We left Bù Zhèng under a sky smudged with thin clouds, the sun pale and tired. My Black Tigers rode in disciplined files ahead, while Wu Jin's trusted captains held the rear. They would remain behind to keep Bù Zhèng docile — rooting out Zheng's last partisans, making sure no local lord grew ambitious in the hush that followed slaughter.
Wu Kang's generals came last, heads shaved, wrists bound, stripped of their crests and finery. They marched in silence, their disgrace trailing behind like a funeral banner. When we reached Ling An, the capital would see what treason looked like — gaunt, humiliated, and led by chains.
Inside my carriage, the air was close, thick with the slow sway of wheels over packed earth. Shen Yue sat across from me, her armor finally shed, dark hair loose about her shoulders. For a long while we watched each other without speaking.
Then she cleared her throat. "Do you want to hear something old?" Her voice was hoarse, eyes shadowed. "A story my grandmother told me when I was young enough to believe tales kept nightmares away."
I tilted my head. "Speak. The road is long. Even devils need legends."
Her lips twitched — not quite a smile. "A thousand years ago, this land was little more than rivers and scattered clans. Liang was a fragile name, easily broken. The Great Empire of Zhou swept down from the north and took it all. For eight hundred years, they sent our sons to their wars, took our daughters for tribute, emptied our granaries to feed their own garrisons."
She paused. The hush around her words was heavy.
"Then a prophecy came. They say it was carved by a dragon's claws into the cliffs of the eastern ranges. It promised a hero would rise from Liang's mud to break the chains. That was Emperor Taizu. Born a peasant, carrying a rusted sword, he drove the Zhou armies past the rivers, burned their camps until the sky turned black. For nearly one hundred fifty years after, peace held. Liang's throne sat over both the northern forests and the southern deltas."
I closed my eyes, imagining bright banners over fields untouched by war. Almost beautiful.
"But then came Emperor Lingzong," she went on. "Handsome, brilliant, poets wrote his name in gold dust. Until he went mad — or something older took him. They said a demon whispered in his sleep. He began seeing assassins everywhere. Drowned whole provinces because a monk dreamt they'd rebel. Had babies smashed on palace stones to keep prophecies at bay."
I opened my eyes. "So the rot began."
"Yes," she whispered. "Warlords rose. One seized Ling An and declared a new dynasty — the Yan. Peace returned for a breath, but old Liang blood still burned. They raised militias, even begged Zhou to march again in the name of 'restoration.' Zhou obliged, dividing the land between loyalists and rebels."
Her gaze grew distant. "Liang split. Yan ruled the north. Liang's name clung to the south, each crowning hollow emperors claiming descent from Taizu. All of them calling themselves the rightful guardians of the dragon's promise."
I frowned. "And my great-great-grandfather?"
"Wu Jian," Shen Yue said, voice tightening. "He led one of those first southern armies. Fought the Yan with marsh ambushes, torched their supply lines. Always swore it was for Liang — to restore Taizu's dream. But he never took the throne."
"Why?"
"Because an old sage told him that if he crowned himself, a thousand plagues would fall. The empire would rot from the inside. So instead, he installed puppet emperors — weak men of distant Taizu blood who needed Wu Jian's soldiers to rule."
Her fingers clenched. "At his side was General Ruan Huan. A genius. Broke Yan armies at Xiang Plain, crushed three hosts in a single season. But someone — priests, old nobles, or darker tongues — whispered to him that he should be emperor instead. Ruan turned. Declared his own southern dynasty. Claimed he, too, was restoring Liang. Just with a different hand on the scepter."
For a while, the carriage rattled on in silence. Outside, ruined fields crawled by — burnt stubble where barley once grew, gulls picking over old bones.
"So even now," I murmured, "both kingdoms keep feeding themselves to war in the name of Liang's glory. Wu Jian's line. Ruan Huan's line. Each pretending it's Taizu's dream they serve, when really they only chase power."
Shen Yue's mouth twisted. "That's the curse. Every banner says it restores what was lost, but none of them want Liang whole. Only Liang kneeling."
She hesitated, then reached across. Her hand hovered above mine — didn't quite touch. "Do you ever wonder if Zhou was right to rule us? That maybe we were meant to kneel — that all we do now is drag Taizu's corpse through new mud?"
I almost laughed. "If it is a curse, I'll be the last plague that feasts on its bones. And from that rot, we'll see what claws out."
She flinched — just barely. Then pulled her hand back.
That night we camped by the roadside. The traitor generals were chained in a ring of pikes, Tigers prowling around them with drawn blades. I lay awake on a thin mat, staring at a half-moon snagged in clouds. The cold under my ribs pulsed slow and deep, almost gentle.
It gave me visions. Ling An's streets flooded with dark water. Courtiers bowing so low their faces vanished under blood. A throne blacker than midnight waiting on a hill of skulls.
I found I was smiling.
Because it wasn't just Wu Jian or Ruan Huan or even Taizu who carried the curse. It was Liang itself — and I intended to wear that curse like a crown.