Ashborn Empire

The morning after the tribunal's verdict, the sun rose red — not with warmth, but like an old wound reopened. Ling An's courtyards were silent save for the creak of banners and the scuff of sandals across lacquered stone. I sat alone in the East Study, papers scattered before me, the ink on half-finished petitions still wet. Outside, pigeons cooed near the roof tiles, as if unaware the court had nearly devoured itself the day before.

I did not look up when the shadow slipped through the doorway.

A whisper of silk. A faint, unassuming cough.

Then a quiet voice said, "The Ministry of Rites has begun shifting its funds to Shen Yue's father. And the Empress received a closed letter from the southern priests yesterday morning. It burned before a second pair of eyes could read it."

I set down my brush. "Liao Yun."

He bowed slightly, folding his hands into his sleeves. "Prince."

I did not ask where he'd been — because I knew. While I was carving ruin into Bù Zhèng, while monsters unfurled beneath my ribs, Liao Yun had lingered in the halls of marble and silk, ears open and mouth shut. Like a spider in the beams, untouched by the flames licking at the floorboards.

"You bring gifts," I said.

He smiled faintly. "I bring rot. Quiet, subtle, but spreading."

His eyes flicked to the scrolls beside me. "They've begun preparing already. Wu Kang's allies want to poison the well at Nanyang — bribes, embezzled ledgers, missing supply convoys. They plan to strangle your appointment before it can bear fruit."

I leaned back in my seat, the ache beneath my ribs flaring with slow satisfaction.

"Let them try," I said. "Let them see what roots remain after fire."

Just then, a eunuch knocked and entered without waiting. "His Excellency, the Lord Protector, summons the Fourth Prince to the Western Audience Hall."

When I arrived, my father was already seated, ringed by low ministers and tall scrolls. The cold of the room was bone-deep — not from the air, but from the gazes that watched me. I bowed low.

"Father."

He gestured. "Sit. You've done your damage in the south. Now, let us see if you can build what you haven't broken."

A few ministers smirked behind their sleeves. I remained silent.

The Lord Protector rolled out a map. "Nanyang. The city's outer walls are still intact, but its inner quarters have been gutted. Roads collapse under cart wheels, granaries rot with mold. I am assigning you to oversee its reconstruction."

I studied the lines. "And the budget?"

"Strict," he said. "You will not command endless coin as in war. You will answer to the Treasury, and your accounts will be audited monthly. I want you to prove you can govern as well as destroy."

I nodded once. "Understood."

He held my gaze. "This is not mercy. This is a test."

I rose and bowed again. But as I left the hall, I heard one minister whisper to another:

"Let the butcher count bricks. That'll blunt his fangs."

They would learn — brick by brick, if necessary.

That night, Liao Yun returned with more threads pulled from the court's fraying edge.

"Wu Kang's humiliation at the tribunal has only fanned his fury. He no longer hides his disdain for you. But something more troubling — he has begun attending 'private rituals' under Empress Wu Ling's guidance."

"Rituals," I echoed.

"Not in the Temple of Ancestors," Liao Yun said. "Somewhere deeper. Older. A cellar beneath the Orchid Wing of her palace. Monks who speak no tongue known in the court. They do not eat. They do not sleep."

I felt the cold thing stir beneath my ribs — not in fear. In recognition.

"And what does he seek there?" I asked.

Liao Yun looked at me carefully. "The same thing you brought back from the south."

The silence in the room deepened.

"Let him seek," I said finally. "Let him dig his hands into that black soil and think it gold. By the time he understands, it will be his tongue that feeds the worms."

Liao Yun bowed again. "I will continue watching."

"Good. Watch the Empress more closely. She doesn't seek allies. She collects weapons."

Later that week, the official decree arrived. I was to depart for Nanyang within ten days, a small convoy assigned to me for logistics. Shen Yue would accompany me as my civil escort, a sign of neutrality. The capital breathed easier at my departure — as though a storm had finally moved downwind.

But the Black Tigers who remained behind would not forget. Nor would Liao Yun's eyes, which would shine quietly in court shadows.

And Nanyang — ruined, bitter Nanyang — would remember too. Its ashes still warm, its wells still poisoned, its people still whispering. They would watch a prince arrive not in triumph, but in chains of ledger and grain.

But beneath those chains, something sharp remained.

A memory of blood.

A promise of ruin.

And far in the southern palaces, Wu Kang knelt before something that no longer wore a monk's skin.

Waiting.