Chapter 2: Five Hundred Years in Chains

The day Marcus was crushed beneath Five Fingers Mountain, I was squatting in jail, chewing on everything that’d gone wrong. The cot creaked under me, and the chill from the concrete floor seeped up through my sneakers. Out in the hall, the sheriff’s coffee smelled burnt as ever. I finally said to Derek, "No, I have to go find Marcus. I owe him."

Derek lounged outside—cheap bourbon in a styrofoam cup—his left eye soft as glass, his right earnest, and that third eye on his brow rolling like he was already over it. "Yeah, all Three Realms know Nate’s a paragon of loyalty and righteousness. But you gotta get outta jail first. The Mayor sent me to interrogate you—just confess, apologize to your dad, and everyone’ll be happy."

I bristled, the way you do when someone tells you to apologize just to keep the peace. "Derek, you trying to provoke me? Think I won’t hit you?"

Derek just shrugged. "Family heirloom—just apologize to your dad."

Me: "Oh."

Truth is, the reason I was in jail was Marcus’s fault. If he hadn’t turned Heaven upside down, Mr. Jennings—always the brown-noser—wouldn’t have lost his mind. And does Jennings even know his own limits? Thinks he’s King of Heaven, great Marshal, everyone else holding back, but he jumps at the Mayor’s orders, tail wagging like a dog, butt in the air. Like that guy at the Fourth of July parade who tries way too hard to please the mayor.

His posture was just too much—I couldn’t help myself and kicked him right there. It was the kind of impulsive move that gets you banned from Thanksgiving and blacklisted at the Rotary Club.

Mr. Jennings tumbled across the floor, and when he stopped, all the immortals in the hall burst out laughing. He had to laugh along too, but when he looked back at me, his eyes were pure murder, and the family heirloom—my dad’s—he held glimmered with a cold, menacing light.

I just whistled at him, hands in my pockets, acting like nothing happened. I even leaned against the doorframe, trying to look cool, but inside my heart was pounding—because in this town, things always come back around.

Later I learned, that old dog knew the score. In this world, fists aren’t enough—you need backing, you need connections. You gotta know who sits where at the VFW and whose grandma bakes the best pies for the church raffle.

His backing was my father. His connection was me.

That mutt raised the heirloom, calm as ever, and I charged down to fight Marcus—three heads, six arms, life and death on the line. Sweat on my brow, adrenaline in my veins—this was the stuff you don’t talk about at PTA meetings.

Marcus sneered, "Hey, isn’t this little Nate who raised hell at the county fair? What, your dad killed you twice already, and you still work for him?"

I kept my face cold, curled my lip. "Dead Marcus, you’re dead for sure."

Three heads, six arms unleashed—Fire-tipped Spear, Red Ribbon, Universe Ring all crashing down. Marcus didn’t have as many gadgets as me, or my footwork, or my signature fire. Even if I couldn’t take him down, I’d teach him a lesson. It was the kind of showdown that’d be legend at any high school reunion, if only folks knew.

Who knew that damn Marcus would cheat? He plucked a few hairs—whoosh!—thousands of clones. I wasn’t scared; my six arms could block from all sides. But tell me: why, when Marcus makes clones, does his baseball bat multiply too? It was like facing a whole outfield of angry sluggers.

That day, I was floored from the first exchange. No fakes, all real.

Four or five rounds in, my six arms went numb, Red Ribbon and golden bricks flying everywhere, still couldn’t land a hit on Marcus’s real body. So I stopped throwing things and just swung Universe Ring and Fire-tipped Spear, fighting eighty-one thousand golden bats head-on. My arms burned, every muscle screaming, but I kept swinging. My vision blurred, sweat stinging my eyes, but I locked onto Marcus—if I was going down, I’d go down swinging.

I fought until my lips bled, eyes fierce, teeth clenched, refusing to let go. My blood rained outside the Ninth Heaven, igniting wildfires for nine thousand miles, every spear burning Marcus’s hairs as they floated up into the clouds. The world stank of burnt hair and metal—like a Fourth of July gone wrong.

Suddenly, Marcus stopped fighting.

He stood in the flames, put away his bat, staring at the blood at my lips and my eyes that refused to yield. His breath came heavy, and for a second, we just stood in that hellish, flickering light.

He said, "Fighting you is pointless."

I laughed. "Nonsense. If my father wasn’t suppressing me from above, who’d want to fight you?"

Marcus raised his head. "That guy?"

I said, "No, that’s my dad’s seat. My father is the family heirloom."

Marcus: "..."

Never mind whether the heirloom belonged to Pastor Ray or Reverend Burns, whether it glowed with holy light or not—from behind my dad’s heirloom, I saw four shining words: Fatherly Kindness, Filial Son.

If you’re not filial, Dad will make you be. That was the law, spoken or not, in every family here from Alabama to Oregon.

I told this to Marcus. Marcus bared his teeth. "Aren’t preachers supposed to let go of worldly desires? Why do they care if you’re filial?"

