The earth heaved beneath the heavy blows of artillery fire; God’s invisible hands hammering mercilessly on the lunar landscape of No Man’s Land. To the shattered minds that dwelt upon the battlefield, it was as if the Almighty had finally tired of humanity and wished to grind him back into the dust from whence he came.

The troops of Company H were showered with debris as they crawled forward on their bellies along battle scarred Chipilly Ridge through the sulphurous haze. The air tasted of iron and carried a foul stench of decay that made even the hardest man retch.

Chris Donner did his best to keep his head low, averting his gaze when he passed by the chewed up corpses of the advance guard that gruesomely warned of death ahead. The milky eyes of the fallen sent a mortal shiver through Donner questioning his resolve whenever he met their gaze. It was all he could do to avoid their dread stares, keeping his attention focused on the men to his front and trusting them to lead the way out of this hellish place.

The sound of machineguns and small arms fire rattled off in the early dawn, tracers zipping by like speeding fireflies overhead shredding the ether. Artillery was closing in on their position, the rounds slamming closer with each yard they stole forward. Those brutal strikes kept raining down around them until every soldier’s sense of stability was irretrievably lost. The fractured foundations of the world quaked and convulsed with such fury many feared it would split open and swallow them whole burying them alive. Yet they struggled on into the unknown with hopes of salvation at the end. Such progress ceased when the earth erupted to their immediate front, shrapnel gnawing into their forces stalling their drive. The wounded howled miserably.

Donner beheld the abject terror borne on his comrades’ dirty faces as doubt crept into their hearts. Some of the troops clutched at their weapons for totemic strength while others frantically dug in the dirt for whatever cover they could possibly scratch out until their fingers were bloody and raw. Few had the will to continue into the teeth of the rabid enemy defense deeming it suicide but retreat was impossible under the intense fusillade they were receiving. The company was paralyzed by indecision with the enemy threatening to pin them down and tear them apart where they cowered. As they wavered in the harsh faintness, the shelling continued.

“Damn Huns!” Sergeant Kinser shouted over the din next to Donner.

Death soon found Company H upon the shrouded plains of Chipilly Ridge. Chris watched as his friends and comrades disintegrated before his eyes in artillery fire. Their forms were torn asunder and scattered across the devastated fields. The pained wails of forfeit souls resonated in Donner’s near deaf ears. Ruined men surrounded him desperately waiting to die clutching at their entrails and gurgling on their vital fluids. They were lost; lost in their personal hell.

Within that turmoil, witnessing the suffering of his fellow men, something noble inside Donner stirred. Without regard for his own life, he selflessly rose from the ground determined to save them. “Come on!” he commanded. Chris charged into the gloom, his moxie inspiring the men of Company H. They leapt from their premature graves motivated by Donner’s valor to seize their own destiny and raced across No Man’s Land fearless in the face of their enemies. Withering machinegun fire sparked from the trenches ahead ripping through the advancing line. As Company H was cut down all around him, Donner charged forward alone. Bullets whistled past as he rushed toward that flickering light in the darkness. When the machinegun nest materialized from the miasma, Donner fired at near point blank range with his Springfield sniping the gunner before tossing a grenade and jumping into the trench following the concussive boom. He shrieked and stabbed wildly with his bayonet at the dazed German platoon in the narrow, muddy corridor killing five before the blade broke off. With no other option, he savagely used the butt of his rifle on those remaining bludgeoning every Hun in reach; their blood splattering across his grimy face.

His Teutonic brethren dead, the final German soldier threw down his weapon rather than face Donner’s wrath. “Bitte,” the German soldier quaveringly implored, putting his hands up for mercy and clumsily knocking his own helmet off in the process. “Ich ergebe mich.” Donner was surprised to discover the Hun was nothing but a kid in a baggy gray uniform, towheaded and blue eyed with a virgin mug smooth of stubble. The boy was probably no older than fifteen if that; too young to assume the mantle of culpability. He didn’t belong out here in the mire. “Zeigen Sie mir Gnade,” the boy begged.

