The second northern gate shuddered before it fell.
Zhou's siege cannons fired in staggering rhythm — boom, boom, boom — each shot hammering the inner wall until cracks spidered across the stone. Mortar shells arced overhead, trailing sparks before bursting against the battlements in white-hot blossoms of fire.
Soldiers screamed as shrapnel tore through armor. Musketeers on the wall returned fire, matchcords hissing in the wind, but their shots vanished into the thick powder smoke below.
A captain shouted, "Reload! Keep firing! Slow them down!"
Another mortar exploded beneath him, hurling him over the parapet.
Wu Jin stood behind the inner barricade, cloak scorched, face streaked with soot. His troops frantically positioned swivel guns along the walkway — small rotating cannons mounted on iron tripods. The first one fired, blasting a spray of iron pellets into the charging Zhou infantry.
It bought them seconds.
Not minutes.
The wall gave a final groan.
Then collapsed inward.
Zhou soldiers stormed through the breach in two columns — musketeers in front, pikemen behind. Their discipline was frightening. They advanced through flame and rubble without breaking formation.
Wu Jin exhaled through his teeth.
"Fall back to the Lotus Quarter!" he ordered. "Make them bleed for every street!"
Swivel guns roared. Fire-lances spat plumes of burning powder. Archers loosed fire-arrows from rooftops. Smoke turned the city into a blind labyrinth.
But nothing slowed Zhou for long.
Jin's heart hammered. Every death fueled his father's ritual. Every street turned to ash fed the tower. And the tower… the tower was humming now.
He felt it in his bones.
The second bell was close.
Wu Shuang collapsed in the Lotus Hall.
Her knees hit the mosaic floor hard, palms trembling, eyes wide as if she saw light no one else could see. The tower's glow pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat — fast, uneven, growing stronger.
"Not again," she whispered. "Not—please—"
Her pulse synchronized with the tower's hum.
The floor responded, shifting beneath her palms like an animal stirring in its sleep.
She pressed her forehead to the tiles.
"Brother… hurry."
But she knew he wouldn't reach her in time.
No one would.
Deep below, the Lord Protector stood over the stone basin.
The blood inside no longer looked like blood. It formed geometric spirals — expanding, contracting, drawing breath.
He cut his palm again. The drip into the basin echoed through the chamber like a drumbeat.
The tower's light intensified.
He smiled faintly.
"Second offering."
The floor heaved as if something beneath the city pressed upward, testing the limits of its confinement. Dust sifted from the ceiling. The walls vibrated.
The ritual was working.
The gate was widening.
Far south of Ling An, the Emperor had withdrawn his front line half a li to regroup, not from cowardice but calculation. His men reloaded muskets, cleaned flints, reset cannon powder.
The Southern King was pale, shaken from the ambush.
"Majesty," he said hoarsely, "we lost too many officers. Wu An's strike— we underestimated him."
The Emperor adjusted his gloves calmly.
"Everyone underestimates a man who walks beside the void."
The King shivered. "Should we prepare another advance? A full assault this time?"
"Not yet."
The Emperor's gaze moved north, toward Ling An's trembling skyline.
The tower's glow seemed brighter now — visible even through the smoke.
"He is moving early," the Emperor murmured. "The Lord Protector is losing control of the pattern. Good."
The Southern King frowned. "Good, Majesty?"
"A ritual in chaos is easier to steal."
The King bowed, but dread crawled like insects beneath his armor.
We reached the inner outskirts of Ling An just as Zhou's artillery shifted positions.
Cannon smoke rolled over the streets in thick gray sheets. The smell of sulfur and burned flesh clung to the air. The city roared with overlapping echoes — cannons, muskets, swivel guns, screams.
Shen Yue coughed hard. "The smoke—An, stay close."
I didn't answer.
The being inside me tightened—
a non-voice, a non-thought,
just a cold alignment running down my spine.
My vision sharpened unnaturally.
Angles shifted.
Paths opened in the devastation ahead.
I raised my hand.
The Black Tigers moved immediately, slipping into alleyways to flank Zhou musketeers. The Golden Dragons formed a firing line behind me.
"Ready…" Liao Yun called.
A volley cracked through the air, tearing into a Zhou unit attempting to flank the inner market. Their line faltered, surprised at resistance from the rear.
Shen Yue rode beside me, blades drawn.
"An—the city is fracturing."
"I know."
The tower pulsed again, visible even through smoke.
A tremor rolled under the street — not from cannons.
From below.
Liao Yun's horse reared. "What was that?!"
"The ritual," I said.
And then—
a moment of stillness.
Like the city inhaled.
A sound followed, deep and resonant, vibrating through the stones.
Shen Yue grabbed my arm. "That was the bell."
The second bell.
The one my father had waited for.
The being inside me tightened—
coiling, focusing, aligning.
Not speaking.
Never speaking.
But I could feel its certainty.
We were running out of time.
I pointed toward the Lotus Quarter.
"We push forward," I said.
Liao Yun nodded, signaling the troops. "Black Tigers—through the alleys! Golden Dragons on the flanks!"
Shen Yue steadied her breath. "An… when we reach your father… what will you do?"
The tower's pulse shook the city again, stronger this time, bending the streetlights as if gravity itself shifted.
I answered quietly.
"Whatever he built," I said, "I'm going to break."
Ling An trembled around us.
And the ritual waited.