I spun my Fire-tipped Spear. "Who knows. Still want to fight?"

Marcus laughed, a wicked, wind-whipped laugh, his long coat billowing behind him. He looked like trouble personified—a villain in any American tall tale, standing on a prairie with the storm rolling in.

He said, "Nate, I’ll go kill your father. You help me kill Mr. Jennings, the Heavenly Court’s Demon-Subduing Marshal. Deal?"

I froze, memories rushing back a thousand years, as if I was back on the day the Four Rivers flooded Maple Heights. Folks pressed in, whispers swirling like gossip at a high school football game after a bad loss. Mr. Jennings threw his sword by the city wall, admitting guilt: "It’s this demon who caused the disaster. May the Lord bear witness."

So everyone looked at me. I knew—they were waiting for me to die. The hush was heavier than an empty church on a Wednesday afternoon.

I heard my mother crying, wanting to come up the wall, but Mr. Jennings’s soldiers held her back. I picked up the sword, expressionless, and met Mr. Jennings’s eyes.

For the first time, Mr. Jennings didn’t dare look at me.

He used to glare, always shouting and cursing, but this time, he couldn’t meet my gaze. The silence between us was so tight you could snap it like an old guitar string.

I smiled. The Four Rivers, black clouds pressing down. I said, "Fine. Today, I take responsibility for my own actions. This time, I pay for what I’ve done—blood for blood, family for family."

From then on, I thought I had nothing more to do with Mr. Jennings. But who could have guessed—my mother built a shrine for my soul, and just before I came back, Mr. Jennings smashed it again. No funeral, no closure. Just loss wrapped in a cold wind.

My three souls and seven spirits had already formed. In the candle smoke, I faced Mr. Jennings. This time, he didn’t avoid my gaze, his eyes red, clearly not wanting me to return.

My soul trembled with rage. "Mr. Jennings, by what right?"

Mr. Jennings shouted, "You shouldn’t live! You’re a demon, a calamity, not my son, you shouldn’t exist in this world!"

In that moment, I understood: that day at Maple Heights, he finally realized he was wrong, that he owed me. But as a father, how could he be wrong? What he owed me could never be repaid, so he couldn’t let me live.

I stared at him, injustice burning in my soul. No, I can’t die. I have to live, live to get my revenge.

That day, I forced my soul not to scatter, and returned to my mentor.

But when I was reborn from the lotus, spear in hand, all I heard along the way was reason—my mentor, my mother, that damn Reverend Burns, that damn Pastor Ray—all saying: Even if your father is wrong a thousand, ten thousand times, he’s still your father. You can’t kill him. It was the kind of homespun wisdom you hear at barbecues and church picnics, but it felt like a trap.

I gripped my Fire-tipped Spear, stood on Fire Wheels, stared at Mr. Jennings until my eyes bled, but was pressed to the ground by the holy light of the family heirloom, unable to move. Felt like being pinned under the weight of family expectations, traditions so old no one remembered where they started.

Pastor Ray said, "If you don’t see him as your father, then take God as your father."

The words stung worse than the spear wounds. I’d never been good at forgiveness, especially when it felt like a trap.

I screamed, roared for ages—holy light shattered and reformed, again and again. My lotus incarnation broke into pieces, then under the holy light, became the emotionless Nate Third Son.

I can’t remember how many cycles I passed beneath the family heirloom. No one spoke for me. Even my mentor and my mother just told me not to hold on, or I’d really be destroyed. Just give in.

I looked at Mr. Jennings’s pale, lifeless face and grinned, mouth full of blood.

I said, "Fine, Mr. Jennings. We’ve got a long road ahead."

After arriving in Heaven, I met Derek. He said, whether it’s Pastor Ray or Reverend Burns, they claim not to meddle, but can’t help interfering.

"If you could kill your father for his mistakes, then if gods and saints err, can someone kill gods and saints? Your father is always your father, gods and saints are always gods and saints. Even if they’re wrong, words like loyalty and filial piety hold you down."

I was silent for a moment. "Three eyes see clearer than two."

Derek paused. "You have three heads and six arms, six eyes, but can’t see clearly because you haven’t read enough books."

Me: "..."

Of all the immortals in Heaven, only Derek could be considered half a friend, but even he could only offer the comfort of someone equally trapped. I always felt something was wrong with this world. It shouldn’t be like this. I shouldn’t be the only one, spear in hand, fierce and alone, wandering the marble and glass palaces, watching a bunch of immortals plot how to oppress the people, just like the Four Rivers did.

Until that day, Marcus said to me, Mr. Jennings that bastard deserves to die. I’ll block the heirloom for you, you kill him.

Flames all around, blood still at my lips from fighting Marcus, my eyes instantly red. After being reborn and fighting my way back to Maple Heights, I had a fierce temper, but all I wanted to hear was this:

Just that—Mr. Jennings deserves to die.

He doesn’t deserve to be a father, takes no responsibility, even wants to grind my bones to dust. Of course I, Nate, should kill him.

If anyone had ever said this to me, maybe I could have let it go.