Donner hesitated when he heard the boy’s supplications, his rage abating when confronted with such innocence. But then Chris remembered his friends who had perished in the assault and his eyes turned to the rifle the German youth had tossed down. What part in the carnage had this kid played? How many lives had this boy been responsible for taking? Donner glanced back at his fallen comrades and shuddered furiously. What right did this bastard have to mercy or forgiveness after the destruction he had wrought?

“Zeigen Sie mir Gnade!” the boy pleaded shrilly when Donner raised his rifle.

Surrendering to his lust for vengeance, Chris caved in the boy’s head with the butt of his weapon again and again to the cadence of artillery.

And then all was still. The men of Company H lay dead on the field parallel to the cadaver laden German trench. Only one man remained. Donner stood disconsolately among their bodies, shaking his rifle and howling barbarously at the crimson sun breaking through the haze revealing his vile actions. The eye of God focused upon Donner and the fog receded. Steel towers surfaced on the horizon shining like silver with divine light. Soon a celestial wind blew from the east stripping the pitted earth of its dusty flesh to reveal rusted metal rib-work.

Donner’s condemnation ended abruptly. He knew he was no longer in France. Was he in Heaven? Standing in the presence of God, he demanded, “Why have you brought me here?”

The sun responded by plunging into the earth.

Reality roiled around Donner. An ocean of flame washed over the steel landscape consuming everything save Chris who stood immune above the conflagration on the vestiges of Chipilly Ridge. The towers bent and gave in the heat like wax, their hoary surfaces blackening and finally crumbling to ash. Fiery pillars shot up, their oily smoke darkening the skies. Explosions rocked Creation. Within the firestorm, he could hear the lamentations of the suffering. They beseeched Donner for deliverance as a final explosion leveled all that remained.

Chris woke with a shudder, the plaster ceiling cracking overhead. The bed beneath him shook violently as he gulped air, his heart racing. Donner struggled to calm himself down, the primal fear of his dreams still blurring reality. It had all seemed so real. His skin still felt raw from the heat of the inferno, the wails ringing in his ears while a whiff of brimstone continued to linger. Flashbacks to the Great War were common for Chris. He’d had them for years earned from his experiences in the trenches. Every night was a siege. But this nightmare was different. The way it ended. The towers. The sun. The screams.

“It was only a dream,” he repeated to himself, his personal mantra to banish the horrors that haunted him. Steadily his heartbeat slowed and the bed ceased thumping. The silence was quickly interrupted by a pounding on the front door. “What now?” Chris climbed out of bed and stumbled down the hallway toward the front room.

“Open up, Donner!” Mike Reynolds demanded.

Chris didn’t answer, simply standing there in the darkness wishing the man would go away.

“You’d better open this door, Donner. I got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it.”

Incensed by the threat, Chris telekinetically jerked the door open. There Mike stood, revolver in hand. “Then use it,” Donner snarled.

Frowning, Mike pointed the barrel at Chris’ chest. “Come out where I can see you.” Donner obliged stepping forward into the weak sunlight. When the murk fell away from Chris’ alien face, Mike’s trembling hand went slack and the pistol thudded on the wooden porch at his feet. “What in God’s name…” Invisible hands seized Reynolds’ arms pinning them to his sides before roughly lifting him several inches off the porch. Beneath his dangling feet, the pistol rattled on the floorboards and then darted into Chris’ outstretched hand.

“You people keep coming here.” Donner cocked the hammer back on the revolver. “What must I do to keep you away?”

“This is my land,” Mike sputtered only to yelp when Chris’ countenance flared threateningly. Mike swallowed, his eyes flitting from the gun to Chris’ black eyes. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Is that what you think of me?” Donner peered mournfully at Mike. “I’m not going to kill you. I’ve seen enough death.”

Mike felt the immaterial grip release him and he dropped to the porch, his rubbery legs giving so that he fell to his knees. There he knelt speechless until he finally ventured, “What are you?” Those three words took every ounce of strength he had to utter.

Chris turned his back on Mike. “I am no one.”

“It was you wasn’t it? The angel Chuck’s been talking about.” Chris stiffened at Mike’s query. “He was telling the truth after all, him of all people.”

Chris retreated into his house, saying over his shoulder, “I want you to go. Don’t ever come back here.” The door slammed behind him.

