dry throat.

Everything seems to have happened in slow motion. This can’t be happening. I try to laugh in defiant denial, even try to force my chi to heal myself. A feeble attempt. Disbelievingly, I can hear my sluggish heartbeat dramatically thud to a standstill.

My tunnel of vision begins to cave in. It’s getting dark – and cold. Li is just standing there, gloating like an insane hermit. Bastard.

I don’t want to die.

In the encircling darkness, I picture Sky’s handsome face looking sadly at me, as my grip on life slips.

Mercifully, the burning agony fades. Only to be replaced by an intoxicating, heavy wave of drowsiness – I can’t fight it, and almost welcome it. Feel tired. Want to sleep. The last sight I see is of the majestic, gold-hued ceiling of the throne room. Then complete darkness covers me.

I am not afraid.

***

The bed I’m sleeping on feels wet, and fetid. Don’t tell me I’ve pissed myself. Why is there rain coming through the rafters of the students’ dormitory? I feel like screaming at Gao the Lesser for his stupid prank.

Time to make him pay.

Irritated, I open my eyes, and discover I’m lying in a bog-ridden, grassy field. Overhead the sky is a sinister shade of blue-violet. Weird. This place is beautiful in a warped way. What am I doing here?

Realization hits me like an aching slap in the face; reminds me of the time Gao the Lesser struck me for calling him a “stuck-up whoreson.” Then memories of the recent past assail my consciousness.

The Imperial Palace. Sun Hai. Sun Li. My thoughts darken enough to suit the ominous skies above. Being a victim of treachery is such an ugly thing; it makes you feel dirty and worthless. Li must be laughing his head off right now. Makes me want to gouge his eyes out.

Pushing my thoughts aside, I turn my attention to the land itself – it’s raining softly. A ravaged, and now deserted battlefield. Tall, twisted trees line the outskirts of the field. Standing up, the pain I felt seems to have gone. No paralysing inertia. Things aren’t all that bad being dead.

There are glowing-blue, armor-clad beings lying in various states of spiritual decomposition. Some are draped over decorative, if powerful looking artillery. Kang the Mad would like this place. Dawn Star would be spouting her typical nonsense about tormented souls. As for Sky, he’d likely been intrigued. The others -

Then I wonder what has happened to them in the mortal plane. Shit.

Sun Li.

But out of the hideous uncertainty of not knowing their fate, I reconsider. Sun Li has nothing to fear from my followers. No offence, of course.

They surely would have shown up by now. We could have had one big, happy family bash go on. Similar to the ones that some now deceased emperors used to have. Funny. A dry chuckle of cynicism is the only sound on the battlefield. It’s mine.

Forcing myself out of my daydreaming, I sense there is some sort of life nearby. Wow. I’m even starting to sound like Dawn Star now. Remind me to get myself killed again – later.

On the far side of the field, a small fortification in the form of a barrier wall has shafts of radiant light that stab into the storm-filled skies above.

Then the last person, or being whom I expected to turn up, decides to materialize. Great, more philosophical babble. And frustrating riddles to match up.

Celestial powers; what a fantastic bunch. Yet over-whelming sadness seems to radiate from this one. Stop being a hormonal woman. Focus.

Her apparition is clearer this time, an attractive female humanoid with gentle, pale-blue eyes and full lips. I notice her skin is scaled; obviously this is a chosen manifestation – not a true representation of her proper form.

Clad in a stylish traditional blue robe; her streaming midnight blue hair cascades loosely over her distinguishable form. I wish I had fancy features like that. Well, before Li killed me of course. Maybe in the next life, I’ll get a decent position.

The Water Dragon, former Shepherdess of the Underworld speaks to me, finally. For perhaps the first time since our little trysts, I listen intently – she’s actually making sense this time. Will wonders never cease?

As the dead, once powerful Goddess reveals my role in Sun Li’s plan… Mixed humour is replaced by increasing rage and a feeling of inexplicable worthlessness. Then wham, she hits hard. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that stage.

My entire life has been based on a lie. I feel like disembowelling “Master” Li, grinding his being into pulp, and cementing his remains on the Great Wheel. So maybe it’s not an actual physical device, I wouldn’t know. It would save a lot, though – concerning economy for the Celestial Bureaucracy. Instead of specially forged metal, use human flesh.

Amusing. But twisted. Are you insane, I ask myself silently. The rain seems to have gotten colder, and the suspended glowing lanterns swing violently in the icy breeze. It seems to imitate my mood.

