The palace corridors were long, ornate, and excessively ordered.
Vermilion pillars, carved with the patterns of the True Dragon, stood unyielding, and the silk curtains did not so much as rustle even when brushed by the wind.
Gilded lanterns held a faint glow even in the broad daylight, yet the light they cast offered no warmth.
In this place, light was not a comfort; it was an instrument of cold decorum, a stage-lighting designed to perform the Imperial Majesty of the court.
Standing in the center of that path was Prince Yan Wu.
He paused for a moment, straightening his sleeves with his fingertips.
One's sleeves had to be perfectly aligned at all times. A Prince's deportment was the nation's protocol; if that protocol crumbled, the court would be mocked from a thousand miles away.
However, lately, Yan Wu realized all too frequently that decorum did not support the nation; it was merely a shroud draped over its fracturing foundation.
A thin mist hung outside the corridor.
The fog of the capital always carried the scent of the sea, but today, the sharp tang of iron pierced his nostrils first.
It was difficult to discern whether it was because the inspectors of the Censorate were scattering gazes as cold as steel as they scurried toward the throne room, or if it was the stench of suspicion that had permeated the entire palace.
The civil and military officials had already gathered before the doors leading to the audience chamber.
The heads of the Three Departments stood at the front, with the ministers of the Six Ministries lined up behind them.
The Ministry of Revenue clutched ledgers of salt taxes and requisitions; the Ministry of War held reports for reinforcing the Imperial Guard; the Ministry of Justice lowered their heads, concealing lists of the detained. The Ministry of Rites gripped their ceremonial texts with white-knuckled intensity.
In that crowd, Yan Wu spotted the Grand Preceptor.
The Grand Preceptor was uniquely inconspicuous among the assembly. More accurately, he was a man who knew precisely how to make himself invisible. A high position is not earned by having the loudest voice, but by being able to move everyone with a mere whisper. The Grand Preceptor had mastered that art long ago, and that mastery was now escalating the present danger.
The doors opened.
As the silk curtains were drawn back, the stagnant air of the audience chamber spilled into the corridor. It was an atmosphere thick with the aroma of wine, the bitter scent of medicine, and a damp, oppressive silence.
The officials fell to their knees in unison. Yan Wu lowered himself slowly, yet without hesitation. A Prince could not bow too quickly or too slowly. To be fast was to look anxious; to be slow was to appear arrogant. The court was a place where a trivial crack in behavior could be transmuted into a capital offense.
The moment his eyes met the True Dragon seated upon the high dais, Yan Wu's breath hitched. His father still wore the dragon robes; he still occupied the jade throne. But that face was no longer the face of a nation.
His flesh had withered, leaving his cheekbones protruding, and his pupils were devoid of focus. The jagged patterns of Oripathy had crawled up his neck and reached his jaw. Every time a cough erupted from his lungs, the silence of the hall was torn asunder.
The True Dragon's gaze swept over the officials. It was not the gaze of a King. Those eyes, searching for prey and selecting crimes, belonged to a hunter.
The Emperor spoke. "Does the Chancellery intend to obstruct my edict yet again?"
The head of the Chancellery's lips trembled. Obstructing an edict—bong-bak—was originally a constitutional check meant to save the nation from an Emperor's blunders. These days, however, it was treated as the precursor to high treason. It was an era where the moment you opened your mouth, a blade touched your tongue.
The Chancellor spoke cautiously. "Your Majesty, an obstruction is not an act of defiance, but rather a plea regarding the suffering of the masses..."
The True Dragon laughed. It was not a laugh, but a sneer exhaled through the nose. "The masses. There are many now who speak of the 'masses.' Does the bureaucracy no longer serve the King, but the commoners?"
In that instant, Yan Wu felt the floor of the throne room distancing itself from him. His father had truly... gone mad. And this madness was not the mere senility of an old man. It was the collapse of judgment, a catastrophe where that very collapse became law and edict.
When a King's mind wavers, the tremors themselves become commands. And those commands fall like blades, cutting through anyone in their path without discrimination.
The True Dragon gestured. An inspector from the Censorate stepped forward. A clerk from the Ministry of Justice followed. With each step they took, it felt as though a price was being set upon someone's life.
The Emperor spoke in a low rasp. "Suppress the disturbances in the capital. Behead those who spread idle rumors. If a tongue threatens the King, cut out the tongue first."
