Chapter 1: The Seventh Star

Shanghai's skyline pulsed like a neon-lit beast. Shen Qinghuan pressed her palm against the cold glass of the Jinmao Tower's observation deck, her jade pendant humming against her collarbone. Below, the Huangpu River coiled through the city like a mercury serpent, its surface fracturing the reflections of skyscrapers into shimmering shards.

Something's wrong with the dragon vein.

Her compass—a Song Dynasty luopan inherited from her grandmother—trembled in her grip. Its concentric brass rings spun counterclockwise, the magnetized needle quivering toward the Oriental Pearl Tower. Three days ago, a property tycoon had plummeted from that very structure, his death certificate citing "cardiac arrest." But the security footage she'd hacked showed him clawing at his chest, screaming about burning shadows moments before the fall.

"Miss Shen?" A security guard's flashlight beam cut through the fog. "The tower closed an hour ago."

She flicked her business card onto his clipboard. "Feng shui audit for the new observatory feng shui design. Your boss approved it." The lie slid smoothly off her tongue. At twenty-eight, she'd mastered the art of blending ancient divination with modern corporate jargon.

As the guard retreated, Qinghuan knelt, tracing her fingers over the floor's marble hexagons. The patterns formed a perfect Bagua layout—except the Kan (water) trigram pointed toward Lujiazui's financial district instead of the river. She unrolled a silk scroll from her trench coat pocket, its ink-drawn constellations glowing faintly under UV light.

"Seven Stars Locking Souls Formation," she whispered. The tycoon's construction project had unwittingly activated this forbidden array, its energy channels now syphoning vitality from Shanghai's financial heart. Her pendant grew hotter—a warning.

Midnight winds screamed through steel canyons as she began repositioning copper coins at critical nodes. On her fifth adjustment, the compass exploded.

Brass shards embedded themselves in the glass walls. Qinghuan stared at her palm—the luopan's central Tian Chi disk had fused with her skin, its markings twisting into a golden viper that slithered beneath her epidermis.

"Lao tian ye," she cursed, scrambling backward. The city lights below warped into streaks of Ming Dynasty lanterns. A beggar materialized from the fog, his milky right eye reflecting double pupils—the legendary chongtong marking celestial seers.

"The Dragon awakes," he rasped in Shanghainese dialect. "Mind the broken hourglass, nüwa."

Concrete dissolved beneath her boots. Qinghuan plummeted through layers of time, her scream swallowed by thunderclaps smelling of lotus incense. When her knees struck solid ground, it wasn't polished marble but weathered bluestone that met her.

Chrysanthemum oil and damp parchment. The scents registered before sight did. Qinghuan blinked at vermilion pillars crowned with qilin beasts, their gilded claws clutching moon pearls. A silk curtain embroidered with the Big Dipper rippled in the dawn breeze.

"Lady Pei! Thank Heaven you're awake!"

Four maidservants in ruqun dresses swarmed her, their hairpins tinkling like wind chimes. Qinghuan's reflection in a bronze mirror halted her breath—the face was hers, but framed by a Tang Dynasty high bun secured with phoenix hairpins. The viper-shaped luopan now glowed gold on her right wrist.

"The Emperor summons you to Taiji Palace," said the eldest maid, fastening a jade-decorated sash around Qinghuan's waist. "The Celestial Phenomenology Bureau reported ominous portents last night—twin suns appeared above Chang'an, and the Forbidden City's water clocks reversed their flow."

Qinghuan's fingers closed around a token slipped into her palm—a silver fish tally engraved with Grand Astrologer, Directorate of Celestial Affairs. Memories not her own flooded her mind: this body belonged to Pei Xuanji, the Tang court's youngest female astrologer, found unconscious beneath the Star Observation Platform after predicting a "heaven-sent calamity."

As her palanquin wound through Chang'an's chessboard streets, Qinghuan peeled back the carriage curtain. The real Tang capital took shape—pagodas piercing low-hanging clouds, market stalls selling camel hump meat, and patrol guards whose lamellar armor clinked in harmonic gong tones. Her viper compass stirred, its tail pointing northeast toward the imperial palace.

The palanquin halted before vermilion gates. Qinghuan stepped onto a path of crushed moonstones that crunched like broken clocks. Ahead loomed the Hall of Supreme Harmony, its upturned eaves cutting the sky into precise geomantic quadrants. Yet something fouled the perfect feng shui—black energy coiled around the eastern pillar, seeping into foundation cracks.

"Grand Astrologer Pei." A eunuch's reedy voice interrupted her assessment. "His Majesty awaits your interpretation of last night's omen."

Inside the throne room, Emperor Gaozong's shadow stretched long across the dragon-patterned carpet. The viper on Qinghuan's wrist burned—she recognized the sickness clinging to his aura before seeing his jaundiced skin. Liver failure. History books said he'd die in eight years, leaving Empress Wu to consolidate power.

"Your Majesty," she knelt, sleeves flaring like crane wings. "The twin suns signify yin overpowering yang. The reversed water clocks warn of disrupted heavenly order."

Murmurs erupted among ministers. Qinghuan pressed her forehead to cool jade tiles, modern knowledge colliding with ancient protocol. Gaozong's illness weakened his yang essence, creating a vacuum ambitious players would exploit. But survival here required more than medical knowledge—it demanded becoming indispensable.

"There's a remedy," she continued. "A Nine Palaces Flying Star Formation to recalibrate the palace's energy flow. With Your Majesty's permission, this humble servant will—"

A scream shredded the morning calm. Guards dragged in a convulsing maid, her eyes rolled back to show bloodshot whites. Qinghuan's viper compass constricted—she smelled it before seeing the black veins creeping up the girl's neck.

Mercury poisoning.

"Third victim this week," a general growled. "Ghosts haunt the Inner Palace!"

Qinghuan rose, her silk slippers silent against the chaos. Modern toxicology blended with Tang-era diagnostics as she examined the maid. Fingernail beds showed telltale blue lines. "No ghost," she declared. "Someone's contaminating the water supply with zhu sha."

The court stilled. Cinnabar—prized by alchemists, deadly in excess. Qinghuan met Empress Wu's gaze across the hall. The future sovereign's expression gave nothing away, but her jade-ringed finger tapped thrice against the armrest.

An invitation. A test.

Qinghuan's viper writhed in agreement.