The nights in the capital always reeked of oil.
Oil soaked into the lanterns, oil burning in the kitchens, oil spilled upon the cobblestones.
When that nauseating stench was masked by silk and spices, and when those spices were further drowned out by the reek of liquor, the people called it prosperity.
But oil always waits for a spark. And the moment it catches, that prosperity burns away like a single sheet of paper.
The banquet hall of the Governor-General of Zhili was the very archetype of Yan's decadence.
Red silk tapestries draped between the pillars, and screens embroidered with gold thread shimmered under the lantern light. Musicians played bamboo flutes and zithers in turns to rouse the festive spirit, while jade cups clinked atop tables, ringing with the clarity of small bells.
The Governor was laughing.
The mirth shook his fleshy cheeks, and with every tremor, his gold-encrusted crown tilted slightly. Before him sat a feast; layers of fruit, jerked meat, and honeyed preserves were stacked high. When he raised his hand, servants bowed their heads; when he lifted his glass, ministers bent their waists.
As the banquet reached its zenith, the gifts began to arrive.
Scrolls of fine silk, animal figurines carved from jade, incense burners plated in gold, and rare teas sent from the furthest provinces. Amidst these treasures, a single box was brought in.
It was smaller than the others, yet every eye in the room was drawn to it. There is a certain charm to a small delicacy that makes it look more enticing.
The box was bound twice with red string, ending in a neat ribbon. A servant crawled forward on his knees to present it. The Governor looked down at the box, his lips curling into a smirk.
"Who sent this?"
Someone answered with a stutter, mentioning a merchant guild from some distant corner and an influential figure from afar.
The Governor flicked the ribbon with a finger. The seal was severed, and a small scrap of paper fluttered between the hangings. He smiled. In these banquets, the greatest pleasure was not the gift itself, but the sense of absolute power felt the moment the seal was broken.
"Open the lid."
The servant reached out, but the Governor pushed the servant's hand away. He expected some luminescent jewel. He believed he deserved such a rarity. That arrogance had fattened him, and now, that same arrogance would kill him.
The lid of the box was lifted ever so slightly.
Visible within was the pattern of the 'Blue Sky, White Sun, and a Wholly Red Earth.'
The Governor's eyes widened.
In that instant, light erupted.
KRA-KOOM!!
The flash bit into the walls, shredded the tapestries, and seared the eyes of everyone present. The banquet hall vanished in a single breath.
The silk became a conflagration; the screens were torn away like scrap paper. Tables were upended, and jade cups shattered, sparkling on the floor like jagged glass. The musician's flute was blown from his mouth and embedded into the wall; the strings of the zither snapped, howling through the air.
The Governor's face was no longer laughing. This was because his face no longer existed.
The explosion had not merely killed him; it had erased him with a violent ambiguity. Fragments of flesh and bone were carried across the room by the scorching wind, and the scent of expensive spices was instantly replaced by the stench of char. Liquor spilled onto the floor, feeding the flames, and the fire raced across the wood, licking up the alcohol.
"Aaaaagh!"
"It hurts! IT HURTS!!!"
The screams came late. The lucky ones had their bodies shredded before they could even comprehend the blast. The unlucky ones shrieked the moment the pain caught up to them. The screams were not individual; they overlapped into a singular bestial wail.
Only those even luckier—those with light wounds or enough willpower to endure the agony—rushed out and shouted into the night.
"The Governor... the Governor is..."
Liu Xianggang, Governor-General of Zhili, had been executed in the name of the people of Yan and the Three Principles of the People.
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The roar of the explosion rippled across the city walls. The Capital was a city moved by rumors.
Someone said: The Governor is dead.
It is treason.
It is a divine punishment.
It is the work of foreign saboteurs.
Words devoured one another. In the back alleys, doors were slammed shut. The sound of bolting doors echoed like a line of falling dominoes. In houses where doors couldn't be shut in time, they were smashed open. People fleeing the fire lunged into other homes, and the owners of those homes drew their blades. The swords were aimed at intruders, but the distinction between thief and master had blurred.
