As the midday sun hung high over the battlefield, its golden rays refracted against polished steel and fluttering banners, the air became thick with the weight of impending violence. The challenge had been set, and now the warriors would answer with steel and blood.
On the side of the Ji-Gong clan, Emperor Weng Jin Shun gave a slight wave of his hand, a mere flick of his wrist, but it was a command heavier than iron. From the ranks of his elite soldiers emerged a monstrous figure—a brute of gargantuan stature, towering over the rest like an ironclad colossus. His muscles were layered like tempered stone, veins like thick ropes crisscrossing his arms, and his eyes burned with a savage, almost primal bloodlust. His skin, scarred with the memories of a hundred battles, bore the inked sigils of victories past.
Draped in blackened steel plate, the brute's shoulders bore the weight of spiked pauldrons, his torso wrapped in segmented lamellar, each piece engraved with ancient inscriptions of war. In his calloused hands, he wielded a kusarigama—a wicked weapon of death: a curved sickle glinting in the light, its razor edge whispering of past executions, attached to a chain as thick as a python, coiling and slithering between his fingers like a serpent awaiting its next victim.
The brute soldier took a step forward, the ground trembling beneath his titanic gait, the chain of his kusarigama clinking in an eerie symphony.
On the opposing side, Aleeman stood tall, a smirk creeping onto his lips as he turned his head slightly, his golden eyes gleaming with a commander's composure. His voice cut through the silence like a blade:
"Rüstem Bey!"
The call was answered instantly.
A warrior of the West stepped forth, the lion of Nur-Al-Sanjak—Rüstem Bey. Clad in chainmail reinforced with gilded plates, a heavy woolen cloak billowing behind him, he placed a fist over his chest in salute before taking a step forward. His broad frame radiated the aura of a seasoned warrior, his stance firm as if he were a mountain sculpted by war itself. His hammer—a monstrous war mace with a spiked ball of solid iron at its head—rested on his shoulder like an executioner's blade awaiting judgment.
Without turning to face him, Aleeman simply muttered, his smirk unwavering:
"It's your turn, lion… Be careful."
Rüstem Bey gave a nod, his grip tightening around his hammer's handle as he took a step forward, his voice gravelly and unfaltering:
"Yes, Bey!"
Then—like the crack of a thunderclap—the duel began.
The brute roared, a sound so guttural it sent shivers through the lesser soldiers watching. The kusarigama's chain rattled as he swung the weighted end toward Rüstem Bey with blistering speed, aiming to coil it around his neck and snap his bones like dry twigs.
But Rüstem Bey was a warrior of the West—a lion, not a lamb.
With a swift sidestep, he evaded the incoming chain, his leather boots skidding against the dirt, dust billowing in his wake. In that same heartbeat, he lunged forward, bringing his hammer in a devastating arc toward the brute's ribs.
The brute soldier barely had time to react. He twisted his torso just in time for the hammer to graze his side instead of shattering his bones outright. Even so, the sheer force sent him stumbling back, his boots digging trenches into the earth.
The spectators gasped.
From the royal pavilion, Liu Zhenbao, the Crown Prince, leaned forward, his arms crossed, eyes alight with intrigue.
"His strength… it's not just brute force. It's controlled. He wields that hammer like an extension of his body."
Beside him, General Xuè Lián, her crimson armour glinting in the sun, gave a nod, her tone sharp like a drawn dagger:
"He fights with calculated brutality… This is no mere warrior. This is a battlefield tactician."
Back in the arena, the brute growled, his pride stung. With a ferocious grunt, he swung the sickle this time, aiming to gut Rüstem Bey from stomach to spine.
Rüstem Bey ducked.
In one fluid motion, he pivoted on his heel and slammed the flat side of his hammer into the brute's forearm, causing the sickle to veer off course. CRACK! The sound of bone straining under impact was audible even to the crowd.
Seizing the moment, Rüstem Bey surged forward.
With a mighty roar, he swung his hammer in a bone-shattering downward strike, aiming straight for the brute's skull. The brute raised his chain-wrapped arm to block—but it was futile.
The spiked ball crashed into his forearm, the metal links snapping like twigs under a blacksmith's anvil. The sheer force sent shockwaves up the brute's arm, his fingers involuntarily spasming open, dropping the sickle with a dull clang.
He staggered.
Knees trembling.
Eyes flickering between fury and disorientation.
And then, with a final, merciless flourish, Rüstem Bey grabbed the fallen kusarigama, flipped the sickle into his own grip, and sliced the brute's head from crown to clavicle in a single ferocious executioner's blow.
The soldier's head burst apart like a melon struck by a war club, blood geysering into the sky before his massive frame collapsed with a sickening thud, motionless.
A horrified silence gripped the battlefield.
From the far in the forest, Shi Zhao Mei—the once-cursed prince Wei Yang Hong—stood motionless, her lips parted in unreadable thought, her piercing gaze lingering on Rüstem Bey's hammer, now dripping with fresh carnage.