Being told you were manipulated; an expendable tool to be disposed of is quite damaging to your mental health, you know. I smile mirthlessly, the Water Dragon looks on with that ingratiating compassionate gaze. I feel like punching her right now, anything to wipe that sorrowful look off her oh-so-noble face.

She wouldn’t be too impressed if I started swinging, so I listen to her gradual revelations on my past.

Then wild screaming pierces the eerie twilight land. Masked Spirits, of course. Even more annoying and shrewder than in the world of the living. The Water Dragon vanishes, and leaves me to battle these former holy monks. Losing your way in life must be a trial, but losing your sanity in both life and death must be worse.

What a cheery thought. Dark humour mixes with reluctant sympathy, as I roll forward to confront the dead.

Fluid grace adorns my movements; clearly, being dead does have its boons. I don’t intend on staying dead long, anyway.

Despite my new-found swiftness in battle, the Masked Spirits emanate strong waves of despair and helplessness. Mentally creating a barrier, I manage to deflect their pathetic attempts at lowering my morale. They press harder, trying to force my mind into breaking – and surge forward.

The Water Dragon speaks to me still. Shut up. I’m busy.

I sound like the Black Whirlwind. A scary thought. He is likeable; if mentally deficient people who follow their base instincts tend to be your thing.

Icy cold, scythe-like claws rend into non-corporeal flesh. It stings. As though from afar, I can feel the fire that fuels the discordant path course through my veins. I want to lose myself in a rage. Forget every single ridiculous law that exists. Impose my will.

White-hot focus and blazing hatred blossom, an inhuman shriek slices through the air like a knife. Not theirs, I note distantly, as I channel my anger through deft, calculating strikes.

Their whining ceases.

I am the victor – sort of. Tingling pain, like ice shards, prickles my waist. Forcing calmness, I focus on my chi energy and heal my spirit body. At least I’m not bleeding to death. Death does have some advantages.

While walking impatiently towards the sand-brown, fortified wall, the Water Dragon materializes again. Wish she’d stop doing that.

My spirit soars above violent emotion, as the Shepherdess mentions there is hope.

I just have to debase myself first. Doing errand jobs and purging holy temples of ancient corruption isn’t high on my list of likes. Regardless, I persuade myself to do the “right” thing.

Privately, I ponder if my parents had gone insane during the slaughter of Dirge, or if they’d been lucky and escaped to the Great Wheel itself. I want to make Li suffer tenfold -

Enough. The future remains to be seen.

Stepping past the Water Dragon, I enter the glowing portal. There is no pain, just tepid heat.

After I restore her temple, providing she keeps her end of the bargain – I might help set her spirit free. Li is going to regret teaching me the basics.

Playing childish, altruistic games isn’t my forte.

Treachery is.

His body was a map of all the places he had ever been, and been made to bleed. Ridges of skin like mountain ranges roaming freely from left elbow to his wrist, dark tan and brittle peaks which linked his arms and fists in patterned stitching across a fault-lined landscape of skin. Brown skin so dark and rich like dirt; smelling of buried, moist, and decomposing earth—the earth of his fathers and their fathers before that, the earth of his grave and the dead beneath his feet. On the back of his right hand a pale crescent sickle cut from the knuckle to the wrist. A river of white flowing from palm to back, where a blade had gone clean through; fire in his palms that – he still remembered –burned dully on rainy days.

He could not forget, because it was one of the few things he still had.

Over his shoulder he boasted a triangular stamp of a scalding iron, proudly displayed like a badge of honor, a permanent a patch sewn into the fabric of his skin, an abstract ideal captured in the shape of surfaces. He was considered no soldier, but the survivor of a broken-mouthed neighborhood. Crosscut weave of thin lines linked the map of his weathered body, interlocking patterns that colored the brownness of his skin with intermittently pink and silver nets, a web that did not do so much to capture as ward away. Some faint, some long, some running like crooked rivulets from when he was very small – his scars stretched along places where the skin had aged and grown but the scars had not: mementos of his father, a brutal, surly, indiscriminate man who believed in corporeal punishment at the end of a metal bar and practiced his daily art upon the blank slates of his children. Across young arms and legs were scrawled the lessons of countless beatings, accompanied by the endless litany of his father’s woes for each blow… never enough money, enough drink; his foreman was a demon, and he accused his wife of cheating. His children were ungrateful—wretched creatures from a fox spirit’s womb sent to plague him with the ranks of Hell, and once he threw a scalding iron which was meant for his wife, but missed, and imprinted his anger on his son, who had gotten in the way.

He was seven when his father died.

