Longevity Palace, Inner Sanctum.
The air inside did not move.
Scented smoke hung thick, unmoving, clinging to the old stone like skin clings to bone. The walls bore sutras too faded to read, inscribed not with reverence but with a desperate, clawing repetition — as though someone had tried to seal something in, or call something out.
The monks didn't chant.
They waited.
Eyes closed. Bodies still. Listening not to sound, but to the space around it.
And before the great statue — not quite Buddha, not quite human — Wu Ling knelt.
She wore a robe of black silk so sheer it moved like smoke. Her fingers brushed the prayer beads, one by one, lips moving in a murmur too soft to carry.
The statue towered above her. Its face had no expression, no eyes, no mouth. Just a suggestion of what a god should be.
She did not bow to it.
She just watched it. Like waiting for something to twitch.
A soft step. A servant entered — thin, pale, perfectly still.
She stopped a respectful distance behind the Empress but said nothing.
Wu Ling did not turn.
Only asked, with polite disinterest:
"Is it prepared?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. The documents are planted. The letters have been delivered. The ash—"
"Good." Her voice was light. Almost girlish. "I'm very tired of waiting. Let them entertain me. My brothers never change."
She finally turned then, just slightly, her eyes dark and blank like still water.
"Tell my husband I'll be busy this week. He can issue the Spring Proclamations without me. Tell him... I've taken a spiritual retreat."
The servant bowed. "Of course."
"And," Wu Ling added, "summon the Council."
"At once."
Behind the altar, the old monk moved.
He did not walk so much as glide, his bare feet never quite touching the ground.
He wore no insignia. No name. Just ink-dark robes that swallowed light.
When he passed beneath the last candle, the flame died.
He gave her the barest bow.
Then disappeared behind the wall of veils.
Wu Ling stood slowly.
The beads in her hand had cut into her skin, but she didn't seem to notice. She turned back to the statue and smiled faintly, head tilting to the side like a child inspecting a broken doll.
"You've been here a long time, haven't you?" she whispered.
"But you never say a thing. Never even blink. You're better than most men."
She touched the base of the statue.
The stone felt warm.
That made her smile wider.
She whispered something.
The air did not carry the words. But the silence shuddered.
A soundless ripple passed through the room — the monks inhaled sharply, as if waking from a dream they hadn't known they were in.
Then exhaled together.
Not in praise. In surrender.
Eastern Palace, private chamber of Crown Prince Wu Kang.
The screams had finally stopped.
Outside the punishment courtyard, eunuchs dragged away the limp bodies. Their cries still echoed faintly through the halls, like something trying not to be forgotten.
Wu Kang stood above his campaign map — a web of territories, names, and secrets.
Longzhou sat at the edge of the silk-tiled surface. Not forgotten.
Not forgiven.
"Sun Lian failed," he said without looking up. "He played it perfectly. She couldn't disrupt him without looking like a saboteur."
The agent behind him shifted — a ripple in the lamplight, nothing more.
"Now the court whispers his name like incense. The Hidden Prince. The Black Flame. He rebuilt Longzhou, they say. He brought the dead to order."
He scoffed.
"They forget he spent years as a shadow. Watching. Listening. Too patient to be harmless."
He stared at Longzhou's marker.
"And now, suddenly, he's a lion."
The doors opened.
The Royal Queen entered — silent, unannounced, like a spirit in flesh.
She wore robes of smoke and silver thread. Her face had aged finely, but her stillness made her look carved from something older than stone. Her presence quieted the room.
"You're planning something," she said.
"Always," Wu Kang answered.
She approached the map table.
"He isn't weak."
"No," Wu Kang said. "He's calculated. Cold."
"So are you," she murmured.
"Not cold enough," he said. "Not yet."
At the altar, a black scroll tube lay waiting.
He picked it up.
The wax seal bore a six-petal flower. One folded inward.
Wu Ling.
He broke it and unrolled the message.
It was concise. Direct. Terrifying in its precision.
"The Finance Ministry will open the southern tax review.
Four minor lords on the Council are prepared to defect from the Southern Watch.
The third bride on the Lord Protector's list is loyal to you."
He folded the scroll.
Lit it in the brazier.
Watched it turn to smoke.
"She moves quickly," the Empress observed.
"She always has," Wu Kang replied. "The trick is knowing when to follow — and when to strike first."
He turned back to the map.
"Begin leaking rumors of falsified grain inventories in Longzhou. Subtle at first — whispered through the House of Learning. Let them doubt what they just praised."
"And the girl?" the spy asked.
"Introduce her to the court by accident," he said. "Let her be seen near me. Let the rest of the candidates start to panic." The Queen narrowed her eyes.
"You're provoking instability."
"I'm testing loyalty."
Then Wu Kang picked up the Longzhou marker.
Held it between two fingers.
And placed it carefully in the center of the board — on the capital itself.
"He wants to ascend quietly," he said. "But the louder he becomes, the more the silence will turn against him."
He smiled faintly — not cruelly, but knowingly.
"Let's see what happens when the south begins to forget his name."