Emperor Weng Jin Shun narrowed his eyes, his lips curling in distaste. His voice cut through the heavy air like a whip:
"So, this is the might of the West..."
Across the battlefield, Aleeman's smirk only widened. He turned his gaze to Rüstem Bey, who now stood, blood-drenched, hammer resting on his shoulder like a grim monarch surveying a kingdom of broken corpses.
Aleeman chuckled under his breath, pleased.
But the duel was not yet over.
The Emperor's expression darkened, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his own blade.
Then, with a cold, calculated smirk, he spoke:
"Impressive." He clapped his hands slowly, mockingly. "But let us see if your lion still roars when he faces a real beast."
At his signal, the second warrior stepped forward.
And the battlefield, once again, braced for carnage.
After Rüstem Bey's fall, the air thickened—pregnant with silence, as if even the wind dared not speak. Dust hung like ancient parchment torn mid-verse. Amid the stillness, Aleeman Hakiman turned his gaze toward Tariq Al-Khattab—not with the wide-eyed awe of the unblooded, but with a commander's quiet calculus.
His glance was brief but brimmed with bond; not a stare, not a demand—just a look, angled from beneath his brow, eyes dark with unsaid trust. Tariq met it with the subtlest of nods, the kind only warriors exchange before leaping into the furnace of fate. Not a bow, not a flourish—just a tilt of the chin, measured, deliberate, final.
Then he stepped forth.
Tariq Al-Khattab, child of the desert's iron breath, strode to the fore with sabre unsheathed and shield braced. He bore no insignia, only resolve. His stride echoed across the stone like the march of forgotten kings. Before him stood the warrior of the Ji-Gong clan—a phantom of moonlight and silk, his blade curving like the smile of a serpent, movements soft as calligraphy but sharp as regret.
No trumpet called, no voice heralded the clash.
Steel met steel. Thunder against water. Tariq, the lion-shouldered scion, fought as one chiselled from basalt, every motion redolent of old crusades and Selçuklu might. His strikes fell like judgment, broad and brutal, the sabre an extension of wrath. The Ji-Gong warrior danced with a different music—evasive, precise, ethereal. He moved not like a man, but a ripple in moonlit tea, bending, ghosting, flowing.
Clang. Clash. Shudder. Strike.
Shield met blade; sparks flew like fireflies disturbed from a pyre. Dust spun in whorls beneath their feet. The ground, once still, now trembled to the rhythm of duel-born violence.
Aleeman stood statue-still, his jaw locked. Beside him, Weng Jin Shun clenched his fists, each knuckle a prayer of tension. The Abjannas watched, breath stolen, blood arrested. Weng warriors muttered oaths beneath their tongues, eyes flickering between hope and humiliation.
And then—Shi Zhao Mei.
She stood apart, robed in shadows and silk, her face inscrutable. Not admiration. Not disdain. Something quieter. Something deadlier. Her eyes glinted like twin daggers behind gauze, watching the balance tip. She saw not just the battle, but the poetry of destruction—the philosophy in every feint, the prophecy in every parry. A smile threatened the corner of her lips, not of joy, but of recognition. This, she thought, is how legends are inked—stroke by stroke, bone by bone.
Then came the end.
Tariq roared—not like a man, but like a cathedral collapsing. He spun, low and wide, sabre sweeping in a cleaving arc. The Ji-Gong warrior parried, too late by half a breath. A half-breath is all fate requires.
Steel kissed flesh.
A crimson ribbon unfurled, mid-air, mid-movement—a red calligraphy penned across the wind. The Ji-Gong fighter staggered, faltered, fell—his blade clattering like a dropped truth. He knelt first, then crumpled entirely, face turned to the sky as though puzzled by the stars.
Tariq stood above him, panting, not in triumph but in testament.
Silence once more. But it was no longer the silence of waiting.
It was the silence of the aftermath.
The dust had not yet settled from Tariq's final stroke when the stillness shattered again—this time not with blade, but with blood-oath.
From across the killing field, Aleeman Hakiman stepped forward. The sabre known as Wolf Claw hung in his grasp—not held, but borne, like a banner of intent. Its jagged teeth gleamed not with polish, but with purpose. He moved not as a boy, but as a reckoning.
Opposite him, draped in robes woven with imperial arrogance and bloodline sanctity, stood Emperor Weng Jin Shun. His eyes were twin pyres—blazing, baleful, unreadable. In his hand, he held the Tianlong Miewang (天龙灭亡), the Blade of Heaven's End, forged in the Celestial Furnace by the Elders of Ji-Gong. A weapon forged of Celestial Obsidian Steel and White Dragon Bone, kissed by the breath of forgotten gods, and alight with dancing plumes of crimson and azure flame.
They said when it was drawn, time blinked.
"Boy," Weng Jin Shun intoned, his voice carved from jade and venom. "You dare stand before me, armed with your father's rust and your people's myths?"
Aleeman's gaze remained unbroken. "I stand," he said calmly, "because someone must."
And then they clashed.
Not like duelists. Like cataclysms.
