Superstitions are taken very seriously in China.
Virote Jung was born in the year of the Dragon, the luckiest of zodiac signs. That’s why, of all of the children birthed by his mother, he was chosen to succeed his fathers’ throne. Adorned in red and gold, the colors of prosperity and royalty, he was just a boy when he’d stood before his father’s council during Chinese New Year, their beady eyes weighing him with judgment, sizing up his potential with little more knowledge than the physical traits he’d been born with, the year he’d been born into. Ceremoniously, he was expected to eat dumplings. Freshly made and soaked in human blood—they’d been plump with predictions of future wealth. Then a single noodle, long enough to fill the bowl of miso soup was set before him—the uncut noodle prom