Yan Wu's fingers stiffened minutely within his sleeves. This was tyranny. As the word became crystal clear in his mind, he realized how late he was. Many had already disappeared; many houses had already burned; blood had already been poured into jars where grain should have been. Yet, his father demanded more pressure. As if squeezing the people further would somehow save the state.
What survived would not be the nation, but the fear.
Without lifting his head, Yan Wu shifted his gaze ever so slightly. The Grand Preceptor was staring at the palace floor while kneeling. But Yan Wu knew. The Grand Preceptor wasn't looking at the floor; he was looking at the final path this nation could take.
Yan Wu did not speak. Words can be seized, recorded, and turned into crimes. Thus, he spoke with his eyes. 'Contact the National Party.'
The Grand Preceptor's eyes flickered for a fraction of a second. But that tremor soon solidified into resolve. Instead of answering, he lowered his head deeper and let out a long, heavy breath.
Yan Wu returned his gaze to the floor. Above the dais, the Emperor's cough erupted once more. The sound echoed like the snapping of the Mandate of Heaven.
********************************
The night in the capital was as quiet as thin silk, but that quiet was not tranquility; it was a taboo. The footsteps of patrols were buried in every alley, and the lantern flames flickered not from the wind, but from the weight of prying eyes.
And there, a single house stood. The sign indicated it was an old pharmacy. The scent of medicinal herbs leaked through the door frame, making it appear from the outside as nothing more than the residence of a merchant balancing his ledgers late into the night.
However, once one passed through a secondary inner door, a floorboard would lift silently to reveal a subterranean gallery that required one to stoop to pass. At its end was a small room.
A single lamp illuminated the center of the room. The light was weak, and because of its frailty, it revealed only half of a face. Half was human, half was shadow. So long as the shadows remained, no one could be fully trusted.
Li Jishen was already there. The old man's hair was flecked with gray, and his hands were steady. He sat to one side of the room, keeping his distance from the lamplight. As an elder of the Western Hills Group, his tone was fluid, but his conclusions were rigid. He was a party man who possessed the breath of a seasoned bureaucrat.
Soon, Liao Zhongkai entered. A member of the Reorganization Comrades Association, he carried ledgers and documents under his arm. Fatigue was etched into his fifty-year-old face, yet his eyes were sharp. Following him was Deng Yanda. Barely thirty and a member of the Central Club, he had the face of a man who smelled the odds of success before the scent of ideology. He scanned the room once before taking a seat closest to the door.
Qu Mengyu was the last to arrive. He still possessed the energy of a man in his twenties. That energy appeared as courage to some, and recklessness to others. He hesitated for a second as his fingertips touched the door. The moment the sound of footsteps outside reached the door, his entire body went rigid. That tension was the very essence of youth in this age.
Shortly after, Military Chief Chen Mingshu, Director of Operations Dai Chunfeng, and Director of Foreign Affairs Chen Youren entered, followed by the final guest. The atmosphere in the room shifted minutely. The Party Chairman arrived.
Her face was young, possessor of a beauty that could easily be hailed as the finest in the capital. Yet, that beauty was a danger. To be beautiful was to be remembered, and to be remembered was to be etched into an arrest warrant. Thus, she pulled the brim of her hat low to hide her features. The same applied to her name.
Once the Chairman took her seat, Liao Zhongkai pushed the documents toward the lamplight. Li Jishen spoke first.
"The air in the capital has been thick lately. Thick air means rumors are circulating, and rumors mean the Censorate has caught the scent. Revolution is not accomplished by grand ideals alone. One must catch the right tide—the Shi."
Qu Mengyu held his breath before exhaling sharply. "If we wait for the tide, we will burn with it. Arrests have become so rapid... If we wait and one of our names ends up on the Ministry of Justice's list, this party will be left as a mere husk."
Deng Yanda tilted his head. "An organization left as a husk is no organization at all. But a revolution where only lives remain is no revolution either. What we need is not emotion, but the odds of victory. Once you win, the political line follows naturally."
Qu Mengyu's eyebrows twitched at that remark. Liao Zhongkai intervened smoothly. "The odds of victory begin with the political line. We must know why we move and what we seek to change. In these times, when the people's livelihood is crumbling and their rights are being trampled, the people will not trust us if we remain silent. Revolution is not born from pessimism or thin air."