Wolf Claw met Tianlong Miewang. Sabre struck dao. Sparks cascaded like meteors against a night-black canvas. The air split with each arc of steel, the earth groaned beneath their fury. Aleeman fought not as a boy with a blade, but as a general wielding history. His sabre howled, a beast loosed upon tyranny.
Weng Jin Shun, however, fought like an empire. Every stroke bespoke dynasty, decree, and divine right. He swung Tianlong with the fury of ancestral spirits, its flames licking the sky in cruel spirals.
Then—
A fist.
Weng Jin Shun, in a flourish of unexpected savagery, drove his imperial knuckles into Aleeman's face. The impact echoed like temple bells struck in rage.
Aleeman staggered—but did not fall.
And then, like a storm turned sentient, he returned the favour.
The Abjannas Slap.
Open palm. Precision divine. A flash of flesh and discipline.
Crack.
A sound like thunder over marble.
Weng Jin Shun's head snapped to the side as if pulled by an unseen tether. His jaw jolted—shifted—blood spat from his lips like a seal broken. The crowd gasped in unison.
From the Weng side:
Crown Prince Liu Zhenbao flinched, his jaw trembling with unspoken disbelief.
General Xuè Lián, cold and severe, narrowed her eyes, but her fingers twitched, betraying awe.
Bai Hànfeng froze, his blade halfway unsheathed, then slowly slid it back.
Zhang Ruiying, stoic and statuesque, exhaled through her nose, fists tightening around the reins of her poise.
From the Abjannas:
Mehmet let out a low whistle. "By the sword of Righteous…"
Tariq, blood still fresh on his blade, crossed his arms with grim pride.
Rüstem Bey, though bruised and battle-worn, grinned like a lion who had just seen his cub grow fangs.
Far off, hidden among the boughs, Shi Zhao Mei lowered her bow. She had drawn it for Aleeman—poised to strike—until she saw that. Her father's jaw, red and slack, blood curling down his chin.
She scoffed. "Slapped. Slapped by a pup…" she muttered.
But then she leaned forward.
Her brow furrowed.
Her arrow loosened.
"…Wait."
She saw something wrong.
Back on the field, the duel abandoned blades. Both dropped their weapons. Steel was for cowards now.
Weng Jin Shun lunged, fists blazing. He struck again—Aleeman blocked. Another fist came, wild, imperial, unhinged.
Aleeman slapped again.
Crack.
The other cheek bloomed red, twin marks of rebellion carved into royal flesh.
Weng Jin Shun howled.
He reached for his qi. His cultivation flared. The heavens blinked.
And then—a gunshot.
One crack. Sharp. Singular. Sovereign.
Silence fell.
Even the air froze.
From the treeline emerged a new host—armour like midnight frost, banners bearing the sigil of the Shi-Wudu Clan.
At the head rode Emperor Shi Jon Ying, astride a silver-maned stallion, face like obsidian, voice like judgment incarnate.
The Ji-Gong soldiers halted. Liu Zhenbao and the others dropped to one knee, offering a respectful zuòyì. The field bowed, even the wind knelt.
Weng Jin Shun snarled. "Why are you here?"
Shi Jon Ying did not blink. He looked first at Aleeman, calm as still water, then at Weng Jin Shun, as if he were weighing the man's soul and finding it light.
"To stop you from igniting the East," he said.
"You know nothing of this interference!" Weng barked, voice stained with fury and blood. "He—this boy—he has defied my domain!"
Shi Jon Ying raised a hand. The emperor's voice did not rise—but the world seemed to lean in to hear it.
"If you raise arms against the Abjannas, Weng Jin Shun, then you raise arms against the Lions of the West. Against the pact of flame and fang. You would split the harmony of our clans for pride and spite?"
Weng Jin Shun's fists trembled.
"You break the law, you break the oath, you break face," Shi Jon Ying said coldly. "And for what? Because a boy with no magic struck truth into your jaw?"
Aleeman, battered but upright, let a small smirk tug at his lip. He turned slightly and gave the briefest of nods.
Shi Jon Ying returned it. Barely. But it was enough.
Two empires had spoken.
The war, for now, was stayed.
*The Abjannas Slap is a legendary unarmed combat technique used by the elite warriors of Abjannas, particularly the Janissaries and high-ranking commanders trained in the ancient martial traditions. Unlike a regular slap, this technique is a refined and disciplined strike designed to incapacitate, maim, or even kill an opponent in a single blow.
Flash back the jade corridors of the Shi-Wudu imperial palace echoed with solemnity, not bustle. Silk banners stirred not from wind, but reverence. In the inner sanctum, beneath a ceiling of gold-leaf constellations and dragon-carved beams, sat Emperor Shi Jon Ying.
Not on a throne, but before a scroll of military geography, unfurled like a serpent across the stone table. His fingers traced the contours of contested borders—his mind sharpening like a whetted blade. Nearby, incense burned slowly—its coils spiralling like old memories into the vaulted air.
His expression was not of peace, nor agitation—it was the face of a man who had ruled too long to be surprised, and too shrewd to be placated.