Instinctively, Mike scrambled to his feet and hurriedly fled to avoid any further tribulations. He jumped into his car but as he inserted his key into the ignition, he stopped. Mike’s eyes were drawn to the farmhouse.

Within, Chris leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor. He sat there with the gun in his hands watching what little light there was glint off it. It would never stop. The dreams. The pain. The guilt. Donner placed the cylinder against his cheek. The gun was cold. Down the barrel was the abyss. Eternal blackness. Nothingness. Where the voices came from. Where they screamed save us. To become one of those disembodied voices. A fading echo of mortality. To give up and become lost…He gripped the revolver tighter.

A gentle rapping at the door made Chris falter. There was silence and then another knock. Donner flinched and lowered the gun.

Mike uneasily knocked again. “Hello? Donner?” The house moaned in reply making him reconsider bolting for his car, but Mike held tightly to the doorknob and took a short breath. “I don’t know if you can hear me,” he started, “But I need you. This is so hard.” Reynolds laughed bitterly. He chewed on his bottom lip, tears welling up in his eyes. “I came here to take what little you have. You have every right to hate me. But please listen.”

Chris closed his eyes and rested his head on his knees, turtling up. Anguish slipped through the door and bit into Donner’s soul with icy teeth, Mike’s anguish. A mournful fugue made it hard to breathe or think, his thoughts smothered by a crushing sorrow. “Do not share this with me,” Chris softly entreated.

“I know I have wronged you,” Mike continued through the door. “But you showed me mercy, so I know you are a good man. Better than me.

“I heard Chuck Frazier say that you saved his life. That you…healed him. Is that true?” Mike stared at that splintered door hoping for some response but none came. Still he persisted finally casting his pride aside. “It’s my daughter. My Stephanie. She’s dying,” he croaked before wiping at his eyes. “The doctors can’t help her. They say I should accept her fate. That I should…let her go. But I can’t. She’s all I have.

“If you have the power to save her, I will…I will do whatever you ask. I will give you back your farm. I will give you money. I’ll give you everything I have. Please.” Mike wept on the doorstep. “She’s all that matters to me.”

The tears were warm on Chris’ cheeks as his heart beat a dirge. He glimpsed Stephanie’s face in his mind; round cheeks and golden hair with shining sky blue eyes that made the heavens seem dim and shallow.

“I used to pray to God every night to save her,” Mike continued, “but He never answered.

“What did she ever do to deserve this? She is only five. Is it my sins that she is suffering for? What being punishes an innocent child? She loved life and God took that from her.

“I hate Him. I hate God for what He has done to her, for not listening. For doing nothing to help her…I’m just so full of rage. So many people have asked me for mercy and I couldn’t give it. I wanted them to feel what I feel. What right does anyone else have to happiness if I can’t have it? What right do they have to mercy?” Mike choked on a sob.

“I have done so many evil things in my life, but don’t let her suffer for that. Hate me if you want. I only ask that you help her. The one redeeming thing I have in my life is my daughter. She doesn’t deserve to die. Not because of me.

“Seeing you, I can’t stop thinking that maybe God did listen. Despite my lack of faith, in spite of the way I’ve acted, if you are an angel…whatever you are, I will do whatever you ask.”

Chris turned to the door.

“Take my life for hers,” Mike implored before he broke down.

***

The Kangde Emperor Aisin-Gioro Puyi knelt before the spirit tablets and images of his ancestors in Fengxian Chapel solemnly meditating on the state of Manchukuo, the fragrant wisp of sandalwood spicing the air. Not a sound from the outside world dared brook the imperial walls of Huaiyuan Building as Puyi communed with the past searching for answers. Lost in thought, his serene face appeared boyish and innocent. Despite his age, he seemed more childlike than man, thin and small of stature, undeveloped. Not a hint of a wrinkle upon his brow. One could easily believe him to be half the age of his twenty-nine years; an adolescent playing king rather than a figure of true power.