He had run away once in the middle of one of his father’s “lessons,” and was hit on the street by the cart of the tofu man hurrying home from the morning market. The frightened merchant fled as soon as he saw the father running, twin axes in hand, and abandoned his cart. It was a piece of luck. That night, the whole family all ate their fill for dinner.

The next week, he helped his brother kill their father.

It was the day his childhood ended.

Perhaps out of shame, or perhaps it was the mountain of debts that his father had acquired, his mother disowned both children, and they were sold to the highest bidder. When he was old enough, he took one slaver’s whip, his brother the other, and together they strung the barbed cords around their master’s necks and left the bodies hanging from the city wall. Thereafter, they kept alive on the streets by their wits and their blades, by small axes held in even smaller hands that learned to cut men in ways that made them squeal like a pig.

But whatever happened, they still had each other.

As they grew older, they sought work in the docks and found jobs as hirelings for pudgy lords. Their skill brought them some small measure of fame, which translated into more work, which meant becoming mercenaries and freelancers, moving between one bloody conflict and another, bouncing between the petty warlords who could afford to hire, pale faces like curdled soy milk with sour mouths hidden under black, stringy hats and cultured, thin-plucked eyebrows. In time, they were even invited to fight in the Imperial arena.

His enemies feared him, and called his blades the Demon’s Hand of Winds.

Black Whirlwind stood watching the familiar, ancient stone walls of the Imperial Arena, knew its dents and cracks better than the backs of his hands. And as he watched, he recognized the inimitable move as soon as he saw it, the patterns of the air shifting with the speed of the blades cutting down, an echoing glimmer of movement like the shinning of a scar on the wind. His axes had only ever been taught to one other person. Only one other knew the secret of the Whirlwind’s Demon’s Hand of Winds. But his brother was dead.

He had delivered the killing blow himself.

“What… have you done with my brother?”

“Your brother was a useful tool. After you cut him down while he defended me, I decided it was too much bother to let him go. In the process, I saved you from charges of fratricide. And so the Ravager was born. The perfect, unquestioning enforcer of my will. And I owe it all to you, Whirlwind.”

“I should kill you here and now!” he growled, “But first…”

The Black Whirlwind brought the blade of his axe fiercely down upon his brother’s head, the same Demon’s blow that had killed him the first time, years ago. Beneath the mask, the metal gauntlets, the splintered mail… he could remember the origin of every mark, of every scar. The rotted skull split like an overripe melon, and the Ravager twitched once, twice, and then was still. Whirlwind wiped his large palm across his face and let drop his shoulders with the weight of his axes. For the first time in many years, the beleaguered hatred in his eyes relaxed.

“You have done nothing!” shrieked the Serpent, “I still took your brother!”

“And I took him back and repaid the favor.”

He turned his eyes upon the Serpent, and then hate returned. He raised his axe again… some stories can only end in death.

Break the pattern, disrupt the flow. Her first fist sent a man flying off the arena dais, flashed around his arm and connected with his solar plexus. The momentum from her punch carried her forward and became a duck as another fighter tried to take advantage of her position and move in behind her. But instead of rolling forward, she hit the ground and sprang back, catapulted both legs to kick the warrior full in the face and off his feet, forceful enough to take out the woman behind him as well.

She could feel the fighters react and close in around the gaps in their formation, their weaknesses. Again, she predicted the ebb of the warriors around her. Legendary Strike, Heavenly Wave, Leaping Tiger. A clawed hand sent a fourth warrior stumbling backwards clutching at his face. The remaining fighters coalesced, tried again to compensate.

She picked off the others, a streak of furious Thousand Cuts that found openings around not-quite-fast-enough guards. Paralyzing Palm blasts that struck and incapacitated before the well-trained unison could react. Three more down and two finally pick up on her style, so she shifted. White Demon interchanged with Spirit Thief with no discernable pattern to her chaos, no predictable formation. She made seemingly training-error mistakes that left her sides and back wide open, but not one of the fighters could capitalize on her weakness. False opportunities and shadow feints, and she took six more down groaning. The remaining seven became more leery, focused, but it was only a matter of time. Those already on the ground—on the dais or the sandy floor—would eventually walk away with bruised ribs and egos but nothing worse. She hadn’t struck anyone to kill, yet.

Wu the Lotus Blossom eyed her remaining opponents, her wild hair a tangled black net that caught the air around her. Her face was a savage mask, pale and slitted and sharp, like broken porcelain. She took up a Lunar Crouching stance, a school of her own invention, and held out her hand. The remaining fighters moved in, a perfect circle, the only thing left that made her feel still alive.

The enigmatic Forest Shadow