Then—footsteps.
Measured. Hasty, but not disorderly. A palace guard approached and fell to one knee with the precision of a well-trained hound.
"Your Majesty," the guard said, voice taut with restrained urgency. "A letter…from the Commander of the Abjannas."
Shi Jon Ying didn't look up immediately. He held out his hand—wordless, commanding. The gesture spoke: I shall read, but I shall not be rushed.
The guard presented the parchment. Sealed with an obsidian wax crest—a wolf's fang upon a rising sun.
The Emperor broke the seal, read—and gave a smirk.
Not broad. Not warm.
A smirk like a sword leaving its sheath—cold, quiet, certain.
Behind him, silk shoes whispered on marble. Empress Han Meilin (韩美琳) entered, clad in twilight blue, her hair adorned with phoenix pins. She moved like a petal, but her eyes burned like a siege.
She did not curtsey—she didn't need to.
"My lord," she said, voice edged with concern. "What is it?"
The Emperor held the parchment aloft, almost idly. "It's from the Commander of the Abjannas."
Her brow lifted—barely. "Aleeman Hakiman," she said, as if tasting the name. "What does he write?"
The Emperor turned toward her. His smirk remained. "He challenges Emperor Weng Jin Shun of the Ji-Gong clan."
"A duel?" Her eyes narrowed.
"A war."
Her silence crackled.
"…And yet," Shi Jon Ying continued, "he entreats me—me!—to stop it."
A pause. Then, softly, he murmured, "But why?"
He read the last line again, aloud:
This is not a war. It is a reminder.
His eyes gleamed.
"A reminder," Empress Han Meilin repeated, her voice low and wary.
"Yes," he replied. "Not blood for glory. Blood for memory."
She stepped closer, arms folded. "It is about the cursed prince, isn't it?"
He gave a subtle nod. "Wei Yang Hong. Or rather, the one he has become—Shi Zhao Mei. If Aleeman's words carry subtext, and they always do, then he is fighting not for land, but for truth. And that truth may be cloaked in a dress of vengeance."
The Empress paced slowly, her robes flowing like a shadow cast by dusk. "So, Wei Yang Hong is under Aleeman's protection?"
"Yes. But why?" the Emperor asked, though the question seemed more to the walls than to his wife.
Han Meilin stopped, speaking with the clarity of someone who has read too many hidden messages. "There must be cause—some vow, some pact unspoken."
"And meanwhile," Shi Jon Ying added, "our trade routes bind the Dragon Clans and the Abjannas tighter than silk. Silk we cannot afford to tear."
The chamber fell into a still hush. The incense now danced in tight spirals—like fate curling inward.
"Why is he doing this?" Han Meilin asked.
Emperor Shi Jon Ying turned toward the altar at the far end of the room. Upon it sat the effigy of Goddess Lán Huā (兰花)—the Divine Orchid, patroness of fate, dusk, and balance.
He lowered his head slightly—not in reverence, but recognition.
"We shall see," he said, "what Goddess Lán Huā has granted us."
And then, slowly, like a general folding a campaign map, he said:
"Summon the court. Ready the steeds. If this is to be history, we must arrive before it is written."
Back to the present The winds that once carried war now whispered silence across the blood-dusted plain. Armour no longer clanged; swords no longer sang. Only the soft rustle of silk banners and the heavy gait of retreating hooves filled the void where chaos once ruled.
Emperor Weng Jin Shun, face taut with bruised pride and jaw laced with drying blood, led his defeated host back toward the fog-veiled east. He rode without ceremony, without trumpet nor farewell—his Dao, Tianlong Miewang, sheathed not in triumph, but shame.
Behind him, Crown Prince Liu Zhenbao, composed yet cold-eyed, murmured bitterly under his breath.
"He dared—he dared to strike him." His voice was vinegar.
Beside him, General Xuè Lián, helm beneath her arm, whispered with iron restraint, "And did not miss."
"Indeed," said Zhang Ruiying, her lips pursed, "he struck not only flesh—but legacy."
Bai Hànfeng, usually the silent storm, gave a short nod. "And the heavens did not intervene."
Their whispers curled like smoke, intangible, unheard by the victor—but the weight of them lingered like thunder after lightning.
In the centre of it all, standing firm upon scorched soil, Aleeman Hakiman, blood on his cheek, dust on his sabre, stood with calm like a statue unshaken by tremor. His eyes followed the vanishing banners of Ji-Gong—crimson dragons shrinking into the haze.
Only when the last war drum faded into the hills did Emperor Shi Jon Ying step forward, his robes gleaming with quiet authority.
The two men faced one another—youth and age, fire and flint.
"You held your line, Commander," said the Emperor, voice cool as winter steel. "And yet… you did not unsheathe war."
Aleeman tilted his head, his tone level. "There are victories sharper than blades, Your Majesty. I gave your rival what he refused from reason—a reminder forged in flesh."
Shi Jon Ying's gaze sharpened. "He will not forget. Neither will his kin."
"Good," Aleeman replied, with a grin not of malice but of strategy. "Then I need not repeat myself."
