Yellow light struck the giant scorpion in the chest. The whole world boomed like an invisible drum.
The Scorpion Prince took half a step back.
Only half a step—and a hundred miles of blackened earth split beneath him. His poisoned claw swept down from the sky. The Earth Princess crossed both arms and caught the shadow that could have severed a mountain. The altar sank inch by inch beneath her feet; the yellow light sank with it. Just as the glow began to fail, azure radiance coiled around the claw, vermilion flame burned through a joint in its shell, white light sheared away the poisoned barb, and a black tide surged upwards from beneath the earth, lifting the giant scorpion clear of Shen.
At last, the five Princesses stood together.
Azure, vermilion, yellow, white and black starlight wheeled around the broken Celestial Tower, faster and faster, until even the Princesses blurred from sight. The Scorpion Prince roared and brought down both claws, his voice shattering the clouds.
‘You five think you can stand in my way—’
‘Watch us.’
‘Big Sis.’
I’m giving the Earth Princess enough force to shake the heavens when Jun Hao tugs my sleeve. I nearly bite my tongue on the last word.
He isn’t laughing.
His plastic Pineapple Bun Hero mask sits crooked on his forehead. Two eyes stare straight at me from underneath it.
‘Are they going to die?’
I swallow the Scorpion Prince’s growl. ‘Could you not ask unlucky questions in the middle of the final battle?’
Jun Hao keeps hold of my sleeve. His other hand has a fistful of duvet. The knock-off Pineapple Bun Hero is supposed to look fierce. The boy inside it really doesn’t.
Oops. Did I make it too real?
I can copy voices. It’s probably the most useless superpower a person can have. Teachers, classmates, cartoon characters, the old man selling scallion pancakes downstairs—give me a few lines and I can usually catch the voice. Jun Hao falls for it every time. The moment I drop into a growl, he forgets I’m only his sister and starts holding his duvet like a shield.
‘Relax.’ I tap his mask with the corner of the book. ‘They’re Princesses. Princesses don’t die that easily.’
‘But their Tower broke.’
‘Broken things can be fixed.’
‘And there are only five stars left.’
‘Five is loads. Did you get five stars on your last test?’
‘Four and a half.’
‘Then you definitely don’t need to worry about them.’
He thinks this over, decides the logic is flawless and finally releases my sleeve. I straighten his mask for him. Pineapple Bun Hero’s nose still points to the right. Mum says that’s what happens when you buy knock-offs at the night market. I’m not convinced the official version could save this one.
‘Listen. This is the ending.’
Jun Hao sits up at once.
I lift the old book again and clear my throat. Beyond the bedroom door, someone on the news thumps a desk. Dad thumps his thigh in reply. National emergencies happen in the living room every night; the end of the world happens in Jun Hao’s bedroom. One wall apart. Everyone equally busy.
The five Princesses joined hands in the starlight.
This time, I don’t add any lines. The words on the yellowed page have suddenly thinned out. One line. Then another.
Five colours of light braided into a ring and rose from Shen towards the firmament. First the Princesses’ war-robes dissolved into light, then their hair, their arms, and at last the ten fingers clasped between them vanished into the five stars. The ring passed over the Celestial Tower and closed around the Scorpion Prince’s vast body. His roar was dragged towards the rift. Both claws dug into the earth and ploughed two deep valleys behind him.
‘When I return—’
I draw out the final growl until Jun Hao quietly gathers the duvet in his fist again.
The rift closes behind the Prince.
The giant shadow is gone. One by one, the five stars dim. Only splinters of light remain, falling across the five lands like snow no one dares to catch.
The book says that the Shadow Prince was cast out and Shen was spared. But the five Celestial Princesses never returned from the light.
People searched every land. All they found were the sacred relics the Princesses had left behind.
Some said the Princesses were dead. Others said Celestial beings did not enter the cycle of rebirth, and when Shen needed them again, they would return to the mortal world.
‘See?’ I switch back to my own voice and bump Jun Hao’s knee. ‘Not dead. Just on standby.’
‘What’s standby?’
‘When a grown-up says “in a minute” and makes you wait for ages.’
‘How long do they have to wait?’
‘It’ll say in the book.’
I read on.
‘A hundred years later—’
I turn the page.
My hand stops.
