Ming was being dragged through the crowded streets of the Empire's capital, his hands bound and his steps unsteady. The crowd jeered and whispered, watching the boy who had once made even the Emperor move.
He tried to laugh at first — a broken, bitter sound — but after a while, even that faded. His strength was gone. Three days without food had left him pale and trembling, his body swaying with each pull of the rope tied around his wrists. The guards no longer walked beside him; they simply dragged him by his robe, as if he were no more than a prisoner awaiting death.
The Emperor had ordered that everyone witness his fall — a public display meant to remind the people of who truly held power.
After some time, Ming finally passed beyond the gates of the imperial capital. The noise of the city faded behind him, replaced by the cold silence of the open road. Dust rose with each step of the soldiers escorting him, their armor glinting under the pale sunlight.
Ahead, two groups waited.
On the left stood the General of the Righteous Sword and his disciplined soldiers — their formation sharp, their eyes filled with duty. On the right, Namgung Soho from the Namgung Clan, along with his followers, stood quietly, their expressions unreadable.
The tension between the two sides was thick enough to cut through. It was clear — both were here for Ming. But whether to guard him or to claim him, no one could tell.
Soho stood silently, his eyes fixed on the boy being dragged forward. His expression showed nothing, but inside his mind, the Alliance Leader's words echoed like a blade against stone.
"Namgung Soho… no matter what happens, you must get him. If he tries to run, or if the Emperor's guards capture him—kill him. We can't afford him becoming a threat in the future."
"So if the Emperor gets him," Soho asked, voice low and even, "what's the real problem? Nobody would want to serve a man who murdered his own family. Why risk everything for a boy?"
The Alliance Leader's smile was thin, more predator than comfort. He let the question hang, then folded his hands as if arranging pieces on a board.
"You're thinking too small," the Leader said. "The Empire does not win by laws and banners alone. They conquer Jianghu by breaking will. They have an art — call it manipulation, call it control — that bends minds. Once they turn someone, that person becomes a blade in their hand. Not a rebel. Not a rival. A weapon."
He stepped closer, eyes glittering. "If the Emperor captures Ming, they won't merely punish him. They will remake him. They will force him to fight for them, to kill for them, and to carry their influence into places we cannot reach. A boy who hates the Emperor could become the perfect Trojan horse."
"That's why you must get him," the Leader finished quietly. "Not to save him. To stop him being turned into their instrument. If he can't be kept safe, then he must not be used against us."
Soho looked at Ming and smiled, a thin, dangerous thing. If the boy survived and was turned into an Alliance pawn, Soho's position would be at risk — a replaceable man in a shifting deck of power.
"So whatever happens," he thought, "I'll kill him and pin it on the General."
The plan was simple and cruel: cut the root, blame another, ensure no investigation followed. If Ming lived as an instrument of the Empire or the Alliance, Soho would lose everything. Better a corpse with a clear culprit than a live threat that could topple him.
"General of the Righteous Sword — same orders. Capture him if you can. If you can't, kill him. Today we decide: either Ming becomes a tool for their forces, or he dies. Do not fail."
The Emperor turned to the General of the Righteous Sword. His voice dipped, cold and final.
"Give him the same order," he said. "Capture the boy if possible. If capture fails, end him. Whatever happens today — either Ming becomes an instrument for their armies, or he's dead. No mercy, no hesitation."
The General's jaw was a cliff. "Innocent or not, if it were my family…" He didn't finish the sentence — the rest lived in the hard set of his shoulders. "I'm a general. I don't bend for kings or crowds. I hear orders. I see enemies. I strike. That's all I know."
They seated Ming in the carriage and eased his bound hands open. One of Soho's companions stepped forward with a cup and a scrap of bread. He offered it with a small, practiced smile. "Eat up and rest," he said. "Once we're in the valley, the game begins." Then he turned and left, his smile still on his face.
Ming sat alone in the carriage. The wood creaked with every turn of the wheels. His eyes had darkened — not with anger, but with emptiness — and his face showed no trace of emotion. He stared at nothing, his mind too tired to care.
Outside, voices broke the silence.
The General's tone was firm, his words measured.
"The Emperor has set the rules," he said. "We'll release Ming once we reach the valley. Whoever finds him first can claim him — dead or alive. That's the game."
There was a pause, the quiet stretch of two men who understood the cruelty of what was coming.
"After we release him," the General continued, "we wait thirty minutes. No one moves before then. Once the time passes… the chase begins."
Through the thin wooden wall, Ming listened. His eyes stayed empty, but something deep inside him stirred — a flicker of disbelief… or maybe the last spark of rage.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze to the food in his hands. His stomach twisted at the sight, but he forced himself to eat. Each bite tasted like dust, yet he swallowed it anyway — not for strength, but for focus.
They reached the clearing at last. The carriage doors groaned open and the air hit Ming like a cold hand. Before him lay a wide field that fell away into a thick, dark forest. Behind him, two forces stood in loose formation — men with hungry eyes and steel at their hips — smiling as if this were sport.
The General stepped forward and looked Ming in the face. His voice was flat and official, the kind used to dress murder in ceremony.
"Emperor shows mercy," he said. "Run and you may yet be free if you manage to escape. If one of us catches you, you'll serve the Emperor — that, too, is mercy. But if the Alliance men catch you," — he nodded toward Soho — "then you die."
Soho bristled at the word, but his expression did not change. He smiled, the sort of smile that reached nowhere near his eyes.
"If you choose to come with us," Soho said softly, "I will see to your safety."
His voice was calm; the promise was a blade hidden in silk.
Ming did not say anything. He looked at the two of them with deep eyes, then opened his mouth.
"I want some kind of weapon to protect myself," he said.
The general did not think much of it because Ming did not know any martial arts, and his side's least powerful fighter was a second-grade martial artist. So the general threw a short blade toward Ming and he caught it. Ming turned toward the woods and started running.