The Emperor allowed himself a breath of amusement—short, dry, imperial. "Your confidence treads the line of impudence."
"It dances," Aleeman answered, "but never stumbles."
Shi Jon Ying studied him a moment longer, then gave a curt nod. "Return to Nur-Al-Sanjak, Commander. Let your wolves rest. The storm has passed… for now."
Aleeman bowed his head with soldierly grace. "May the winds favour your will, Your Majesty."
As the imperial retinue withdrew, a hush swept the valley. Tension melted like ice under spring's gaze.
Unseen, in the emerald dusk of the forest fringe, a bowstring slackened.
Shi Zhao Mei, her form cloaked by leaf and shadow, narrowed her eyes through the lattice of branches. Her arrow, aimed with vengeance, was never loosed.
"It seems…" she muttered under her breath, voice thin as mist, "you keep your commitment, Wolf."
With that, she withdrew into the trees—her silken steps vanishing like the last sigh of a dream. Yet, her final footfall kissed a stone—a soft crack, slight but unmistakable.
Aleeman's ears twitched—not visibly, but inwardly. He turned his head, slow as a watchful beast, eyes sweeping the treeline. There was no one.
Yet he smiled.
A smirk—not of arrogance, but understanding.
Then, with a motion sharp and sure, he raised his hand to his men.
"To Nur-Al-Sanjak," he ordered, voice calm, firm, final. "We ride."
And so the wolves marched—not with the clangour of conquest, but with the silence of a message well delivered.
Meanwhile at Miracheneous Academy the stone corridor, usually sanctified by silence and scroll-bound scholars, now trembled under the footfalls of fate. Hua-Jing, delicate in stature but resolute in will, cradled a stack of tomes in her arms—texts of forgotten treatises and interplanar theorems—while Finn Ming Ju-Go kept pace beside her, a few volumes clutched to his chest, their corners poking out like rusted blades.
"Thanks for helping me, Finn," she said, her voice the gentle timbre of a flute on a quiet spring night.
"No worries," Finn replied with a smile, sweat pearling at his brow as he shifted the weight. "We're in this together. Though—" he leaned in with a mischievous smirk, "Alenka Anastasios von Eridani gives us these errands as though we're her personal pages."
"Shh!" Hua-Jing gasped, eyes darting. "Be careful, she'll hear you!"
"She's probably already listening," Finn whispered back. "She hears the books breathe. A walking enigma, that one—eyes like crystal prisms and a mouth that never forgets."
And then—like a curse spoken aloud—the peace shattered.
From the shadows of the archway ahead, John Wei-Tang strutted forth, flanked by his ever-sycophantic Robert Jison and George Ringtone—both grinning like jackals before the feast. Behind them, with unkind laughter and perfume-laced disdain, came Celeste Marlowe, her arms folded with aristocratic hauteur, and her trio of coquettes—Genevieve Whitmore, Cassandra Vaudette, and Isolde Renfield—all daughters of wealth, bred to sneer rather than smile.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" John's voice slithered through the air like oil on silk. "The little sister of the grand Commander, weighed down with paper and pretension."
Finn stepped forward, his stance braced, like a shield braced before the charge. "What do you want, John?"
John's grin grew razor-wide. "If I can't defeat Aleeman directly, I shall defeat him by proxy."
His finger jabbed the air with vulgar precision—straight at Hua-Jing.
Hua-Jing's eyes widened. "W-What do you mean?"
"She means," Celeste purred, stepping beside him with a cruel smirk, "while your brother plays hero, you will suffer the consequence of his legacy. You're the shadow of his greatness… but shadows can still bleed."
"You won't touch her," Finn said sharply, standing firm, a rampart of flesh and spirit. "You'll have to go through me."
"Finn…" Hua-Jing whispered, her voice trembling with a cocktail of fear and awe. Her eyes, wide with worry, shimmered like moonlit glass. "Don't…"
John snapped his fingers with theatrical flourish. "Well then, boys and girls—take them. Let's remind them whose halls these are."
And chaos answered.
Robert and George lunged forward, rough hands grabbing Finn by the arms, trying to yank him away. Celeste and her ilk circled Hua-Jing, claws painted and grins sharp, dragging her despite her struggles, her books tumbling to the floor like slain soldiers.
"No—stop it! Let go of me!" Hua-Jing cried, her voice cracking.
Finn kicked, thrashed, struck with elbows and knees, but the numbers bore him down like wolves on a stag.
"I said—LET HER GO!"
They were pulled into the cold, unlit storage room, its door slamming shut with a sound that echoed like a coffin lid sealing.
The hallway stood still again—but the storm had only begun.
The air was still—dead still, like the breath of the earth itself had paused in wary anticipation.
Alphagut, the iron-eyed emissary of Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann, stood alone upon the ashen soil, the wide sky above smeared with the violet stain of sunset. Cloaked in sable, hood drawn low, his presence cast no shadow—only intent.
His boots crunched against dry grass and gravel, his eyes prowling left, then right, like a hawk measuring distance to its prey.
