The north wall broke with a sound like a jaw dislocating.
Stones burst outward. A spray of dust and shattered masonry carried the bodies of the last defenders into the street below. Through the collapsing smoke, Zhou's soldiers surged like a black tide—shields raised, spears thrust forward, moving with the precision of a single, merciless organism.
The northern district of Ling An fell in under an hour.
Wu Jin watched from the eastern terrace as the district disappeared beneath the enemy's banners. He had imagined defeat before, but not this quickly and not this cleanly. The northern quarter went silent—too silent. Zhou knew how to take a city: fast, decisive, without giving the defenders time to regroup.
A captain staggered toward him. "Your Majesty—forty percent of the northern guard is gone. The rest retreat inward. We cannot hold the next gate."
Wu Jin nodded. "Seal it."
The officer hesitated. "But our own men—"
"Seal it," Wu Jin repeated. His voice cracked on the second word.
The gates slammed shut. The screams outside were cut short.
He almost vomited.
"Jin."
He turned. Wu Shuang stood behind him, pale, eyes glass-bright and unfocused. She looked like someone caught in a fever.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
"You shouldn't be king," she replied softly.
He flinched.
But she stepped closer, taking his wrist.
"You're right about Father."
Jin froze, dread and relief twisted into one breath.
"He doesn't care about Zhou," she whispered. "Or the Emperor. Or the south. None of this matters to him except the pattern. And the pattern… Jin, the pattern is moving beneath the city."
He swallowed. "What is he planning?"
Her pulse fluttered against his fingers, too fast, too unsteady.
"He's going to make the war kill for him."
"How?" Jin whispered.
She shook her head, trembling. "I don't know yet. But I feel it. And he—"
She winced suddenly, clutching her chest, as if something inside her was pulled taut by invisible strings.
Jin grabbed her shoulders. "Shuang! What did he do to you?"
Her breath came in thin gasps.
"I… I don't know," she said. "But the tower knows me now."
And she looked up toward the glowing spire, its silver pulse slow and deliberate like a heartbeat refusing to be ignored.
"Jin," she whispered. "If I stay here… he'll use me."
He understood.
He had always understood.
"Then we hide you," he said.
She almost laughed. "You can't hide me from him."
The tower pulsed again, and her knees buckled.
Jin held her upright.
"Come with me," he said fiercely. "Before he comes."
He pulled her into the shadows.
South of the city, the marsh grass parted as the Emperor's army crested the ridge. The air smelled of mud and rain and the iron-sweet scent of death from the Hei.
The Southern King rode beside him, jaw tight.
"The walls will be in sight soon, Your Majesty," a general reported.
The Emperor lifted his hand, silencing him. He stared at the distant glow of Ling An—the fires, the flashes of clashing steel, the occasional scream carried by the wind.
"The city breaks from both ends," he said calmly. "Perfect."
The Southern King inhaled sharply. "Are we to… join the assault?"
"Yes," the Emperor said. "Zhou must not reach the tower before I do."
"And the Lord Protector?"
The Emperor's expression sharpened, serene and lethal.
"He built the gate. I will walk through it."
The King bowed low, but dread gnawed his spine. A ritual made of war… a gate fed by blood… a tower waking…
Even Heaven would not sanction such things.
At the heart of that tower, the Lord Protector drew a blade across his palm. Blood welled, dark and thick, dripping into the stone basin before him. The tower's glow brightened, faint runic veins pulsing outward from the blood's touch.
A deep vibration rolled through the chamber, as if the stone itself exhaled.
He smiled.
"First offering," he murmured.
Another tremor, stronger this time.
The city above shuddered.
He pressed his hand to the stone again. "More will come. War is a generous altar."
The blood in the basin swirled, drawn into patterns that shifted like molten script.
The gate was opening.
Slowly.
Inevitably.
My horse reared as another tremor struck the ground beneath us. Dust plumed. Birds fled the trees. The air rippled with a pressure that made my teeth ache.
Liao Yun steadied his mount. "The tower?"
"No," I said. "Something beneath it."
A dull hum vibrated through my ribs—
not a voice, not language—
just a tightening inside my bones, like a bowstring pulled to breaking.
The being inside me stirred.
Not urging.
Not commanding.
Just aligning—
adjusting my breath,
my posture,
my sense of distance
as if preparing my body for the shape of what came next.
Shen Yue noticed.
"An."
"I feel it," I whispered.
She moved her horse closer until our knees almost touched.
"If you change," she said quietly, "I will pull you back."
I nodded, though some distant part of me recognized the truth:
If I changed too far,
there might be nothing to pull.
The Black Tigers tightened formation. The Golden Dragons raised their banner. The dust from our march rose in a narrow column, pointing straight toward the burning city.
A scout rode toward us, breathless.
"My lord! Zhou has breached the North Market. The Emperor approaches from the south. Ling An is surrounded."
Liao Yun looked at me grimly. "We're walking into a three-front slaughter."
"No," I said. "We're walking into my father's altar."
The being inside me pulsed once—
a dark, quiet surge of anticipation.
Not speech.
Not thought.
Just understanding.
It recognized what my father was building.
It recognized the pattern.
And it recognized itself in it.
Shen Yue gripped my forearm.
"An… what is he trying to summon?"
I stared toward the city.
"My father doesn't summon," I said. "He breaks."
The tremor hit again, harder.
The tower brightened.
A circle of faint light formed around its spire.
Liao Yun stiffened. "What is that?"
"The beginning," I said.
We rode faster.
The city's screams rose like wind through broken reeds.
Zhou banners cut through the smoke.
The Emperor's war horns answered from the south.
Flames spiraled upward in the inner ring.
And somewhere deep inside the tower—
my father's ritual took its second breath.
The being inside me tightened again, not speaking, but letting its intent bleed into mine.
A cold alignment.
A terrible focus.
A shared purpose.
Against him.
I whispered under my breath:
"Father… wait for me."
And the city swallowed us whole.