Patrolmen came running, blowing their whistles and shoving the crowds aside. Those pushed fell, and the moment they fell, they were trampled. The fire had not spread beyond the banquet hall, but something faster than fire had taken hold: panic. And panic transformed the Capital into a charnel house in an instant.
In the midst of the chaos, the Censor-General entered. He had a face that people believed could pacify a city with a few words. The robes of the Censorate were visible from afar, and upon seeing them, the people instinctively held their breath. The shadow of draconian law always tightened around a person's throat first.
The Censor-General rushed into the Governor's residence with a few guards. The main gate was half-shattered, and hot smoke billowed from the frame. He did not even cover his nose with a handkerchief. Whether he choked or not, 'showing' himself was paramount now. The one restoring order had to remain calm, even if breathless, to ensure the 'unrefined' populace did not engage in 'insolent acts.'
The banquet hall was already a hellscape. The floor was scorched black, and flames licked up the pillars. One side of a tapestry hung from the ceiling in tatters. Some shapes remained human; others did not. The feast table lay upturned against the floor. It was impossible to tell what had once been upon it.
The Censor-General narrowed his eyes. He sought to see what had exploded, and what remained. Just as he took another step forward, a footstep sounded behind him.
A lone patrolman had entered with them. The Censor-General turned and said lowly, "I did not authorize anyone else to enter. If you do not wish to bring harm to your superior, leave at once."
The patrolman did not answer. Instead, his hand moved.
A small piece of iron glinted in the darkness. It was a Model-33 Sabotage Pistol, a product of the Federation. That small tool was quieter than a courtier's blade and faster than the Emperor's law.
BANG!
With the sound of a glass cup breaking, the Censor-General's body stiffened. He felt something escaping from within him. Whether it was his breath, his strength, his authority, or his blood, he did not know, but as it fled, his vision wavered and his knees buckled.
BANG!
A second shot rang out. Only then did the Censor-General finally collapse. As he fell, his hand fumbled across the floor. The stones were hot. The scorching floor burned his palms, but he had no time to feel the pain. The moment his head hit the floor, the world tilted.
His guards shouted far too late. Some drew their swords; others lunged to seize the patrolman. But amidst the smoke, flames, screams, and debris, their movements became entangled. In that confusion, a blade pierced the wrong target. A comrade's arm was slashed; blood geysered from a fellow guard's throat.
Someone bellowed, "An informant! There is a traitor within the Censorate!"
Those words leaked out of the banquet hall, moving faster than the smoke. From that moment on, the Censorate was no longer a single entity.
The blades meant to restore order lost their direction, and lost blades sought the nearest throats. They looked into each other's eyes and saw only suspicion. Suspicion immediately transformed into violence.
The Capital collapsed. The Governor was dead, the Censor-General was dead, and because of that, the Capital's patrolmen and the Censorate began to tear each other apart in fratricidal strife. Only chaos and terror remained.
That was when the soldiers entered the city.
At first, no one noticed. But before long, the troops of Shen Youjing, the Commander-General of North Yan, advanced toward the Imperial Palace alongside servants, slaves, and retainers who had emerged from the houses of the grand secretaries. The heads of a few Jinyiwei guards at the South, East, and West gates were taken and tossed outside the walls; the gates swung wide.
Only the North Gate remained shut. Instead, the heads of a few Prince-faction Jinyiwei who had been countered were hung from the gate's ramparts. But the coup forces did not stop. They moved toward the heart of the Capital, toward the Imperial Palace.
Small detachments of opportunists and corrupt officials loyal to the Emperor clashed with the coup army. Small deaths erupted at every street corner of the Capital. Yet these small forces were swept away like grains of sand before a tide, leaving behind only unlucky victims as the rest fled in rout. Thus, the coup army breached the Imperial Palace.
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The coup army marched on. Torches flowed along the corridors, and shadows spilled over the walls. People tripped and were trampled in an instant. There was no mercy to look back at the fallen.
The first inner gate was blocked. This meant the internal infiltration had ended, and the True Dragon Faction had regained their senses. The thick wooden gates were barred from the inside, with iron stakes driven beneath the frame. The spearmen at the front hesitated.