And then—a hiss in the wind.
Thwip!
An arrow thudded into the ground before him, quivering like a needle in a madman's hand.
Alphagut did not flinch. His eyes flicked upward, and from the rocks and dunes around him, four men emerged—their figures sheathed in long indigo robes, turbans wound like ancient secrets around their heads. Each bore the insignia of the Dragon Clans, though muddied, worn, and half-concealed. Betrayal had no desire to be seen clearly.
The tallest stepped forward, voice low and nasal. "You're alone, stranger. That takes either boldness or stupidity. Which one are you?"
Alphagut's voice cracked the silence like flint on steel.
"I am Alphagut from Kumaruchaisan Castle. Sent by Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann himself. I don't deal in riddles or romance. Say your piece."
A hush. The wind picked up. One of the men stepped forward, shoulders loose, grin loose, morals looser.
"You bring what we asked?"
Alphagut reached into his coat and retrieved a small leather pouch, its contents clinking like promises wrapped in gold. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it toward them.
It landed with a muted chime.
The men pounced on it like hyenas upon carrion, dirty fingers prising it open. Gold gleamed in the dying light—unmistakable, irrefutable.
"It's real," one murmured, biting down on a coin with a grin. "Good. You'll get what you came for."
From beneath his robe, the second man pulled a sealed scroll, bound in crimson silk, stamped with the wax mark of dragonfire twisted into a noose.
"This contains the intel you asked: troop stations, internal rifts, bloodline hierarchies. Everything on the Dragon Clans—Shi-Wudu, Wei-Young, Li-Shu, Tai-Wan. Everything."
Alphagut took it in silence, his gloved hand curling around it as though it were something venomous.
"You understand," said the fourth, eyes narrowing, "we'll do what needs to be done. For the Tekfur. For the price. Even if it means burying our own kin."
Alphagut paused—then smirked. A slow, crooked thing, like a blade half-drawn.
"Then may your gods forgive you," he said, turning on his heel. "Because history won't."
Without another word, he walked—slowly, deliberately—leaving the four behind as they vanished like phantoms into the dunes.
And when no one was left to see, Alphagut's expression shifted. The smirk vanished. His brow furrowed like storm clouds gathering. His voice came low, venomous, not for ears but for the wind.
"So you'll betray your own empires for coin… Filthy animals."
He clutched the scroll tighter, the wax seal now cracking under his grip.
His mind seethed with thought—cold, calculated, and unrelenting.
"Let Tekfur see what rot lies beneath their scales. Let them trade dragons for dust. While they fatten on betrayal, I'll forge loyalty into my blade. Empires fall not by war—but by the worms that feast beneath the throne."
As he rode eastward, toward Kumaruchaisan, the horizon swallowed his silhouette whole—like dusk swallowing truth.
The grand gates groaned open as Emperor Weng Jin Shun entered—his gait rigid, his jaw swollen, blood trailing like a crimson thread down his beard. Rage marched with him, unspoken yet unmistakable, its presence heavy as lead.
Behind him followed a grim retinue—Crown Prince Liu Zhenbao, lips pressed in tension; General Xuè Lián, her fists clenched in military shame; Zhang Ruiying, brows furrowed like storm-wracked skies; and Bai Hànfeng, silent as a blade in shadow.
The imperial court, swathed in polished silence, turned at once.
Empress Lady Mei Lian rose from her lacquered throne, robes of moon-white silk flowing like a winter waterfall. Her eyes widened the moment she saw the blood on her husband's chin.
"Weng... what happened?" she asked, her voice composed yet trembling beneath. "What's become of your face?"
At her side, Weng Jingfei, their daughter—sharp-eyed and fierce as her mother—rushed forward.
"Father! Your face—did someone do this to you?!" Her voice was a dagger tipped in disbelief.
A rustle of beads echoed. Monk Pan Zhihaou, the bald, stoic pillar of the emperor's spiritual counsel, stepped forward, observing the emperor's bruised cheek and twisted jaw.
His voice came low, quiet, dangerous. "Your Majesty, who dares lay hands upon the Son of Heaven?"
From the columns emerged the emperor's concubines:
—Lady Yun Zhen, elegant as a scythe, her expression curdling with contempt. "What fool would risk beheading to strike an emperor?"
—Lady Han Rui, youngest of them, clutched her sleeves with trembling fingers. "Was it the Abjannas?" she whispered.
And from the shadows, the ministers approached:
—Minister Lu Zheng, austere and humourless, his jaw tight.
—Minister Guo Jianhong, fingering his long beard with the ponderous grace of someone already composing a eulogy.
—Minister Cai Sheng, fox-eyed and calculating, stepped forward.
Liu Zhenbao inhaled sharply. "He… was struck. Twice."
Silence.
A gasp, a ripple, a tremor.
"By whom?" asked Lady Mei Lian, her voice tight as bowstring.
"…Aleeman Hakiman," said Zhenbao at last, the name falling like a guillotine.
Gasps turned to whispers. Whispers turned to murmurs.
