The Martial Gate opened beneath banners of bronze and crimson.
A gate of warriors. Of oaths. Of blood.
Wu Kang entered not as a prince—but as a warlord.
Behind him marched the northern legions, spears wrapped in silken cloth still dark from conquest. The torn banners of the Crimson Banner trailed behind like leashed ghosts. Cheers rang hollow. Children clapped. Elders lowered their eyes.
But behind the praise whispered a single name: Wu Taian.
Gone. Stripped. Exiled. Sacrificed to stabilize the court.
And everyone knew it had not been Wu Kang's hand that removed him.
The Lord Protector watched from the palace gates. He wore ceremonial black armor under his robes—half robe, half threat. Wu Kang bowed low, his voice loud and unwavering.
"Victory in the North. The Crimson Banner is broken. Liang's border holds."
The old warlord gave no praise. Only a faint nod.
"You have done well. But while you fought... the city changed."
Wu Kang's gaze swept the court. He already knew.
The capital smelled of bloodless betrayal.
And I was waiting.
He turned to me, expression unreadable. No words spoken.
But I felt it — the silent accusation.
You struck down Taian without me. Without family.
The same court that once watched me like a curious snake now pivoted their heads again — this time, calculating who held the next blade.
That afternoon, the court assembled. Wu Kang spoke of discipline, sacrifice, strategy. The ministers bowed.
He did not mention me.
He did not mention Shen Yue.
And when Shen Yuan praised him, his words were layered with honey — sweet, sticky, hard to wash off.
Then Wu Ling arrived.
She moved like a whisper of dusk. Her robes clung to her like smoke. Her voice, when she spoke, was sharp enough to cut silk.
"You return to find our house lighter."
A few courtiers chuckled. She did not smile.
"Your brother acted swiftly. But silence is not peace."
"And noise is not dissent," Wu Kang replied.
"And exile?" she asked. "What is that, if not silence made permanent?"
No one answered.
Later, in the dusk beneath the Hall of Painted Prayer, I found Shen Yue waiting.
She set a scroll beside me.
"A list," she said.
"Allies?"
"No. Traitors."
Twenty-seven names. Ministers. Priests. Scribes.
All once loyal to Wu Taian.
"Will Wu Kang protect them?" I asked.
"He's already chosen who to bury."
"And your father?"
She looked away.
"He follows survival. And right now—you're still breathing."
Three days later, bronze bells rang.
Not for invasion. Not for war.
For diplomacy.
An envoy from Liang.
Not the united empire of old. Not the ancient court of scholars.
But the Southern Kingdom — fractured, ambitious, and watching.
In the outer pavilion, the Lord Protector stood beside Wu Kang in full ceremonial garb. I remained in shadow, Shen Yue silent at my side. Wu Ling stood alone, her eyes hooded.
The Liang envoys arrived — twelve men in silks the color of dusk tide, flanked by two veiled women.
But it was the third woman who stopped the air.
She wore no veil.
Her robe was seafoam green, embroidered with lilies. Her hair was pinned with a phoenix comb of deep jade.
She bowed.
First to the Emperor.
Then to the Lord Protector.
And then—to me.
"Princess Lianyu of Liang," the envoy announced. "Emissary of the Southern Court. Daughter of the House of Wu."
The court gasped.
Even the Lord Protector's fingers twitched.
"I thought you were lost to us," Wu Ling said softly.
"Some flowers bloom far from their roots."
Wu Kang stepped forward, voice cold. "You wear foreign colors."
"I return as a daughter."
Her tone — calm. Too calm.
My sister. Traded to Liang five years ago to seal peace. Now returned with veils lifted and motives hidden.
And behind her, shadows bent the wrong way.
Elsewhere in the city, Han Qing tightened his armor straps beneath the watchtower of the west barracks.
He had once been a field sergeant — a survivor of the mountain retreats, left to rot in the Golden Dragon Army's rear posts.
I had him reassigned.
Not removed. Not promoted publicly. Just moved.
To the City Enforcement Battalion — a shadow branch still under the Golden Dragon's structure, but detached from ceremony.
An odd place. A place for men with sharp minds and bloody hands.
He was good. Too good to rot in backwater guardposts, too honest to thrive under Wu Kang's cronies.
I made sure he received new orders.
Now he patrolled Ling An's inner circuits, overseeing crime control, riot suppression, and palace watchlists.
"Why me?" he'd asked me once, voice low.
"Because you're not afraid to get your hands dirty," I said. "But you're not so stupid as to enjoy it."
He did not smile. But he saluted.
A soldier's salute—not to the court, not to the throne.
To me.
He doesn't know everything. Not yet.
But he will.
And when the city starts to bleed again—
Han Qing will be my blade.