It was a renowned monastery, frequently visited by high-ranking officials and nobles.
If he could convince the abbot to take him in, he could work as a temple attendant, sweeping the floors and tending the incense.
Perhaps, if he was lucky, he could befriend someone influential—someone who might help overturn his father’s sentence.
Zhi Nu stood up, patted the dust off his clothes, adjusted his collar, and turned toward Jingyin Temple’s great entrance.
And then, suddenly—he tripped.
When he hit the ground, something unexpected appeared before him—the Eastern Xia Chronicles.
Zhi Nu clearly remembered—he had been walking with his eyes down, carefully watching the road. Before he fell, there had been nothing on the ground. But after he fell, there was a purple-gold box engraved with a qilin pattern, as if it had appeared out of thin air.
And after that… things only became stranger and stranger.
Zhi Nu took the box to Abbot Lian Ji of Jingyin Temple, seeking help.
The abbot examined the purple-gold box, noting that it was inscribed with Sanskrit from the land of Tianzhu (India). The inscription read:
“Only the blood of the fated one can open this box.”
Lian Ji attempted to open it with his own blood—but nothing happened.
Yet, when Zhi Nu’s blood touched the box, it immediately unlocked.
Inside was a roll of sheepskin parchment.
Aside from the title, "Eastern Xia Chronicles," written in Han script, the entire text was written in Jurchen characters.
That night, as Zhi Nu fled Jingyin Temple with the scroll in his arms, the sky was pitch black.
He was running.
He was frantic.
And he ran straight into a tree.
The impact was so strong that he passed out on the spot.
And that was when Zhi Nu met Qilin.
“Hey, kid. Wake up.”
A clear, bright voice, like the crisp sound of a mountain spring in early spring.
Zhi Nu opened his eyes—and saw a young man in black, wearing an iron mask.
The masked youth was holding him on his lap, his cool hand gently placed on Zhi Nu’s forehead.
“That was quite the fall,” the youth remarked. “Look at that bump on your head. What had you so panicked that you went running straight into a tree?”
Zhi Nu shoved him away and scrambled to his feet, frantically searching the ground.
But—
The Eastern Xia Chronicles, which he had been clutching tightly before he crashed into the tree, was nowhere to be found.
“What are you looking for?” the youth asked.
“Did you take my purple-gold box?!” Zhi Nu demanded. “Give it back!”
The youth shook his head. “I didn’t see any box. I just saw you lying unconscious at the base of this tree.”
“It’s important! It’s the only thing that can save my father!”
The moment he spoke those words, his body swayed unsteadily, his vision spinning.
Qilin quickly caught him again.
Zhi Nu took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. “That box is my only chance to save him.”
“Save your father? What happened to him?” the youth asked.
Zhi Nu looked up, meeting the eyes of the boy who was half a head taller than him.
“Big brother, are you sure you didn’t see a purple-gold box engraved with a qilin?” Zhi Nu pleaded. “I was holding it so tightly just before I passed out…”
The youth shook his head but then seemed to think of something.
He reached up, removed his iron mask, and handed it to Zhi Nu.
“Does the qilin on your box look like this?” he asked.
Zhi Nu had been too panicked to answer any of the youth’s previous questions.
But now, as he took the mask in his hands, he finally stilled.
Under the cold white moonlight, he carefully examined the mask—
Indeed, it bore the face of a qilin, and the carving was almost identical to the one on the purple-gold box.
“Yes. Just like this.” Zhi Nu whispered.
“Big brother, have you seen my box?”
The youth did not answer immediately. Instead, he asked, “First, tell me—why do you believe this qilin-patterned box can save your father?”
Zhi Nu hesitated for a moment, then said, “Inside the box is a secret—one that every emperor throughout history has sought to obtain.”
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