Puyi prayed to his forefathers for guidance. For many nights he had had a dream of storm and thunder. The heavens were black and lit with veins of lightning, the skies booming and the firmament showering the seas with icy tears. He was on a ship being tossed violently upon the ocean, the winds lashing him and his scarce crew. Many were ripped free by the invisible gale and lost in the frothy waters. A sense of dread hung over the dream. Doom waited ahead. In vain, night after night, Puyi attempted to change the course of his ship only to founder and be swallowed by the sea.

“What does it mean?” Puyi murmured. “Please guide me.”

Chu Kudo, the Kangde Emperor’s Chamberlain, stood quietly at the rear of the chapel watching over his lord. One of Puyi’s sole allies in an increasingly treacherous court, Chu was highly protective of the emperor rarely leaving his side. He gave Puyi advice when he could and support when few others would. There was a common bond shared between the men. Puyi’s idealism, something many dubbed naïveté, reminded Chu much of himself. An adventurer in his youth who had seen many battles, Chu was always adrift in the fractured politics and warlordism of China. He had been a warrior without a leader. It was only after meeting the emperor that he believed he had finally found his place. This was a man attempting to re-establish an empire not for himself but for his people. This was a noble endeavor, a divine enterprise. It was a chance for both men to find redemption in the rebirth of China.

For the past year he had watched Puyi struggle in futility against the machinations of the Kwantung Army for power over Manchukuo. He spent many nights listening to the frustrated monarch. Chu sympathized with the emperor. Puyi was a man chosen by Heaven to lead. Mortals simply would not let him.

A light knock at the chapel’s entrance broke Chu’s vigil. He gently opened the door to see one of the Manchurian Imperial Guard standing outside. “Yes?”

“Zang Shiyi wishes to see His Majesty the Emperor.”

“Show him in.”

The guardsman nodded and retreated from the door. Zang appeared soon after carrying a worn valise. “I have an urgent report for the emperor.”

As Zang removed his shoes to enter, Chu put a hand up. “His Majesty the Emperor is meditating. Can it not wait?”

“His Majesty will want to hear what I have to say. It concerns the Japanese.”

Chu’s eyes flicked to the valise Zang carried. “What is in the case?”

“Intelligence information.”

“Open it.” Zang did as he was asked, Chu making a cursory search for anything dangerous. When he found nothing threatening, Chu nodded. “Follow me.” He led Zang Shiyi to the kneeling Puyi, the pair halting six feet behind their lord. “Your Majesty, the Emperor.”

Puyi’s head rose. “Yes?”

“Zang Shiyi wishes an audience.”

Puyi glanced over his shoulder, the hint of a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. “You have returned, Zang.”

Zang Shiyi bowed his head averting his gaze. “Forgive me for interrupting your meditations, but the Japanese have eyes everywhere. This is one of the few secure locations left. What I have discovered…” He shook his head.

Concerned, Puyi rose. “What is it?”

“My agents discovered a Japanese facility not far north of here, perhaps thirty kilometers. Little is left but ash following an assault.”

Puyi frowned. “It would seem the Japanese keep many secrets from me. I have heard nothing of an attack to the north let alone of a Japanese facility so close to the capital.”

“This was more than an attack, my lord. The Japanese were overrun and their base left in ruins.”

Puyi turned to his chamberlain. “To keep such an event quiet would have been immensely difficult. Why?”

“Image maybe,” Chu replied. “The seeming invincibility of their forces is all that keeps the peasants from openly supporting the partisans. That invincibility likewise cows the Kuomintang and prevents their intervention in Japanese affairs. Also, to lose to forces they dub inferior would be dishonorable. They can ill afford to acknowledge a defeat. A single crack in their armor threatens to shatter the whole.”

“There is more to this than the preservation of strength and honor,” Zang countered. “The Japanese wish to keep this facility’s purpose hidden.” He swallowed. “The remains of many villagers were found within the ruins.”

“So it was a prison.”

“No. It was a facility the Japanese used for torture, experimentation, maybe worse. Those within were not prisoners but randomly captured peasants from the countryside. If the people were to learn of the horrors committed on innocents, it could incite a rebellion. The Kwantung Army is already spread thin throughout Manchuria, China, and Mongolia. They can ill afford an attack in the center of their base of operations.”

Puyi cocked his head in interest. “How do you know what occurred inside if this facility was gutted? I find it hard to believe the Japanese would leave behind records if what you say is true.”

