Prince Yun's Judgment
Prince Yun no longer heard the screams.
The world had faded—blotted out by memories that played gently, softly, like snowflakes falling.
---
In the past…
Young Bowen had always laughed the loudest in the snow.
One day, Yun had asked, innocently:
> "Why do you like snow?"
Bowen's cheeks had been flushed red from the cold. He answered without hesitation:
> "There are games you can only play in the snow. It's not around all the time... so I like playing in it with you when it is."
Back then, Yun had associated snow with death—with silence and graves, not games.
But Bowen's words had given him hope.
The snow didn't look red that day.
Later, on a quiet walk, Yun had murmured:
> "My hair is white as snow."
And a servant nearby had cried out, weeping with joy:
> "The prince isn't colorblind!"
---
Back in the present…
The memory snapped.
Yun raised the gun—and shot Bowen in the right shoulder.
> Bang.
The sound echoed through the scorched palace.
> "That," Yun said flatly, "is for making me misunderstand."
Ruo Yan said nothing. He looked on as though Yun were drawing on blank paper. Emotionless. Detached.
Another two shots.
> Bang. Left shoulder.
> Bang. Left knee.
Bowen screamed—high, desperate, animalistic.
But Yun's voice was louder.
> "That's for making me believe you thought everyone was equal."
Yun had abolished slavery in Suntze for that belief.
> "That one is for making me think you were lonely as the crown prince."
Yun had traveled through three kingdoms every two weeks just to be by his side.
Another shot.
> Bang. Right knee.
> "That's for making me feel sick with worry when I wasn't near you."
He had cared.
Even when Bowen stopped writing. Even when his letters turned cold. Yun waited. Waited and hoped.
---
The barrel wavered.
Between Bowen's head… and his heart.
The final shot rang out.
> Bang.
Straight to the heart.
And Yun's voice—so often cold—was now soft. So soft it could've been mistaken for kindness.
> "That one... is for making me believe we were meant to be."
A silence heavier than any cannon fell.
Then—
drip
A soft sound.
Ruo Yan blinked.
> "Rain?" he thought, confused.
> "Wait… we're inside."
He turned—and saw Yun's face.
The gun was still aimed forward.
But tears were falling freely down his cheeks.
Slow. Steady. Silent.
Ruo Yan frowned.
He moved behind Yun, grabbed his chin, and made him face him.
> "So," he muttered, almost annoyed, "you are capable of emotion."
He didn't try to lower Yun's gun.
Instead, he took Yun's hand—still gripping the weapon—and pressed it to his own chest.
Over his heart.
> "If you're capable of feeling," Ruo Yan whispered with a mad grin,
> "then why not direct those feelings at me?"
---
#Meanwhile, in the Xilei Grasslands
Rong Tian sat atop his horse, watching the wind dance through the tall grass.
A tumbleweed rolled past lazily.
One of his men looked toward the horizon.
> "Your Majesty... is the King of Li late?"
Rong Tian didn't answer at first. His gaze lingered on the endless plains.
> "No," he finally said, eyes narrowing.
> "He's... right on time."