Then, the suicide squad of the National Revolutionary Army stepped forward. They wore masks. There are nights when a hidden face looks braver. Someone pulled a small object from their waist. A sphere the size of a palm. Originium within it dimly absorbed the light. Someone shouted briefly, "Get back!"
The moment the soldiers recoiled, the sphere was hurled into the gap of the gate. It bounced once, rolled twice, and came to a stop beneath the wood. Then, the blast hit.
CRACK-BOOM!
A soldier standing near the gate was sent flying backward, slamming into a corridor pillar. Blood smeared down the wood. Through the breach, the coup army poured in.
The corridor was narrow, and narrow spaces quickly become a melee. Spears could not be swung with reach. Swords came to the fore; the sound of clashing steel and splashing blood followed in a short, brutal rhythm.
It was then that the True Dragon Faction's Jinyiwei counter-attacked. They lowered their spear points, hunched their bodies, and pushed forward as one. In the first collision, bodies were toppled. Spears transfixed throats, blades split shoulders. Crossbows fired at point-blank range, piercing eyes.
Men fell before they could even scream. Blood sprayed from a dying man's mouth onto another's face. The blood became a lubricant for the stones; an unlucky soldier slipped, and a blade found his throat. The suicide squad threw another improvised Originium grenade. This time, it wasn't aimed at a gate, but into the center of the dense Jinyiwei formation. Armor was shredded, bone exposed. Yet men continued to walk several steps even after losing their legs.
Commander-General Shen Youjing was at the center of the fray. He drew his sword amidst his guards, his blade work refined and veteran. But mastery did not save him. An officer of the True Dragon Jinyiwei recognized him. His eyes flared. That spark was not loyalty; it was a lethal resolution.
The officer roared, "It's the Commander-General! Take his head and the rebels will flee!"
Guards surrounded Shen Youjing like a wall of shields. But every shield has its breaking point. A blade slipped between them, a spear pierced a flank, and someone's helmet was knocked loose. In the moment it fell, it wasn't hair that was seen, but blood. Shen Youjing retreated, but his back hit the corridor wall. The True Dragon officer lunged. His blade came in low and swept upward. The throat is always above. As the edge touched Shen Youjing's neck, there was a short grinding sound. Then, silence.
Shen Youjing's head tilted to the side. Blood poured from the slant, tracing a black line across the stone floor. His body held for two more steps, but endurance was meaningless. His knees buckled, and his form collapsed. A guard screamed, only to have his voice cut short by the next blade.
From that moment, the eyes of the Prince-faction soldiers changed. An organization usually scatters when it loses its head. But sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, they charge with a collective madness instead. The phrase 'gnashing one's teeth' is found in books, but tonight, it was written in the blood upon the stones. The coup army did not retreat.
The Prince-faction's spearheads split the Jinyiwei ranks, and through the cracks, their blades bit deep. Blood, sweat, and smoke smothered everything. The coup army carved a path through the suicide squad's explosions (some of which were accidental self-detonations), and once the way was cleared, the True Dragon Faction had nowhere left to retreat. Finally, the last rank of the Jinyiwei crumbled.
What remained was the path. A path that led straight to the Hall of Supreme Harmony. The coup army ran. One in five had died in the battle, but four survived, and so it was a victory. When they reached the steps of the hall, their breath scratched their throats. And then, the doors opened.
The True Dragon was inside. The True Dragon was old. But it was only the face and the flesh that had aged. Though Oripathy had eaten at his skin, it had not yet robbed his hands of their strength; a sword was gripped firmly in his grasp.
The front line of the coup army halted. Someone shouted, "Your Majesty! Please, disarm yourself!"
The True Dragon laughed. The laugh cracked in his throat. It was the laugh of a madman. As if a beast long restrained had finally broken its cage, he walked forward with short, sharp steps. He raised his sword. The line the blade traced seemed to sever the air itself. There was no actual sound of air tearing, yet the soldiers stiffened as if they had heard it. And then, the first Jinyiwei soldier lost his head.