But no one did. No one judged him. Instead, all the gods and saints protected him, propped him up, made him the damn Family-Heirloom-Bearing Heavenly King, Grand Marshal Subduing Demons.

I looked at Marcus, couldn’t help but laugh. My laughter started wild, but somewhere in the middle it broke—raw, ugly, the kind that leaves your chest hollow when it’s done. My flames roiled across the sky, a sea of fire boiling up like the day Maple Heights drowned, my laughter echoing higher and higher in the inferno, crashing against the palaces of gods and saints, then shattering into sobs—heart-wrenching, bitter, full of a thousand years of grief and rage, finally breaking free.

"Fine. Let’s go kill my father."

That day, Marcus burst from the flames, golden armor scorched, red cloak torn, but his killing intent stronger than ever. In a flash, he was in front of Mr. Jennings.

Mr. Jennings instinctively hurled the family heirloom.

Marcus was captured, but even without magic, he was indestructible, and broke out of the heirloom again.

By the time he broke free, I was already in front of Mr. Jennings, face like frost, spear unleashing a fire dragon ten feet high, clouds and smoke rolling, heavenly soldiers scattering, Mr. Jennings’s eyes wide with terror.

Just then, a sigh drifted from beyond the heavens.

A lamp like a bean, then light pouring in from all directions—I couldn’t see anything, but I knew it was Reverend Burns.

I was very familiar with Reverend Burns’s sigh. Back when I recognized the family heirloom, helped Jeff and the others fight the war, Reverend Burns was at Silver Hollow too. The other side loosed a volley of fire arrows—not ordinary fire, nothing could put it out. I was fine, but I couldn’t save everyone. Once the fire touched you, you could only watch yourself burn to ash.

Skin burned, still screaming; burned to bone, couldn’t scream anymore, but the eyes still moved.

I’ve held dying children, girls, old men, warriors. I couldn’t stand it, so I rode my Fire Wheels to kill, but Reverend Burns stopped me. I said, why are you stopping me?

Reverend Burns said, "No rush. Fate hasn’t arrived."

I said, "So many people dead, who cares about fate?"

Back then, Reverend Burns was still a preacher, already with the same temperament as those bald monks from the West. He said, "Even if you rush in and avenge Silver Hollow, can you put out the fire? Can you save the people?"

I was annoyed. "It’s still better than doing nothing!"

Reverend Burns shook his head. "Doing nothing—that is fate."

I didn’t get it then, but soon I did. Reverend Burns, that bastard, didn’t save the fire or the people. Silver Hollow became hell on earth, people died one after another, and some immortals couldn’t bear it.

Princess Lillian came, Silver Hollow was saved, Reverend Burns pulled her in to fight the other side.

As for the dead of Silver Hollow, Reverend Burns just sighed. "Fate is so. All beings are ignorant and cannot be freed, thus this calamity."

Now, Reverend Burns sighs for me again.

Sighs that I, too, have a destined calamity.

I had just fought Marcus, didn’t need to go all out to kill Mr. Jennings, just half a move, but Reverend Burns ambushed me.

Ten thousand feet of dazzling light, crushing my fire wave.

Anyway, when I woke up, I was already in jail.

What happened after, Derek told me. He said Marcus was defeated. After you and Mr. Jennings withdrew, I fought him for a while, but not really a fight—just changed forms, wandered the world, drank some beer, chatted. I asked him, how did things get to this point? He drank a few gulps, said he just couldn’t hold back.

"He asked me, since there are gods, and gods receive prayers, why are there still floods in the East and West? Why are there still loyalists and traitors, life and death, why are there still ranks in Heaven, why must I bow to others?"

Derek said, "How could I answer? I couldn’t. I could only tell him to let it go. That’s just how the world is. If you can’t win, just accept it."

Marcus didn’t accept. Even after being put in the furnace, he didn’t accept, fought his way up to the Grand Palace, and got slapped under a mountain by Pastor Ray at the Peach Banquet.

"Locked for five hundred years. If you don’t apologize to your dad, you’ll be locked for five hundred years too."

I thought about it, said, "Then go check on Marcus for me. Tell him, five hundred years from now, I’ll come find him. Whatever he wants to do, I’ll help."

"I’m not going."

Me: "..."

I said, "Come on, I’m going to be locked up for five hundred years. Can’t you do me this one favor?"

Derek coughed. "It’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s just—I just burned Fruit Hill. Even if I went, I couldn’t deliver the message. Marcus knows I set the fire to save a few monkeys, but he might still want to bite me."

Me: "..."

I said, "Heaven won’t even spare a few monkeys?"

Derek smiled faintly. "It’s not like you didn’t know."

I sneered, sat in the corner, and cursed: "Damn world."

When Derek left that day, he paused with his back to me, rare hesitation in his voice. "Five hundred years from now, Heaven and the West have a Road Trip planned. Since you don’t want to confess, maybe I can get you sent along too."

I squinted at him, feeling something off about his three eyes.

What was he hesitating for?