Ashborn Empire

The road to Nanyang was wide but quiet — too quiet.

What few birds lingered in the trees fell silent as we passed, and even the wind dragging along the wheel spokes seemed to whisper warnings. The earth, once muddy and beaten from war, had hardened under the summer heat. Yet beneath that dry crust, something rotted.

I rode at the front, Shen Yue to my right and Han Qing flanking the rear with the vanguard. Liao Yun, mounted on a brown gelding with no crest, had ridden ahead earlier that morning. He returned at the next mile marker — a shattered shrine, the statue's head missing, the incense long since crumbled to dust.

He dismounted and walked straight to me, brushing road dust from his robe sleeves. His expression was cool and precise — the face of a man not used to being seen, now forced into the sun.

"There are signs," he murmured, "of tampering along the outer roads. The supply carts meant for Nanyang's granaries — several never made it. Two were found burned along the eastern slope. Witnesses say the drivers 'disappeared' before the fire began."

"Bandits?" Shen Yue asked.

Liao Yun's mouth twisted faintly. "Perhaps. But these bandits knew which wagons carried tax grain. And which had nothing worth burning."

I nodded. "Sabotage, then. Political."

"And careful," Liao Yun said. "Someone wants your arrival in Nanyang to begin with hunger and unrest. They want the people desperate. That way, when you fail to deliver — it will not be quiet failure, but failure they can crucify."

Behind us, the procession of soldiers, clerks, and engineers rolled forward, ignorant of what waited beyond the hill.

I looked toward the horizon. The road curved like a blade toward distant peaks, and just past them — hidden in haze — lay Nanyang.

We set camp beneath withered trees at dusk. The air had the scent of smothered smoke, and none of the birds returned. Han Qing posted guards with strict rotation. I retired to the command tent with Shen Yue and Liao Yun, poring over the early scrolls and rebuilding plans sent from the capital.

"There's no real budget," Shen Yue muttered, scanning the ledger. "These allocations wouldn't feed a prefect's household, let alone rebuild an entire city."

"That's the point," Liao Yun said, voice quiet. "You're being sent to fail. Nanyang was once rich. Rebuilding it now would earn you real loyalty. That loyalty frightens them."

I looked at the flickering lantern light against the tent's canvas. The shadows seemed to writhe in the seams.

"Wu Kang," I said.

Liao Yun inclined his head. "He sends his regards, by the way. A rather public gift of wine to the office they expect you to assume. Poisoned, of course — not in substance, but in meaning. If you accept it, it implies alliance. If you refuse it, it marks defiance."

"Then I'll drink it," I murmured, "in front of the court. And let them wonder what I've learned to stomach."

Shen Yue gave me a sidelong glance. "Your tongue is becoming sharper than your blade."

"It has to," I said. "Steel won't help in the halls I now walk."

Later that night, I found Liao Yun alone, seated near the edge of camp, scrolls stretched across his lap. His hands moved in calm precision, sketching troop paths, reconstruction targets, and possible factions in Nanyang's ruins.

"Are you afraid?" I asked him.

He didn't look up. "Of what?"

"That I've become something else. That you serve a monster now."

At that, he paused. Then slowly rolled the scroll closed.

"I do not serve monsters," he said. "I serve victory. And when the old rules no longer win wars, one must write new ones."

He rose and bowed. "I stayed in Ling An to watch our enemies. But now, I think you need someone to watch your allies even more."

We rode at dawn.

The hills thinned, and the blackened posts of old field camps began to rise from the soil. A rusted banner flapped in the wind — the sigil so faded I could not tell whether it once belonged to friend or foe.

Nanyang finally came into view before midday.

What remained of it, anyway.

The outer walls were broken, crumbled in several sections, overgrown with weeds. Smoke rose from beyond the walls — cooking fires, perhaps. Or remnants of something more sinister.

As we approached the gate, the guards looked half-starved, and one wore mismatched armor. They bowed hastily, eyes sunken, and let us through.

Inside was worse. Burned buildings still stood hollow, leaning like drunks. The roads were cracked. The river that once fed the granaries was low and brown. Children watched us from alley shadows — silent and thin as ghosts.

Shen Yue reined in beside me. "You have your task now, Minister."

I dismounted slowly.

From the balcony of a half-burned watchtower, a noble I vaguely remembered from court stepped forward, bowing too low, too rehearsed. Behind him were minor officials, sycophants left to rot in this corner of the empire.

"Your Grace," he said, "we had not expected your arrival so soon. Forgive the condition of—"

I cut him off with a glance. "Fetch your records. And summon your engineers."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Liao Yun rode up behind me. He looked over the ruin, his face unreadable.

"This place is hollow," he said. "It won't take a hammer to destroy it. A whisper will do."

I turned to him. "Then let's build walls that whispers cannot reach."

That night, while the city stumbled to receive us, another message arrived.

A folded letter. No crest. The wax seal cracked easily between my fingers.

Inside, only a single line in Wu Jin's hand:

"If you need the treasury's gold to save this city, I can help — but you will owe me a favor that gold cannot repay."

The ink smelled faintly of smoke.

And as I held the message, the cold thing inside me stirred again. It didn't like the taste of debts.

But it smiled.

Because favors… were another kind of weapon.