The head fell, and blood geysered like a fountain. The spray hit the colorful eaves, making the red paint even deeper. A second, a third. With every swing of the True Dragon's sword, a man was divided in two. The moment the edge brushed them, head and body parted ways, moving in different directions. A dozen men collapsed in an instant. The sound of their fall was like the wet flapping of water.
The coup army's formation wavered. Then, an officer of the Prince-faction Jinyiwei stepped forward. He shouted, "Forgive my insolence!"
At those words, the Prince realized something was wrong. No matter if he was the Crown Prince, killing the True Dragon was an act of both treason and parricide. Unless he intended to suppress every provincial governor and prefect to claim a tattered Yan, he must not do this. Moreover, he desired the normalization of Yan, not the absolute power for himself. He had no reason to kill the True Dragon.
But before the thought could finish, the officer charged. The True Dragon's sword swung again. The blade sought the man's throat immediately. As a hot line was traced across his neck, the officer's eyes widened briefly. Yet his body did not stop. Even as his head fell away, his body took one more step forward. That single step changed everything.
The officer's hand touched the True Dragon's side. The dagger in his hand sank deep. The sharp point pierced flesh, scraped bone, and burrowed into the viscera. The True Dragon's body froze momentarily. The officer's corpse collapsed on the spot. His head rolled down the steps, and his body slumped at the Emperor's feet. Blood flowed down the stairs. The stone steps of the Hall of Supreme Harmony seemed to know the path well, guiding the blood downward.
The True Dragon tried to pull the blade out. But as he did, his breath hitched. His face distorted. His skin, already withered from Oripathy, seemed to dry further. He gritted his teeth. Between his clenched teeth, his breath hissed out. Only then did the coup army move forward.
They looked like they had seized victory, but the shape of that victory was already ruined. The place where Shen Youjing's head fell, the corridor where the soldiers' corpses were piled, the heads of the Jinyiwei scattered on the steps. And above all, the True Dragon, standing there, bleeding out. A deposition should have been about making a ruler lay down his sword. But now, the air of the Hall of Supreme Harmony was filled not with the scent of a coup, but the stench of slaughter.
Someone whispered, "...It is over."
**************************
The air was heavy with blood. The heads that had rolled down the stairs were still burned into everyone's vision. The red pillars of geysering blood, the warm streams descending the stone steps. Yan Wu tried to look away, but his eyes had nowhere to hide. Even when he closed them, the images flickered within.
The True Dragon was still standing. The sword in his side was draining his life, but the sword in his hand did not hit the floor. It was pure madness. No one was certain how many more heads would roll if he swung it just one more time. The Jinyiwei held their breath. The Prince-faction soldiers stood in blood. The suicide squad's eyes gleamed. Everyone waited for Yan Wu. In this hall, a single word could kill a man faster than a blade.
Then, the Grand Tutor approached his side. Being a man of the old world, the Grand Tutor made no sound. He suppressed the sound of his footsteps and the clinking of his armor. The moment he stood by Yan Wu, the Prince felt a wave of relief, followed immediately by a self-loathing for feeling it. The Grand Tutor did not look directly at the True Dragon. Instead, he scanned the ceiling of the hall, the dragon patterns, and the golden paint of the eaves. Like a man trying to memorize the place one last time.
Then the Grand Tutor spoke in a low voice. "Your Highness, it is not righteousness but the historical record that currently seeks your head."
Yan Wu managed to draw a breath. "What do you mean?"
The Grand Tutor continued, even lower and faster. "Tonight has already leaked beyond the palace walls. It is not just blood and smoke that have escaped. Rumors are faster than the wind, the Censorate is fractured, and the people seek a name before they seek a blade. Whether you save the Emperor here, or whether you kill him, by tomorrow morning, you will be the traitor."
Yan Wu looked at the Grand Tutor's face. The old man's eyes were unshakable.
"Then... what would you have me do?"
The Grand Tutor paused for a microsecond, then spat it out like a verdict. "Let it be said that I instigated it."
Yan Wu's fingertips trembled. The Grand Tutor did not stop; he knew that if he paused, the Prince would hesitate again.
"Let it be recorded that I, the Grand Tutor, conspired with the Kuomintang to blow up the Governor-General of Zhili and kill the Censor-General. Then, that the Kuomintang faction invaded the palace. Let it be said that Your Highness and Commander-General Shen Youjing led the army to fight them off and drive them out."
