By the time half a year had passed, ancient Egyptian rolled off Li Ming's tongue as smoothly as his morning tea. He sat sprawled on a Cairo balcony, the Book of the Sun open across his knees, sipping a crimson brew while Kreacher shuffled about inside, stuffing luggage with a diligence born of paranoia.
It hadn't been a graceful climb. Days were for chaining Imhotep's skull to Evelyn's desk and grinding vocabulary drills. Nights were for ripping through the high priest's memories until even the stubborn mummy seemed ready to fling himself into Anubis's arms just to escape. Desperation eventually drove him to try: during a housekeeping visit he slipped a maid into a trance and handed her instructions, hoping she'd smuggle him the right relics to breach the Underworld and report Li Ming's abuses.
Kreacher intercepted her before she crossed the threshold. The elf unwrapped the contraband bundle, noted every detail, and delivered it to his master without ceremony.
Li Ming turned the parcel over in his hands and sighed. Enough. Imhotep wasn't worth the oxygen anymore. He'd mined the man's life so thoroughly he knew his bed-wetting incidents by year. Worse, the attempt at subterfuge meant the priest had poked holes in the sigil. Time to grant him the release he'd begged for.
Li Ming staged a send-off worthy of a Pharaoh's enemy: a private pocket of mirror dimension, cut off from every path to the Underworld, wrapped in circles that burned wraiths to ash. Then hellfire—stoked, renewed, and left roaring for forty-nine hours. When even ash refused to exist, Li Ming dusted off his hands.
"If he still manages to file a complaint with Anubis," he muttered, "I'll surrender on the spot."
Relief lasted about a minute. If Imhotep had wriggled around the sigil once, what else had he salted into those lessons? Petty sabotage? Mispronounced syllables that would explode instead of heal? Li Ming buried himself in the stacks, cross-checking every scrap he'd pulled. By day he peppered Evelyn with questions until she looked ready to pack and flee Cairo entirely. Only when he explained a piece of actual spell theory back to her did the tension soften enough to keep her in her chair.
At last, just days ago, he declared himself fluent—reading, writing, and speaking like a native. Evelyn nearly cried. Even O'Connell relaxed; their evenings were suddenly free of moldering skulls and endless conjugations.
That same night, Wangcai's message came in from the Himalayas.
Six months earlier, on the day they left Hamunaptra, Li Ming had shoved a host of mummies and a flock of Dementors through a portal with standing orders: sweep the snowy ranges, find Shangri-La. The moment the gate snapped shut, the mummies collapsed in the drifts—under-wrapped, under-insulated, and utterly useless.
The Dementors complained bitterly. The plan had been a joint patrol. Instead they were dragging dead weight—literally. And since they had no eyes, their method was crude. They could smell people by emotion, but rock hollows versus monasteries? Dead air smelled the same. Wangcai improvised: flag any large, wind-sheltered cave and let the boss verify. After the third "snow pocket jackpot," Li Ming was ready to throttle him through the bond.
But then, days ago, one Dementor floated into a basin shielded from the winds. There it tasted something rich: vitality thick enough to feel like ink bleeding on water, emotions so layered they nearly contradicted themselves. Humans had that flavor. And only one human in the Himalayas carried life force like a furnace—Lady Ziyuan, the immortal sorceress herself.
The logic checked out. Immortality was vitality incarnate. And the paradox of two thousand years of devotion to a dead husband braided with hatred for the emperor who killed him—that kind of vintage emotion could intoxicate even a Dementor.
When Wangcai relayed the find, Li Ming didn't hesitate. Shangri-La was real, and the Fountain of Life was within reach. So was Ziyuan's oracle-bone text in Sanskrit. Immortality was the prize, but the knowledge was the real treasure.
Language? Not a problem. Kamar-Taj's libraries had fed him Sanskrit years ago. He could read the bones as easily as he read the sky. What worried him was scale. On screen, Ziyuan had looked painfully ordinary. Two millennia alive should have forged something monstrous. Had she hidden her power, or squandered it? Even a pig would have bulked up by accident in that time.
He was scowling at the thought when a knock sounded. He flicked his eyes to Kreacher. The elf vanished. "Come in."
O'Connell entered first, cane in one hand, Evelyn's fingers in the other. Jonathan trailed behind, struggling with valises.
"We've bought passage back to England," O'Connell said, polite but stiff. "Came to say goodbye."
Li Ming scratched the back of his neck. Half a year wasn't long, but it was long enough to take the measure of people. Evelyn had warmed—out of necessity more than friendship. Jonathan and O'Connell? Nods in a hallway. "Came just to wave? Generous."
O'Connell didn't hide his dislike. Watching his fiancée spend half her life behind closed doors with a sorcerer had tested him. He'd taken to sitting in the corner with a pistol, listening, absorbing fragments of amulet-making despite himself. He knew now Li Ming could craft charms that turned bullets, kept evil out. That kind of knowledge had a way of sticking.
Evelyn's eyes flicked to the suitcase waiting on the bed. "You're leaving too?"
"A bit of travel," Li Ming said. "Looks like I won't see you off at the docks. Fair winds."
They chatted politely until O'Connell checked his watch and nudged her. Time for the ask.
She flushed, cleared her throat. "I know you make real amulets. I've accepted a post at the British Museum. Artifacts everywhere. In case of… ghosts, or a stray mummy, I was hoping to purchase a few charms. For peace of mind."
Jonathan cut in before she lowballed it. "Four. One for each of us—and one for their future child."
Li Ming considered, then snapped his fingers and rummaged in a sling bag. He set several charms in Evelyn's hand. "For your sake, I'll sell. But they're not bottomless wells. Their charge fades. They're not cure-alls. Don't expect miracles."