Minister Cai Sheng scowled, voice rising in indignation. "That foreign jackal! First he places his sabre at my throat—now he lays hand upon the dragon throne itself! The gall of that boy—he gnaws at the bones of protocol like a starving dog!"
General Xuè Lián muttered beneath her breath, "But he fights with honour… and fury."
Zhang Ruiying added, "And he shames us because he dares."
Pan Zhihaou stepped forth, face unreadable. "Your Majesty, you have been marked—not by blood alone, but by dishonour. This affront… cannot be ignored."
And still the emperor stood silent—until his hands began to tremble, and his breath grew ragged.
Then it came—his roar.
"CURSE THAT WOLF-SPAWNED DOG! ALEEMAN! That son of dust, that desert-born bastard! He will choke on the sand he came from!"
The room recoiled, but he did not stop.
His eyes, mad with wrath, snapped to Empress Mei Lian.
"And YOUR son—Wei Yang Hong—he harboured the cursed brat Shi Zhao Mei! All this began with him. With her. The Heavens have turned against us because of her blood!"
Lady Mei Lian stiffened. Her lips parted—but not in shock. In heartbreak.
"She is your child," she said coldly. "She is the blood of your line. And yet you spit venom at her as though she were born of sin."
"She is sin!" the emperor bellowed. "That child—Wei Yang Hong—was born under an ill star! Now we reap the price!"
From the corners, the head servant Madam Liang Yue watched with stern dismay, her hands folded over her waist.
"Majesty," she whispered to herself, "you are cracking like a vase struck too many times."
Xiao Yulan, eyes wide, whispered to Lin Meixiu, "He's unravelling."
Zhang Xinyi bit her lip. "And the boy who struck him… might be the only one who stitched truth into his mouth."
But Weng Jin Shun, now seated on the throne like a dragon with broken fangs, seethed with humiliation.
As he clenched his fists, the imperial hall remained quiet, stifled under the weight of shame.
Outside, the winds howled across the Ji-Gong peaks, carrying whispers of rebellion and retribution—like wolves licking their lips beneath the sun.
Aleeman strode through the hallowed corridors of Miracheneous Academy, his every step echoing ominously against the marble floors. The usual symphony of scholarly chatter was absent, replaced by a suffocating silence that coiled around him like an unseen serpent. His instincts, honed through years of warfare, screamed of an aberration.
Turning a corner, he encountered Alenka Anastasios von Eridani, the headmaster's enigmatic assistant. Her countenance, typically an inscrutable mask, was now marred by a furrowed brow and downcast eyes. Aleeman halted before her, his voice a measured cadence of authority.
"Miss von Eridani," he intoned, his gaze piercing, "what shadow has eclipsed this institution's usual vibrancy?"
Alenka hesitated, her lips parting only to falter, as if the words were thorns in her throat. The silence stretched, taut and trembling, until Aleeman's patience, though vast, began to wane. His tone dipped, acquiring a steely edge.
"Speak plainly," he urged, "for obfuscation serves no one."
With a shuddering breath, Alenka whispered, "It's Hua-Jing."
At the mention of his sister's name, Aleeman's visage darkened, a tempest gathering behind his eyes. "What of her?" he demanded, each syllable a drumbeat of impending storm.
Alenka's voice quivered as she unveiled the harrowing tale: Hua-Jing, the gentle blossom of his lineage, had been beset upon by John Wei-Tang and his coterie of miscreants, including the venomous Celeste Marlowe and their sycophantic entourage. Finn Ming Ju-Go, that steadfast companion, had interceded, only to be mercilessly battered into unconsciousness.
As the narrative unfolded, Aleeman's fists clenched with such ferocity that crescents of blood pearled from his palms, testament to nails biting into flesh. His breath came ragged, a bellows fueling the forge of his wrath.
In that charged moment, Shi Zhao Mei emerged, her presence a sudden gust in the stifling air. She observed the tableau: Aleeman, a statue of seething fury; Alenka, the bearer of grievous tidings. Sensing the volatile atmosphere, she approached with measured steps.
Before she could utter a query, Aleeman, without so much as a glance, moved. His pace was a predator's prowl, swift and lethal. Alenka's plea, "Do not create a fuss," was but a whisper against the roaring tempest of his resolve.
Perplexed, Shi Zhao Mei turned to Alenka, seeking elucidation. With a heavy heart, Alenka recounted the vile events that had transpired. As the words settled, Shi Zhao Mei's eyes narrowed, a storm brewing in their depths, mirroring the maelstrom that now propelled Aleeman forward.
In the infirmary's dim sanctum, Hua-Jing lay ensconced beneath a heavy woollen blanket, her visage a pallid canvas of dread, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her companions—Mei-Xi-Li, Mika Yamana, and Elizabeth Feng—clustered around her, their countenances etched with solicitude. Mei-Xi-Li enfolded Hua-Jing in a fervent embrace, a human bulwark against the encroaching shadows of trauma. Nearby, Wang Ji-Pang maintained a vigilant watch over Finn, whose inert form bore testament to his valiant, albeit futile, defence.
