The road bent north, rising over low hills that let us glimpse the sprawl of Ling An from leagues away — white walls gleaming under late sunlight, temple roofs like lacquered claws reaching for the sky.
At this distance it looked gentle. A promise. Like gold leaf laid carefully over rot.
Villages along the road turned out in forced festival colors. Local headmen stammered greetings, offering trays of salted meat or glazed fruit, hoping I'd remember their names when the capital's tax ledgers arrived. Children knelt with handfuls of crushed petals.
When I took the offerings, they bowed so low their foreheads touched dust. It was obedience — but the kind born more of dread than loyalty.
At every stop, more riders joined us. Some bore Wu Jin's crests, stern men in polished armor, faces impassive as stone. Others came in the subtle silks of the capital — scribes, lesser officials, priests from minor halls — each with his own quiet agenda. They said they were there to escort me. To record my triumph for the Imperial Gazette.
I knew better. They were there to weigh me. To report how heavily I tread the earth.
One evening as we camped beneath a grove of twisted elms, Shen Yue stood over a cracked roadside shrine. The old statues of guardian beasts were half devoured by moss, their stone eyes blind. She placed two coins at their feet, whispered a prayer I couldn't hear.
When she returned to the fire, I raised an eyebrow. "Praying that I come back unchanged?"
"Praying that whatever you become," she murmured, not meeting my eyes, "the gods see fit to spare the rest of us."
I laughed — low and sharp. It startled a pair of nearby servants, who flinched and hurried off into the dark.
Closer to Ling An, the roads swelled with gawkers. Peasants pressed close to see the Black Tigers, whispered that I was Taizu reborn — or Lingzong returned, come to start the slaughter all over again. Mothers clutched children tighter. Old men touched charms at their throats.
Han Qing rode tight beside my carriage, hand on his sword. "Every bend, every tavern roof — someone's watching. Spies for Wu Kang, no doubt. Maybe even for Wu Jin. If they smile too brightly, it's because they've counted how many men it would take to cut your throat."
"And how many did they count?"
He glanced at me, eyes hard. "Too many for comfort. Not enough to keep trying forever."
That night outside the city walls, the camp spread like a dark stain over yellow fields. Wu Kang's generals were kept in a ring of torches, chains stretched between iron stakes. One of them, face bruised from a guard's fist, still had the gall to spit when I passed.
"Better a dog of the First Prince than your monster's shadow," he rasped.
I paused. Stepped close enough that he could smell the sweat and blood on my cloak. His eyes darted to the side — fear finally surfacing through hate.
"You'll get your wish," I told him quietly. "You'll see his halls again. You'll just see them from your knees."
Then I walked on. Because there was no satisfaction left in breaking small things.
Sleep found me only in fits. The cold under my ribs was stronger than ever, coiling tight. It gave me dreams of Ling An's streets flooded dark, the Imperial Court bowing so low their foreheads split on marble. A black throne waited at the palace's highest tier, wreathed in whispering veils.
I woke smiling, though my mouth tasted of ash.
At dawn, we rode the last stretch toward Ling An. Banners unfurled overhead, bright with painted dragons and phoenixes. Drums pounded in measured, hollow triumph. Children tossed flower petals that clung to my boots like drops of old blood.
The outer gates stood wide, their carved beams lacquered red so many times they shone like wet flesh. High on the ramparts, courtiers and priests watched. Eunuchs in pale robes fanned themselves, mouths pursed, eyes quick and sharp.
Shen Yue rode close, her expression grim. "Do you see how smooth it all is? They've prepared this parade like a bride's procession — every lantern, every drumbeat, calculated so you'll step straight into their nets."
I didn't answer. Because I could feel it too: the softness of it all, like silk ropes looped around my throat, tightening by small degrees.
As we passed through the gates, merchants cheered, tossing silver coins and sweet cakes. The noise was deafening, bright with forced joy. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman wailed — whether from fear or grief, I couldn't tell.
The Black Tigers marched behind me with faces carved from stone. Han Qing's hand never left his hilt. Wu Jin's men flanked us with banners raised high, their loyalty sharp-edged and wary.
Ling An swallowed us whole. Its streets wound on and on, choked with incense and colored streamers, masks of gods and demons grinning from every shopfront. Petals rotted under hoof and wheel.
And above it all loomed the Imperial Palace — tier upon tier of gold-tipped roofs, windows dark as empty sockets, flags heavy with hidden meaning.
Shen Yue leaned in, voice barely audible over the crowd. "This city feasts on heroes, Wu An. It always has. How long before it decides you're the main course?"
I smiled. Because under my ribs, the cold thing pulsed with delight.
"Then let them open their jaws," I said. "And see who chokes first."