Relief softened Evelyn's face. "Thank you. I understand."
Invisible against the wall, Kreacher tilted his head. He'd felt the flicker—the neat little misfortune hex Li Ming had woven over the trio as he handed the amulets over. Luck like that meant they'd misplace them before they cleared the hotel steps.
The elf bowed his head, observing a private moment of silence. A long voyage, fickle seas, London fog. May the ferry be kind.
The portal opened onto thin, glacial air. Kreacher shoved a fur-lined parka into Li Ming's arms, bundled himself in wards, and muttered, "Master, Kreacher is ready."
Li Ming slipped the coat on and became smoke, streaking toward Wangcai's beacon over the Himalayan peaks. The Dementor led him into a cavern whose breath was winter itself. Light flared from his shield, casting the chamber into stark relief—water shimmered in the distance like a sky full of stars.
The Fountain of Eternal Life.
He barely had time to register it before a woman in ceremonial robes lunged, blade flashing.
Magic brushed against his senses and gave her name away: Ziyuan. Two thousand years old, very much alive, and apparently more inclined to swing steel than talk.
Li Ming tilted his head. "Swordplay? After two millennia? Axes would've sold the barbarian bit better."
He stepped in, tapped the base of her thumb with his staff. Pain jolted up her wrist; the sword clattered to stone. She staggered back, eyes narrowed.
"Who are you? Why are you here?"
"Already with the death threats? Do I give off 'tastes great, less filling' vibes?" He glanced at the fountain, then back. Her power was a whisper compared to his. "Relax. I came to drink—and talk."
"Delusional." Her voice trembled with fury. "There is no secret here. And if there were, I'd never share it with the likes of you."
Li Ming rubbed his temple. "I didn't kill your husband, lady. Maybe adjust the aim on that grudge? Or is living at altitude throwing your hormones off? Two millennia late to menopause, maybe?" He gestured at the fountain. "What's the actual recipe? Drink, live forever? Or do I need the deluxe package—bloodletting, talisman tea, ceremonial drum circle?"
Her gaze flicked past him to Wangcai. "That thing is yours. Only the evil enslave the dead. If I weren't strong, your creatures would've killed me already."
"Wangcai," Li Ming asked, "did you skim anything off her?"
The Dementor bowed his hood. "We were hungry, Master. We did not feed. But… our cold may have brushed her."
Li Ming exhaled. That tracked. Harry's memories had taught him what a single Dementor kiss to joy could do. And Ziyuan—she'd watched her husband quartered by horses. If they'd stripped even a sip of her happiness…
Perfect. A woman with a vendetta that could survive centuries now had him in her crosshairs. And the oracle-bone grimoire he wanted felt a mile farther away.
He tried diplomacy. "He's not undead. No eyes, mouth like a straw? He's a Dementor—different world altogether."
Her stare screamed disbelief. All right. New tactic.
Li Ming layered charm into his tone. "You know the Buddhist idea of Three Thousand Worlds?"
She frowned but nodded.
He pressed harder, voice thrumming. "I'm from another one. They're from yet another."
Her eyes unfocused for half a beat. Li Ming pushed harder. Already hates me. Talking isn't enough.
"Take a sip," he told Wangcai.
The Dementor inhaled just enough joy to tilt her balance. Li Ming pressed the point. "Your name is Ziyuan. Qin dynasty. You watched the First Emperor kill your husband. You still hate him, don't you—"
Repeated wounds. The aura. The stolen joy. Ziyuan crumpled, unconscious.
Li Ming crouched, scratching his head. "Not the best first meeting." He reached out, tugged threads of memory free. Silver wisps rose like incense.
Hours bled into a day. He frowned as he sifted.
Immortality wasn't as simple as a sip. If it were, O'Connell's son would've told Ziyuan's daughter, Let's both drink and live forever, instead of hearing I am immortal. I won't watch the one I love grow old.
The fountain was ingredient, not miracle. Its water healed, extended life, kept the body strong—but it wasn't immortality in a bottle. To a dark mage who already shrugged off plagues like rain, it was little more than a tonic. Training paid better dividends.
He thought of Imhotep. Ordinary priests had cut him down. Cursed into undeath, he'd spent three millennia festering—cultivating, in his way. Of course he came back stronger.
The First Emperor? He'd studied fangshi arts in life. Ziyuan sabotaged his bid, sealed him in clay. Deathless, trapped, with nothing but time. Two thousand years of practice in silence. When the fountain finally jump-started his body, he didn't wake strong because of the water. He woke strong because of the centuries.
Li Ming's patience thinned. Memory-walking wasn't skimming highlights anymore. Ziyuan had lived for two millennia. Extracting a single formula was combing the ocean for one grain of salt. Worse, he felt the wards: she'd locked her deepest secrets behind vault doors in her mind. The grimoire. The recipe. All hidden.
He muttered, "Find the book first."
One hand sifted memories. The other gestured at Kreacher. "Pour the Life-and-Death Elixir. Slow drip."
Three days passed in fragments of food, sleep, and spellwork. On the third, the thread surfaced: the hiding place of the oracle-bone tome.
He fetched it, cracked it open, and frowned. The grimoire brimmed with spells—but not one method of cultivation.
Of course. That explained everything.
There are roads to power: meditation, martial practice, breathwork, mind refinement. Ziyuan had none. Two thousand years, no foundation, no discipline—just an immortal body and a shelf of tricks.
Li Ming leaned back, lips quirking. "No wonder you feel ordinary. You never built the engine. Just kept the car polished."