The cliffs rose like broken teeth.
Wind sheared between them in thin, knife-like currents, carrying no sand, no scent — only the memory of voices that had sworn they would never bow to any throne built by mortal hands.
Shen Yue and I climbed in silence.
Some paths were carved cleanly, others cracked by claws or tools or collapse.
Every surface bore marks of resistance.
"These people fought something," Shen Yue said.
"No," I said. "They refused something."
"And he punished them?"
"Mercilessly."
She didn't ask who.
She didn't need to.
The higher we climbed, the more the scars became familiar.
Cuts in stone at the height of a man's shoulder.
Scorch marks wide enough to have come from a single sweeping strike.
Symbols carved to bind spirits — broken, shattered, overwritten by something colder.
"Your father," Shen Yue whispered, "was not fighting for a throne. He was eliminating every witness."
"No," I murmured.
"He was eliminating competition."
We reached a plateau.
There, built against the cliffside, stood the first surviving sect hall — a small, angular structure of dark stone, each block carved with runes that pulsed faintly when touched by moonlight.
A figure emerged from its doorway.
Gray hair.
Eyes like storm-washed steel.
Robes patched and reforged a dozen times.
Not a hermit.
Not a monk.
A survivor.
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he bowed — not in respect, not in welcome, but in recognition.
"You bear his mark."
His voice scraped like a blade against old armor.
Shen Yue's stance tightened. "He bears nothing of that man."
The old master shook his head. "He bears everything of him. The rhythm in his breath. The heat in his blood. The hunger in his purpose."
He stepped closer, holding out a hand.
"In another life," he said, "you would have been our student."
"And in this life?" I asked.
"In this life," he said, "you are the final error your father made."
Shen Yue blinked. "You're saying Wu An is a mistake?"
"No," the master replied. "He is a contingency."
My pulse froze.
"For what?" I asked.
"For when your father cannot ascend the Mandate himself."
Shen Yue's hand flew to her sword. "He intends for An to—"
"Yes," the master said softly.
"To become the vessel when he fails."
The bridge inside me recoiled.
The old master noticed.
"You feel it. Good. That means you can still resist him."
"Can you teach me how?" I asked.
The master's eyes softened. "I can teach you how he became what he is."
He gestured toward the sect hall.
"Come inside. The truth is not gentle. But neither are you."
Ling An was no longer pretending.
Zhou's first overt movement came at dawn.
Three thousand troops marched through the northern gate — not the "regiment" they had promised, but soldiers in full armor, bearing long pikes and tower shields engraved with the Zhou Emperor's personal seal.
The commander saluted Wu Jin with perfect, infuriating courtesy.
"By order of His Majesty of Zhou," he declared, "we are here to ensure the Mandate's continuity."
The phrase landed like a blade between ribs.
Wu Jin managed a diplomatic smile. "Your Emperor is gracious."
"And vigilant," the commander responded. "As all kings must be, in times of… succession uncertainty."
Succession.
They were already framing Liang as leaderless.
Already preparing to "stabilize" it.
Already rehearsing their annexation.
Wu Jin dismissed the court and stormed into his private chamber, ripping off his ceremonial sash.
Wu Shuang appeared in the doorway.
"You dreamed again," he accused.
"Yes."
"What did he say this time?"
Her silence lasted too long.
"Shuang."
Finally, she spoke.
"He said: 'Let them march. When the bell rings, their armies will kneel.'"
Wu Jin's blood ran cold.
"That's not all," he said.
She lowered her gaze. "No."
"What else?"
She hesitated—
then lied.
"He said nothing more."
Wu Jin stared at her.
He knew she lied.
She knew he knew.
But he also knew she would not tell him what she did see.
Not yet.
Not until it helped her survive.
Wu Shuang's loyalties were not shifting.
They were being rewritten daily.
And the only constant was the unknown hand guiding her dreams.
Far to the south—
beyond Hei Fort—
beyond the marsh that had turned to black glass—
a lone pavilion stood in absolute stillness.
Inside, beneath silk hangings embroidered with the dragon of Liang, burned a single lantern.
The man sitting beside it was very much alive.
The Emperor of Liang.
His robes were immaculate.
His crown perfectly arranged.
His posture serene.
He read a scroll by lamplight, lips curling into a faint smile.
A masked attendant knelt. "Your Majesty—scouts from the South request audience."
"Let them."
Two soldiers — not Southern, not Northern — entered. Their armor bore no kingdom's colors.
They bowed deeply.
"We bring news. The border… shifts."
The Emperor nodded once.
"And the tower?" he asked.
"It grows," the soldier said. "Faster than men can climb it."
The Emperor closed the scroll.
"Good," he murmured. "Let him build."
The soldier hesitated. "Your Majesty… with respect… if the Lord Protector completes the tower—"
"He will attempt to seize the Mandate," the Emperor finished calmly.
"Yes."
"Then let him."
The Emperor's smile sharpened.
"Mandates belong to those who can steal them."
The soldiers exchanged fearful glances.
"And the people?" one asked. "What of Liang's fate?"
The Emperor looked up.
His eyes gleamed with a quiet, ancient intelligence.
"You misunderstand," he said. "The fate of Liang has never belonged to Liang. It belongs to whatever king survives the breaking."
He rose.
Tall.
Unshaken.
Unfearful.
"Tell the South," he said, "that I am ready."
The attendants bowed and left in a hurry.
When the room was empty, the Emperor exhaled.
"Lord Protector," he murmured to the darkness. "Do not die before I take what you built."
And then he extinguished the lantern.
Not by blowing.
By pinching the flame between his fingers.
Back in the west, the master led us into the sect hall.
Its interior was carved with spirals, symbols of time and choice.
"You wish to kill your father," he said.
Not a question.
A fact.
I didn't argue.
"But first," he continued, "you must understand what he is."
He lit a brazier.
Smoke curled upward in ribbons that did not disperse.
"He is not angry," the master said.
"I know."
"He is not grieving."
"I know."
"He is not devout."
"I know."
"He does not want the world to kneel," he said. "He wants the heavens to kneel."
My breath caught.
"He seeks the Mandate not as right," the master said, "but as possession. He sees thrones the way butchers see animals."
"And his children?" Shen Yue asked.
The master looked at me.
"He sees them as tools to carve the meat."
A tremor rolled through the ground.
Not the ground.
The tower.
Its third pulse.
The brazier's flames bent sideways.
The master stepped back, face tightening.
"You are running out of time," he said.
"We know," I replied.
"No," he said, voice low. "Not to stop him."
He met my eyes.
"To remain yourself."
The bridge inside me shivered.
And for the first time, I knew he was right.
The tower would finish its fourth tier soon.
When it did—
My father's plan would not simply ascend.
It would devour.