Jun Hao waits. Slowly, his head appears from behind Pineapple Bun Hero’s face.
‘What happened a hundred years later?’
‘Hang on.’
I hold the page closer to his night-light. Blank.
I turn another. Blank.
No. Absolutely not. I race through the rest. Paper flutters past my fingers, every sheet perfectly clean. No story. Not even a badly printed mosquito.
‘Big Sis?’
‘Maybe… maybe they put “a hundred years later” further towards the back.’
I flip backwards from the final page. Nothing. Then I stand the book on its spine and shake it twice, as though the missing story might drop out. Still nothing.
The first half is dense with old print. The second half is empty. Between them, there are only four words and a dash, stretching out over nothing.
A hundred years later—
‘Why does it stop?’ Jun Hao asks.
‘Because the shopkeeper sold me half a book.’ I clap it shut. ‘And he didn’t even give me a discount. This is serious.’
‘But did the Princesses come back?’
‘I’ll ask him tomorrow.’
‘How do you know he knows?’
‘He sold it. He’d better know.’
Jun Hao looks down and thinks. Then, very seriously: ‘What if he doesn’t?’
Why does this child only ask the difficult questions?
A burst of shouting erupts from the living room. Several people on the news are yelling at once. Dad clicks his tongue and turns up the volume. My ears prick up.
‘Are they fighting again?’
‘You’re not watching this,’ Dad calls through the door.
‘I’m not watching. I’m taking an interest in national affairs.’
I have no idea what they’re arguing about. But the last time a fight broke out in the Legislative Yuan, someone smashed an entire biandang over another person’s head. Rice stuck to his suit and a braised egg rolled under a desk. I still want to know who got the egg in the end.
I’ve barely opened the bedroom door when Mum’s voice flies in from the balcony, louder than the news, the washing machine and every legislator put together.
‘Peach! It’s nearly midnight! Why is your brother still awake?’
I check the clock. ‘It’s not nearly midnight. It’s only ten forty-six.’
‘Why is it like this every night?’
‘Because every night has a ten forty-six.’
‘Tao Xiyi!’
Right. Mother has deployed my full name. One more argument and my life may reach its final chapter first.
‘All right!’ I call back, then push Jun Hao down onto his pillow. ‘Pineapple Bun Hero, transform back.’
He obediently removes the mask. His hair springs out in every direction. I pull the duvet up to his chin. He’s still watching the book in my hand.
‘You’re really going to ask tomorrow?’
‘Really.’
‘Don’t forget.’
‘When have I ever lied to you?’
Jun Hao opens his mouth.
I pinch his nose. ‘No need to answer. Sleep.’
He laughs and curls beneath the duvet. I switch off the night-light. The shadow of knock-off Pineapple Bun Hero wobbles once across the wall, then disappears.
Dad is still watching the news when I return to the living room. His eyebrows are almost knotted with rage, but he has the remote in a death grip and refuses to change the channel. I stand behind the sofa for a few seconds. On screen, two people are pointing at each other across a desk.
No fight yet. Shame.
‘Finished your homework?’ Mum comes in from the balcony with an armful of clean laundry.
I shift the old book a little further behind my back. ‘Nearly.’
‘How nearly?’
‘One book needs to finish writing its own ending.’
Mum gives me a look. I retreat with the book.
‘I’m going back to the bookshop after school tomorrow. This one’s defective. I can’t finish my book report.’
‘Finish what’s due tomorrow first.’
‘That’s the problem. It hasn’t finished.’
‘Peach.’
‘Fine. I’m doing it now.’
My mouth answers quickly. My feet are already turning towards the balcony.
The washing machine has stopped. Damp heat clings between the window bars and the laundry poles. A scooter tears past the end of the lane. The park below is nothing but black treetops; farther away, Taipei’s lights have stained the night sky a deep, murky orange.
I open the old book again.
The cramped old print reaches A hundred years later and steps straight into emptiness. The pages aren’t missing. They haven’t been torn out. They’re all bound neatly in place. They simply refuse to say anything.
The book report matters, obviously. It does. Tomorrow I’m going straight back to the Thousand Worlds Bookshop to demand a copy with an ending.
Whether the Princesses ever came back is something I’ll ask while I’m there.
Just in passing.
I turn the page again.
A hundred years later—
And then what?