War drums from the north reached Ling An before dawn.
Not the hurried staccato of raiders, not the ritual thunder of border skirmishes. This was the slow, deliberate rhythm of an empire that did not consider its enemy worthy of haste.
The Zhou had begun to muster.
Wu Jin stood on the palace balcony overlooking the northern avenue where Zhou envoys had pitched their tents weeks ago. Now those tents were gone—replaced by fresh ranks of armored riders forming just beyond the city's outer mists.
The envoy who once smiled politely now sat astride a black horse, helm lowered, gaze fixed solely on the palace.
A messenger ran up the steps, breathless. "Your Majesty—scouts confirm multiple legions at Feng Ridge. More march down the eastern roads. They are building forward camps."
Wu Jin nodded slowly.
"Zhou does not gather armies for negotiation," he said.
"No, sire," the messenger whispered. "Zhou gathers armies for an execution."
Below, the palace gates rattled under the pressure of the wounded returning from the west. Supplies were thin. Soldiers slept against walls with armor still on. Half the generals had not recovered from the last clash with the southern lines.
And behind all of this, the tower pulsed like a heart beating out of rhythm.
Wu Jin closed his eyes. The second bell's toll still rang faintly in his bones.
Two fronts.
South held by the Emperor of Liang.
North tightening under Zhou.
He stood between both jaws of the trap.
And the walls around him were already cracking.
He turned as footsteps approached. Wu Shuang stood in the corridor, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"You look like someone deciding which direction to die in," she said.
"Is that supposed to be comfort?" Wu Jin asked.
"No," she replied. "Comfort is for children. You are a king."
He sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Zhou is moving too quickly. And the South—"
"The South," she said softly, "serves the Emperor now, not themselves. And don't forget who guided him back onto the board."
Wu Jin froze.
"You're implying Father expected this."
"I'm not implying," she said. "I'm telling you. He knew Zhou's appetite. He knew the Emperor's hunger. He positioned you here, in Ling An, exactly for this inevitable moment."
He stared at her, throat tightening. "Why? To crush me?"
"Not crush," she said.
"Use."
Her voice echoed strangely in the corridor.
"Father doesn't see sons. Only solutions."
Wu Jin turned away from her.
"I won't be his solution," he muttered.
She smiled without warmth. "You already are."
Far below Ling An, in the sanctum beneath the tower, the Lord Protector traced his fingers along the stone veins pulsing faintly underfoot. The energy from the third cut—whatever Wu An had done—had changed the tower's rhythm. He could feel it fighting him now, resisting his grip.
But that didn't anger him.
It thrilled him.
"Good," he whispered to the dark. "Resistance is the sign of a living thing."
A page entered nervously. "My lord—the Zhou northern push intensifies. And the Emperor's army approaches the Hei. They say both fronts close within weeks."
The Lord Protector didn't turn.
"And?"
"Your son—His Majesty—requests counsel. He fears he cannot hold both borders."
The Lord Protector smiled faintly.
"Of course he cannot. That is why I placed him there."
The page swallowed. "Then… your plan?"
The Lord Protector finally turned, eyes glinting with cold amusement.
"When a man faces two hungry wolves," he said, "he must starve one, feed the other, and butcher whichever grows complacent."
The page blinked in confusion.
"I don't understand."
"You're not meant to," the Lord Protector said. "You're meant to obey."
He strode past the trembling servant, hands clasped behind his back, the steps of a man who already saw the next five battles laid out like stones in a river.
"Tell His Majesty," he said with a strangely gentle tone, "that I will remove one of his enemies soon."
"Zhou?" the page asked.
The Lord Protector paused.
"No," he said.
And that one word froze the hall.
In Ling An, Wu Jin paced the Hall of Maps while generals argued in circles. One demanded a full retreat from the north. Another insisted the southern lines must be reinforced. A third accused both of being cowards.
Wu Jin slammed his hand on the table.
"Enough."
Silence fell.
"If we fight Zhou alone, the South will take the river. If we fight the South alone, Zhou will claim the capital. If we divide our forces, we fall on both sides."
A general swallowed. "Then what do we do, Your Majesty?"
He stared at the map, at the jagged borders of a kingdom broken long before he was crowned.
"We survive," he said quietly. "And survival requires time."
"Time for what?" another asked.
"For my brother to return," Wu Jin whispered.
A murmur moved through the hall.
"You trust him?" a general demanded.
"No," Wu Jin said.
"But I know he won't let Father win."
The hall fell silent again.
Wu Shuang leaned against a pillar, watching her brother, and for the first time, something like admiration flickered across her expression.
He was afraid.
But he wasn't breaking.
Not yet.
At the Hei River, the Emperor watched his troops ford the shallows with calm precision. The Southern King rode beside him, uneasy.
"Your Majesty," the King ventured, "our scouts say Zhou gathers to the north. Should we pause? Should we—"
"No," the Emperor said, eyes narrowing toward Ling An. "We press on. And when the moment comes, we strike both father and son."
The King swallowed. "Even if they fight Zhou? Even if it weakens the north?"
The Emperor smiled faintly.
"That is precisely why."
And the King understood with horrifying clarity:
This was no alliance.
This was a purge disguised as a march.
In the sandstorm city, I walked through the storm with Shen Yue's hand in mine. The being inside me had quieted, its presence not gone but settled, watching everything with predatory patience.
It tasted the wind.
War rises like heat, it murmured through my thoughts. The lines converge. The weak tear first.
"I know," I muttered.
Shen Yue squeezed my hand. "What now?"
I looked east, toward Ling An, where Wu Jin fought for a crown that was not meant for him, under a father who had never seen him as anything but a part in a machine.
"Now," I said, "we return."
"To help him?" Shen Yue asked.
"To make sure he doesn't become Father," I said.
"And to make sure Father doesn't become God."
The being whispered, amused.
You pretend you do not crave the throne.
"I don't," I replied.
Then why does your pulse quicken at the thought of a kingdom burning?
"Because I need it to burn on my terms."
Shen Yue glanced at me, understanding more than I expected.
"And after that?"
I looked at her.
"After that," I said, "we see who wins between me and the thing inside me."
She nodded once.
"Then I'll be there for both fights."
The storm parted.
The world waited.
And somewhere between Zhou's legions, the Emperor's ambition, and the Lord Protector's rising plan—
the next bell prepared to ring.