The door swung open with a resounding crash, heralding Aleeman's tempestuous entrance. "Hua-Jing!" he bellowed, his gaze darting to his sister's bruised and tear-streaked face. The room's occupants recoiled, their eyes alight with a blend of fear and ire. As Aleeman moved towards Hua-Jing, Mei-Xi-Li and the others interposed themselves, their demeanours a tapestry of protective defiance.
"Do not approach her!" Mei-Xi-Li's voice quivered with suppressed fury. "Your hubris and negligence have wrought this calamity upon her."
Aleeman's lips parted, poised to refute, but Wang Ji-Pang seized his arm, a silent entreaty for restraint.
Yet, Aleeman's resolve remained unshaken. His eyes alighted upon Finn's rifle, the formidable Serpent's Fang, resting beside its incapacitated owner. In a fluid motion, he seized the weapon, eliciting gasps of alarm from the assemblage. Hua-Jing's voice, tremulous and beseeching, pierced the charged atmosphere.
"Brother, I implore you, desist!"
He turned to her, his expression a mask of steely determination. "He shall atone for the harm inflicted upon you."
With that, he strode into the corridor, the Serpent's Fang a harbinger of retribution. Mei-Xi-Li, her face a canvas of consternation, implored Wang Ji-Pang.
"Hasten after him; prevent this folly!"
Wang nodded, sprinting in Aleeman's wake. The academy's students observed in hushed trepidation as Aleeman methodically loaded the Serpent's Fang, each click and snap resonating with ominous portent. Alenka and Shi Zhao Mei, discerning the brewing tempest, exchanged grave glances. Shi Zhao Mei's directive was swift.
"Summon Headmaster Falani forthwith," she instructed Alenka, before herself moving to intercept Aleeman, a solitary figure against the gathering storm.
The cafeteria's double doors flung open with a resounding crash, silencing the murmur of conversation within. Aleeman strode in, his eyes ablaze with a fury that seemed to scorch the very air around him.
"JOHN!" he thundered, his voice echoing off the walls like a war drum.
The room's occupants froze, their gazes darting between Aleeman and John Wei-Tang, who lounged with an air of insouciance, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
John exhaled a plume of smoke, a smirk playing on his lips. "Ah, Commander Hakiman," he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. "Come to join our little gathering?"
Celeste Marlowe, seated beside John, shifted uncomfortably. "John, perhaps that's enough," she murmured, casting a wary glance at Aleeman's stormy visage.
Aleeman's grip tightened around the rifle in his hands, his knuckles whitening. "You dare speak so nonchalantly after what you've done?" he hissed, his voice a venomous whisper.
John chuckled, the sound devoid of mirth. "And what exactly do you intend to do about it, Commander? Shoot me? My father and the Headmaster would see you expelled before the day is out. Face it, you're alone in this."
Aleeman's eyes narrowed, his expression a tempest of wrath and resolve. "Alone?" he echoed, his voice a dangerous calm. "You underestimate the bonds of true camaraderie."
He raised the rifle, the barrel leveling at John's chest. "Now, meet your maker, you scoundrel," he declared, his finger tightening on the trigger.
At that moment, Wang Ji-Pang and Shi Zhao Mei burst into the cafeteria. Wang lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Aleeman's waist, attempting to restrain him. The students recoiled, fear etched on their faces.
Shi Zhao Mei approached cautiously, placing a gentle hand on Aleeman's shoulder. "Aleeman, hang on. If you use that, you're actually going to murder them. I know how you feel about your sister, but you need to calm down."
Aleeman's head turned slightly, his eyes meeting hers with a murderous intensity. "Oh, I am calm... but my blood runs cold right now."
Shi Zhao Mei and Wang Ji-Pang exchanged alarmed glances, their inner monologues echoing the same dread: "Oh my god, he's completely gone..."
As Aleeman's finger tightened on the trigger, Headmaster Falani materialized at the entrance, his presence commanding immediate attention. With a swift motion, he exerted his power, a force that disrupted the impending chaos. The rifle's aim wavered, and as the shot rang out, the bullet veered, striking John's right hand. A visceral explosion of flesh and bone ensued, blood cascading onto the floor as John's scream of agony pierced the air.
Vice Principal Aiguo Wei-Tang stormed in, his eyes widening in horror at the sight of his maimed son. His face contorted with rage as he pointed an accusatory finger at Aleeman. "What have you done? This is an abomination! You will be expelled from this academy!"
Shi Zhao Mei murmured, her voice barely audible over the commotion, "What have you done?"
Headmaster Falani's voice cut through the chaos, authoritative and unwavering. "Commander Hakiman! Come to my office immediately!"
The cafeteria remained suspended in stunned silence. Shi Zhao Mei, Mei-Xi-Li, Wang Ji-Pang, Mika Yamana, Elizabeth Feng, Alenka Anastasios von Eridani, and a visibly shaken Hua-Jing stood rooted, their expressions a tapestry of fear, disbelief, and concern.