The escape of Ye Fan and his rebels was a pinprick, a momentary flaw in the perfect tapestry of the Eternal Dragon Phoenix Dynasty. To the Ancestor, it was not a setback; it was an opportunity to introduce a new, more refined form of pressure. Why hunt the rats when you could smoke them out of their holes with the one thing they could not abandon: their hearts.
He did not issue the commands himself. That was the beauty of the system he had built. He simply planted the seed in the mind of his most perfect instrument.
Su Wan, the Phoenix Empress, sat upon her newly forged throne in the audience hall, the weight of the crown a familiar, comforting pressure. The memory of the battle and her subsequent "reward" was a blur of duty, exhaustion, and her Master's approving touch. Now, a new clarity filled her—a cold, imperial purpose.
"The rebels have fled like cockroaches," she announced, her voice ringing with a authority that was both hers and his. "They hide in shadows, believing their defiance has cost them nothing. They are mistaken. Their defiance has cost them their honor, and now, it will cost them their peace."
She lifted a hand, and an imperial scribe hurried forward, a scroll of pristine vellum ready.
"Let it be decreed," she proclaimed, her eyes glowing with silver fire. "The families of the traitors Lei Gang, Feng Zhi, Lin Xian'er, Bai Wei, and Lian are hereby recognized for their... potential contribution to the stability of the Dynasty."
The decrees began to flow, each one a masterstroke of psychological warfare disguised as imperial benevolence.
"For the former masters of the Scarlet Thunder Fortress," she said, her gaze icy. "Their strength should not be wasted on patrols. They are to be relocated to the Imperial Forgeworks in the volcanic ranges of the south. Their knowledge of lightning will be invaluable in powering the smelters. They will work there, under imperial supervision, for the glory of the Dynasty. Their safety, of course, is contingent on their continued productivity and the good behavior of their... wayward son."
The image was clear: Lei Gang's proud father and clansmen, reduced to glorified batteries in a hellish forge.
"The merchant family of Feng Zhi," she continued, a cruel smile touching her lips. "Their cleverness is renowned. They are appointed the official Imperial Tax Collectors for the Western Marches. Their quota will be triple the standard rate. Any shortfall will be deducted from their own assets... and their limbs."
Feng Zhi's family would be forced to become the hated face of the regime they despised, whipping their own people for tribute, their lives and wealth held hostage.
"The healers of the Lin family," her voice softened into a false, chilling concern. "Their gentle art is too precious for the rough world. They are invited to reside within the inner gardens of the Citadel itself, to tend to my personal spiritual flora. It is a great honor. They will, naturally, be our... permanent guests."
They would be pampered prisoners, held in a gilded cage within sight of the very man who had destroyed their world, their freedom a currency to be spent on their daughter's compliance.
"The Bai Clan," she declared, her tone dismissive. "Their swords are relics. Their purpose is memory. They are to be relocated to the capital and perform their 'ancient sword dances' daily in the central plaza for the edification of the citizens. Let them be a living monument to the traditions we have preserved."
The ultimate humiliation for a proud sword clan: to be made into court jesters, performing their sacred arts as a public spectacle.
"And the disciples of the former moonlit sect," she finished, her voice final. "Their administrative skills are required. They are assigned to the Office of Public Records, tasked with cataloging the history of the rebellion and the glorious rise of our Dynasty. They will write the history that justifies their own captivity."
They would be forced to narrate their own defeat, to sanitize their subjugation into a historical inevitability.
The decrees were stamped with the Phoenix seal and sent forth on wings of enchanted parchment. They were not threats of immediate execution. They were sentences of lingering, public, exquisite humiliation. They were gilded chains, beautifully crafted and impossible to break.
The message was not just for the families. It was for the rebels themselves.
In a hidden valley, days later, a spatial rift wavered. A young man, his face smudged with dirt and his clothes torn from a desperate flight, stumbled out. It was one of Feng Zhi's younger cousins, his spirit broken, a glowing imperial scroll clutched in his hand.
He found the rebels' temporary camp and fell to his knees before a grim-faced Ye Fan, holding out the scroll.
"They... they took everyone, Elder Brother Ye," the boy sobbed. "My father... he is to be a tax collector. They said... they said if Brother Feng causes any more trouble, they will start taking fingers. Then hands."
One by one, similar messages found their way to the other companions, delivered by desperate survivors or through enchanted missives that found their targets through blood ties.
Lei Gang received word of his father's sentence to the forge, and the massive man shook with a silent rage that made the ground tremble. Lin Xian'er wept openly as she learned her family was now held captive within the heart of the enemy's stronghold. Bai Wei's face turned to stone,her knuckles white on her sword hilt, as she imagined her father performing like a dancing monkey. Elder Sister Lian received the news with a quiet,devastating despair.
The strategy of the shadow war was in ruins. They could not move freely, could not strike from the darkness, when every action they took would result in the torture or humiliation of those they loved.
Ye Fan looked at the faces of his companions, each one etched with a new, personal torment. The Ancestor had not raised a sword. He had raised a mirror, forcing them to see the cost of their resistance reflected in the suffering of their families.
The decisive battle was no longer a choice. It was an inevitability, forced upon them by a villain who understood that the most unbreakable chains were not made of iron, but of love and duty. The heroes were well and truly smoked out, their hearts held in a vise, and the Ancestor waited, smiling in his Citadel, for them to come and try to break it.