“There were survivors, my lord. My agents heard firsthand about the experiments. Starvation. Rape. Worse.” Zang licked his lips.

“The Japanese darken my land with their shadows.” Puyi clenched his fists so tightly they shook. “What happened to the facility? Who attacked it, partisans?”

Zang paused before answering. “No, my lord.”

“Who else could have mounted an assault against the Japanese? The Kuomintang? The Communists?” Puyi’s eyes narrowed. “Has Zhang Xueliang returned from exile?”

“This was no mortal force that attacked the Japanese.” Zang’s voice dropped to a whisper. “They believe they were saved by one of the four dragon kings.”

“You have lost your mind,” Chu blurted out.

“I swear to you. Those prisoners who escaped spoke of a hulking giant, part dragon, part man who defeated the Japanese forces and rescued them. Even now the Japanese hunt them down to silence them.”

“They are ignorant peasants,” Chu Kudo stated with contempt. “Who knows what they saw. In fact, this could be propaganda drummed up by Chiang or Mao to cause unrest in the empire. This camp, the attack, vilifying the Japanese while also making them seem weak. Neither I nor the emperor has heard of any of this and we deal with the commander of the Kwantung Army himself. How do you know these peasants are telling the truth?”

“You have not looked into their eyes as they spoke of what they saw. What they experienced. My agents have. They’ve heard their trembling voices. They’ve seen their scars. I’ve been to that facility’s remains. These peasants are not the puppets of greater forces. These are men who survived the torments of a Japanese constructed Diyu. Even now they hide from Japanese forces intent on keeping what happened there quiet. But they have failed.

“Already word of the return of the Dragon King is spreading throughout the countryside and the peasants prepare for war. Many villages are coming together secretly to raise an army. They have faith that the Dragon King has come to protect and lead them to victory.”

“Faith is not enough to grant victory to farmers with pitchforks. Minami will tear them apart and use what few survive for bayonet practice.” Chu Kudo turned to Puyi. “We must stop this insanity before it leads to a massacre. This is exactly the type of action that will only increase Japanese intervention in the empire.”

“I doubt the Japanese will emerge victorious in the coming conflict,” Zang Shiyi stated firmly. “I have seen the aftermath of the attack. Seen the many dead and the destruction wrought. I also found this.” Zang opened his valise and extracted a series of black and white photos. “These were found in one of the few labs still standing.”

Some of the photos were from various experiments committed at Zhongma Fortress including autopsies on living victims, late term abortions, and the emaciated faces of the starved. Beneath them, Chu Kudo grimaced at Ishiguro’s twisted images of the hybrid corpses. “As if times were not uncertain enough, now even myths become real.” He handed the photos to the emperor.

“Lóng Wáng. Could it be true?” Puyi looked to his ancestors. “To think I doubted in the gods.” He turned back to Zang. “Are you sure of this?”

“Yes, my lord. The great evil of the Japanese has drawn the wrath of the gods. Surely they have come to save us.”

Puyi nodded. “If what you say is true, then my prayers have finally been answered. We must make contact with the Dragon King. Do you know where he is?”

“I am sorry to report that I do not, my lord. By the time my agents had arrived on the scene there was no sign of him.”

“He must be found.”

“I will tell my agents to keep their eyes open. Wherever he treads, we will catch sight of him.” Zang Shiyi bowed and left.

“The gods have heard me.” Puyi sighed, a smile spreading across his face.

“What is our next move, my lord?”

“We cannot announce our knowledge of this. We must be cautious. The gods are fickle. They act when they choose and for their own reasons. When the time is right, then we will strike. Until then, we must organize and plan. If I can forge an alliance with the Lóng Wáng, perhaps I may resurrect the Qing Empire. Reunify China.” Puyi nodded to himself. “Also, I would wish to speak to some of these peasants. See what more they can tell me.”

“That will have to wait, Your Highness. You have a diplomatic engagement in Harbin.”

“Yes, I must keep up appearances no matter how vile.” Puyi took another look at a photo of the hybrids. “We must find him. My throne depends on it.”

Next Chapter: Chapter 11