Yan Wu's lips parted unconsciously. "Then what of Shen Youjing..."
The Grand Tutor nodded. "He dies a hero. He dies in loyalty, washed in blood. And Your Highness..." He did not avert his gaze. "You disappear. If you remain alive, the court will tear itself apart using you as a pretext. If you are dead, your name becomes a trinket in someone's hand. Disappearance is the most cruel, yet the most useful path. To be alive, yet dead to this place."
At that moment, someone approached from one side of the hall. The Chairman of the Kuomintang, who had only been called by her pseudonym, Wang Zhaoming, entered, dragging her blood-stained hem. Yan Wu could not tell if she had overheard the Grand Tutor or if she had reached the same conclusion herself. She simply nodded quickly. "Agreed."
That one word fell like a blade.
Deng Yanda spoke first. "We should raise our flag in the palace then. Take a photo and send it to the International Communist Party; it'll make the cover of the Monthly Great Revolution magazine."
Li Jishen added lowly, "The Blue Sky, White Sun, and a Wholly Red Earth flag. If we hang that, by tomorrow morning, no one will be able to tell a different story. What is seen becomes the truth."
Chen Mingshu tapped his waist with a bloody hand. "We need to plant more bombs. There must be evidence for them to believe it. We'll need to blow up a few more pavilions."
Dai Chunfeng added, "The North Gate never opened. Let's use that as a shield. It will be evidence that the Kuomintang 'failed to fully occupy the palace.' We can frame it so the Prince remained at the North Gate to fight. It will be more convincing."
They coordinated so perfectly, so quickly. The speed of it was unnervingly natural. Yan Wu realized as he watched them: these people had already been waiting for this exact moment.
The Grand Tutor turned his head toward Yan Wu. "I only need your consent, Your Highness."
Consent. The word weighed on Yan Wu's chest. He looked at the True Dragon once more. The Emperor was bleeding enough to collapse, yet he would not let go of his sword. His eyes were the eyes of a man who could not accept that the world would not revolve according to his will. Yan Wu took a step forward, then stopped.
Right then, the True Dragon drew a great breath and made a sound like a laugh. In that sound were mockery, a curse, and lingering attachment. It was as if he were telling Yan Wu: You are my son, and in the end, you will become a man just like me.
Hearing that, Yan Wu could no longer stay there. He looked at the Grand Tutor. There was no fear in the old man's eyes. Yan Wu bit his lip. It bled. Then he spoke.
"Do so."
As those words fell, the Kuomintang moved instantly. Someone unfurled a flag. The Blue Sky, White Sun, and a Wholly Red Earth flag. A white sun on a blue sky over a red field. It was hung beneath the eaves of the hall.
Another explosion roared. This time, it wasn't to breach a gate. An entire pavilion collapsed as its pillars were blown, and fragments of the colorful architecture scattered into the night sky. Splintered wood and dust rained down into the courtyard of the hall. Then, the fire spread.
The flames licked the eaves and raced through the corridors. Palace walls were always vulnerable to fire, for their splendor was built of paper and wood. Someone shouted, "It's the Kuomintang!" Someone immediately replied, "They are traitors!" The voices grew louder, and as they grew, the truth became smaller.
The Grand Tutor approached Yan Wu and pressed a small wooden plaque into his hand. Yan Wu did not need to look to know what it was. A transit pass to escape the Capital. The Grand Tutor spoke very softly. "Your Highness, you must go. From this moment on, every moment you exist will require more blood."
Yan Wu's throat tightened. He looked at the Grand Tutor for a long time. This man would take all the responsibility after tonight. Not as a savior of the nation, but under the charge of a traitor. And that charge would swallow his entire family. Yan Wu managed to choke out, "Grand Tutor... I am moved by your loyalty."
The Grand Tutor lowered his eyes. The motion of bowing his head was heavier than the dragon engravings of the hall. Yan Wu did not bow back. If he bowed, it would be a finality. If it was final, he could not leave. Instead, Yan Wu gripped the old man's wrist once. It was a bloody wrist, but it was warm. And Yan Wu said, "I will return alive. I will surely live to achieve the world I dreamed of. I will rebuild this nation. That is the price of the life you are throwing away."