Chen Mingshu laid a hand over those words. "But the people cannot fill their bellies with trust. What we need right now are hands that can move. Hands holding blades, clubs, or gunpowder. We are currently short on both weapons and manpower. If we are to shake the capital even once, we need to decide which gate to block and how, rather than debating political lines."
Chen Youren, the Director of Foreign Affairs, spoke slowly. "Words move faster than weapons. Rumors fly like arrows and open city gates. Currently, the court is in internal strife. The Emperor rules through suspicion, and the ministers are biting one another to avoid that very suspicion. We must seize that gap. We must lead the people."
Dai Chunfeng did not address that point, but struck from a different angle. "Speaking of gaps, one of our couriers was cut off this morning. It seems the Censorate caught him. If the man was brave, he would have bitten his cyanide capsule, but the possibility that he didn't is not small."
Silence fell over the room. The lamplight trembled along with the flickering wick. This silence was not an agreement; it was the common denominator of fear.
Li Jishen slowly placed his hand on the corner of a ledger. "Which is why we must be even more cautious. If we rely on hot blood alone, we will face the ruin of our families. Yan is a nation of the court. The idea that the people can only live once the court crumbles is a sweet one, but sweet sounds are always poison. We must utilize the cracks within the court to maintain it while making it ours."
Qu Mengyu could not help but raise his head. "Are you saying we should enter the court? To do so, we would have to abandon our name. What is our identity? We raised the banner of Republicanism with the Three Principles of the People as our national creed! We cannot abandon this name!"
The air in the room froze slightly. The Chairman's fingertips moved ever so slightly. Liao Zhongkai immediately cut in with a soft tone. "A pseudonym is a tactic, not cowardice. A change in name does not mean a change in intent, does it?"
The Chairman finally spoke. Her voice was low, and because it was low, it was clearer. "This is not the time for debate. Debate can happen anytime, but opportunity comes only once. Each department, give your report. We will decide by dividing our goals into short-term and mid-term objectives."
Chen Mingshu spoke first. "If a large-scale uprising is triggered in the capital, security forces will be divided into three locations: the market, the granary, and the bridge that splits the city in two. If we strike all three simultaneously, their forces will be scattered. However, we lack weapons. We are gathering arrows, but we lack... elite units. Though they are few, we can still use them."
Dai Chunfeng followed. "The patrol routes of the Censorate have changed. Before, the nights were loose, but lately, they are much tighter. It seems the night has become more terrifying to the Emperor."
Chen Youren picked up the thread. "Communication with the outside is nearly severed. Other anti-government groups have scattered, and currently, we are the only ones who can become the 'Great Name' in the capital. Once we move, others will follow. That is both a risk and an opportunity."
Deng Yanda remarked without a hint of a smile, "To become a Great Name, we'll need a great stage. Shouldn't we at least kill an Embroidered Guard commander or a powerful eunuch for good measure?"
It was then.
A knock was heard from outside the room. It was short and orderly. Neither rushed nor slow. Two knocks, then one, like a prearranged etiquette. It wasn't just the lamp flame that flickered; it was the hearts of the people inside.
Chen Mingshu's hand naturally went to the dagger at his waist. Dai Chunfeng did not look up but measured the distance between the door and the corridor with his feet.
A low voice spoke from behind the door. "I have come to the pharmacy seeking medicine."
It was the code. Dai Chunfeng mimicked an old man's voice to reply. "The medicine is bitter; will you still take it?"
"If I do not swallow it because it is bitter, there will not be another opportunity, will there?"
When that answer dropped, Dai Chunfeng gave a microscopic nod. The door opened. Two men entered.
The Grand Preceptor and Prince Yan Wu.
The gazes of the National Party executives shifted simultaneously. Disbelief, suspicion of a trap, and the spark of opportunity mingled in their eyes. It was not the shock of a disorganized rabble, but the calculation of masters of intrigue.
Liao Zhongkai spoke first. His voice was cautious, but there was an edge within the caution. "You are not the kind of people I expected to see here on such a night."
The Grand Preceptor replied, "That is why I have come. Do you believe there is anything left for this nation to do in the broad daylight?"
Deng Yanda looked the Prince straight in the eye. "If His Highness the Prince has stepped into a place filled with people like us, he must be holding something significant. What is it that you want?"
Prince Yan Wu took a shallow breath before speaking. "The dethronement of the Emperor."