It would be his turn to bathe in an hour. And for the next ten glorious days, he would sleep in a proper room. The guesthouse didn’t have any beds, but its floors were wooden planks, not the hard-packed earth or cold slate used for temples. He stretched luxuriously in anticipation and scratched some more. He heard footsteps in the corridor and quickly yanked his hand out. He groped in his rucksack for a book, then waved it at the classmate walking past. As though he’d been reading all this time.

He glanced at the cover. His volume of the Legends was Tales of Dragon Lords. He sighed and read the introduction.

There are 128 dragon, dragonlike, or serpentine deities. Their element is Water. The Dragon Lords control all forms of water, from freshwater lakes and rivers to the sea. They determine rainfall and, therefore, floods. They can be benevolent or malevolent. As with most animal deities, Dragon Lords and their offspring can shape-shift, appearing as mortals when they wish to involve themselves in the affairs of mankind.

Shorty tried his best to get past the first page. The Library of Legends might be a national treasure, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that interested him. He gave in to fatigue. His eyelids drooped and a soft snore escaped his nostrils. His hands let the book drop.

A cold breeze scoured the room. It ruffled the book lying open on his stomach and turned a few of the ancient pages, then paused. Had Shorty woken up, he might’ve found the book open at “The Story of the Dragon King’s Daughter,” a tale that hadn’t been recounted for centuries within hearing of a waterfall pool. He might’ve stood by the window, closed the shutters, and, while doing so, admired the hanging valley above, a view of orange and gold autumn foliage. He would’ve glimpsed torrents of water that cascaded over steep rock faces before merging into a single waterfall that plunged into the pool beyond his window. And had Shorty been one of the few remaining mortals who could see, truly see, he also might’ve noticed something swimming down the waterfall.

PROFESSOR KANG WAITED on the stone bench. Two hundred years ago, a landscape designer had positioned the seat thoughtfully, just beyond the waterfall’s spray. Shangma Temple had been built during an era when people set aside time to admire such views, to compose poetry while listening to birdsong and splashing water. Now his ears were attuned to other sounds, to the rumble of aircraft engines, the mechanical wail of sirens.