The Grand Tutor did not answer. Instead, he gave the smallest nod. The flames drew closer. Smoke crawled up the ceiling of the Hall of Supreme Harmony. Another explosion sounded in the distance, echoing across the palace like the sound of the sky collapsing. Yan Wu turned away.
As he turned, the True Dragon in the inner hall flickered at the edge of his vision. A shadow standing unsteadily, still clutching a sword despite the blood loss. That shadow was no longer a great Emperor, but merely an old man soon to be recorded as a corpse. Yan Wu did not look back.
His hand tightened around the transit pass. He walked into the smoke. The palace was burning. The flag was fluttering. People were shouting 'traitor' at one another. Yan Wu left all those sounds behind and vanished into the path of darkness.
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Yan Wu (염무).
With the character for 'Flame' (炎) and the character for 'Martial' (武).
His name was known as Wei Yenwu.
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"—Therefore, the Grand Tutor, who instigated the rebellion, causing the deaths of the Late King, Shen Youjing, and others, and burning thirty percent of the Capital's dwellings, is to be executed; however, by the mercy of His Majesty the True Dragon, his family shall be spared."
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"I am sorry. But there was no other way, was there?"
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"Oh dear, to think they would try to cut down an innocent child... I am sorry, little one. Why don't you follow me?"
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"Powdered soup, vegetable flakes... and I should add two sausages too. Hehe... wait, why are the lights in the cafeteria off?"
Blaze muttered to herself. It was then that her colleagues, who had been hiding in the corner of the cafeteria, revealed themselves. Ace was right in front of her.
"Hey! What are you guys doing here? You scared me!"
"Shh, be quiet."
"I mean, why aren't you guys sleeping at this hour? Why are you hiding in the cafeteria? And Ace, why are you looking at me with such a serious face... don't tell me there's an emergency mission?"
But Ace continued to stare at Blaze. His gaze was hidden behind his sunglasses, but he was strangely gesturing toward her hands.
"What are you holding in your hands? Ramen?"
"I was at the training grounds all afternoon, I couldn't get a proper dinner...! Why, can't an Elite Operator eat ramen?"
At those words, Touch replied as if she found it ridiculous. "Captain Ace isn't scolding you for eating junk food again... ugh, today is your birthday, is that really all you're going to eat?"
Blaze stuttered in sudden confusion. "My birthday...? But Doctor Kal'tsit..."
Scout, who had his hat pulled down as usual, answered that. "That's why I told you to keep your voice down. If you don't make a racket, even if she hears something, she'll probably pretend she didn't hear a thing, right?"
"On the contrary, I suspect Doctor Kal'tsit purposely adjusted the field mission schedule so we could all be here to celebrate your birthday. Let's just consider her consideration a birthday gift... even if it's hard to imagine her being that way." Those words came from Mechanist.
Hearing that Kal'tsit might have been considerate of her made Blaze feel a slight wave of emotion. Touch, having finished placing candles on the cake, approached her. "Blaze, you are one of us. A member of Rhodes Island. You are not alone."
Blaze felt a tear prick at her eye. she tried to think of something grand and cool to say, but only a short sentence would come out.
"Everyone... uh, well, thank you!"
But that short sentence was enough for everyone to feel it was worthwhile. Her flushed face showed plainly how happy she was. Ace lit the candles.
"Alright, it's midnight. Happy Birthday, Blaze."
"Happy Birthday, Big Cat!"
"Happy Birthday."
"Happy Birthday! Also, Amiya isn't on the ship right now, so she asked me to deliver her congratulations instead. She says she hopes you are always happy and healthy."
At those words, Blaze finally let the tears fall. Tears wetted the floor of the cafeteria. "The little rabbit..."
Ace stood by and patted her shoulder to calm her down. Then he handed her a plastic cake knife. "Now, are you going to blow out the candles and cut the cake, or are you going to eat that ramen?"
Blaze's choice, of course, was to cut the cake.