The Southern banners fell back at dusk.
Not routed—
withdrawn.
The Emperor's drums sounded once, then twice, slow and deliberate, calling his armies away from the shattered outskirts of Ling An. Cannons ceased their thunder. Muskets lowered. Smoke thinned just enough for the city to see the retreat and not understand it.
Wu An watched the withdrawal without relief.
The Southern King's forces pulled away as if they had glimpsed something they were not meant to survive. Men crossed themselves with trembling hands. Officers refused to look back at the tower. Horses balked when the ground shuddered again, and no whip could force them forward.
The Emperor did not look defeated.
He looked satisfied.
To the north, Zhou's banners still advanced—slowly, inexorably—siege lines reforming beyond the ruined districts. Their cannons were silent for now, but their patience felt heavier than any bombardment.
Ling An was trapped between a retreating horror and an approaching one.
In the Lotus Quarter, the clash began without ceremony.
Wu Jin stepped into the street as my men poured in behind me, armor scorched, eyes hollow with exhaustion. The Black Tigers moved with the loose precision of veterans who had long ago learned how to kill while half-dead. The Golden Dragons reloaded in silence, hands shaking, movements exact. Powder stains blackened their faces. Blood dried stiff on their sleeves.
They should have been broken.
They weren't.
They cut down Zhou skirmishers who strayed too close with the economy of men who no longer believed in mercy. Every strike was final. Every shot deliberate. Fatigue made them crueler, not slower.
Wu Jin raised his sword.
"An," he said hoarsely. "Stand down."
I didn't slow.
The space between us felt wrong—compressed, stretched, as if the air itself resisted my presence. My shadow leaned toward him, elongated and warped by the tower's light.
"Call them back," he said. "Your men—my men—this city is dying."
I stopped a few paces away.
"Too late," I said.
He flinched.
"You're not listening. Father is using this. The war, the deaths—Shuang—he's turning everything into—"
"An altar," I finished.
Wu Jin's jaw tightened. "Then help me tear it down."
I looked at him then—really looked.
The soot on his face.
The tremor in his grip.
The fear he tried to bury under command.
He was still human.
That was the difference.
Behind me, Shen Yue drew closer, her voice careful. "Jin… we can still—"
A musket cracked.
The shot came from the side—Zhou scouts probing the chaos. One of the Golden Dragons took the ball through the neck and fell without sound.
The Black Tigers responded instantly. Knives flashed. Two scouts died before their bodies hit the ground.
Wu Jin's eyes flicked to the corpse.
Then back to me.
"You see?" he said. "This never ends if we keep fighting each other."
I stepped forward.
He raised his sword fully now.
Steel rang.
The first strike came from him—desperate, angry, fueled by exhaustion and guilt. I parried without thought. The movement came too easily, my body anticipating the angle before he committed to it.
The second strike was mine.
He barely blocked.
Our blades locked.
Up close, he smelled like smoke and blood and fear.
"An," he hissed. "You're not yourself."
I leaned in, my strength forcing his blade down inch by inch.
"No," I said quietly. "I'm exactly myself."
Something in my eyes made him recoil.
We broke apart.
He lunged again, faster now, technique returning through desperation. We traded blows amid falling ash, sparks flying where steel met steel. Each impact echoed unnaturally, as if the tower listened.
Shen Yue cried out once when my blade glanced too close to Jin's throat.
I didn't look at her.
I couldn't.
Because if I did, something might break—and not the right thing.
Jin stumbled as the ground shifted beneath him, a crack racing through the street between us. He fell to one knee.
I could have ended it.
The calculation was immediate, clean.
End him.
Remove the variable.
Simplify the field.
The being inside me aligned toward that outcome.
Not urging.
Not commanding.
Just showing the shortest path.
I raised my blade.
Shen Yue screamed my name.
That sound—
that alone—
stalled me.
Just long enough.
A thunderous boom rolled across the city as Zhou cannons fired again in the distance, testing range. The walls shook. Debris rained down between us.
Wu Jin scrambled back, breath ragged, eyes wide with realization.
"You felt it," he said. "Didn't you? The choice."
I lowered my sword slowly.
"Yes."
"And you didn't take it."
"No."
For the first time, something like hope flickered in his eyes.
"Then you're still—"
The tower pulsed.
Hard.
The light spiraled tighter. The air screamed without sound. Somewhere beneath us, stone cracked like ice on a river.
From the Lotus Hall, Wu Shuang stood beside the Lord Protector, watching the brothers through a widening fracture in the wall. Her face was serene. Her breathing steady.
"They hesitate," she said calmly.
"They always do," her father replied. "That is why they fail."
She tilted her head. "And the horrors?"
"They are patient."
The city shuddered again.
Back in the street, the Black Tigers regrouped instinctively, forming a loose perimeter. The Golden Dragons fired a disciplined volley into approaching Zhou scouts, dropping them cleanly despite shaking hands and empty stomachs.
Fatigued.
Relentless.
Wu Jin backed away, sword still raised, eyes never leaving mine.
"Zhou is coming," he said. "Not retreating. Not bargaining. They'll let us destroy ourselves, then take what's left."
"I know," I said.
"Then choose," he demanded. "Me—or him."
I looked past him, toward the tower.
Toward my father.
Toward the calm at the center of the storm.
"I choose the end," I said.
Jin's face drained of color.
The Southern drums faded completely.
Zhou's banners advanced another measured distance.
And above Ling An, the sky bent inward, as if the world itself leaned closer to watch what the sons of the Lord Protector would do next.