Night Time at the Jade Bowl Pavilion
The lamps of the Jade Bowl Pavilion burned low, casting flickering shadows across silk-draped walls and lacquered screens. Wine flowed, laughter echoed — but beneath it all, there was unease.
Prince Wu Kang, the eldest son of the Lord Protector, sat reclined at the head of the gathering. Around him, a scattering of loyal ministers and generals feigned merriment. Behind the wine cups and calligraphy, their eyes darted—watching him, and watching each other.
General Yi, commander of the Eastern Garrison, raised his cup and bowed low.
"Congratulations, Your Highness," he said. "To command the Eastern Garrisons is no small feat. Sixty thousand men now march beneath your banner. Should you need anything—my sword, my voice—you have it."
Wu Kang smirked. He swirled the wine in his cup before replying.
"Sixty thousand men," he said, "and yet it was ten thousand who stole the glory."
A hush fell over the pavilion.
"My younger brother, Wu An," he continued, voice tinged with bitterness, "led a mere handful of Black Tigers into the north — and shattered the Golden Mandate. Even those fanatics from the Crimson Banner lowered their banners and begged for quarter. Now the Southern Kingdom whispers his name like it's something divine."
He exhaled through his nose and leaned back.
"I am the eldest. I hold the naval command, the Red Dragon legions, and now the East. But I couldn't break the Mandate. He did, with dust-covered savages and a cursed glint in his eyes."
The others lowered their gazes, unsure of how far his words would go.
Then, from the shadows, Minister Chen cleared her throat.
She was old — older than most courtiers still breathing — her voice like worn silk, steady but brittle.
"Your Highness," she said, "I taught you, as I taught your father. I have watched emperors rise and burn like candles. Let me speak plainly."
Wu Kang gestured silently for her to continue.
"The Fourth Prince may shine now, but his victory is a lonely one. He holds no court faction. No backing from the nobility. The Northern Kingdom alone holds eight hundred thousand men loyal to the Protectorate. And though the Black Tiger Battalion is famed, it numbers only ten thousand — and they are exhausted, buried deep in Cao Wen."
She paused, her gaze sharp despite the tremor in her hands.
"You, Highness, command the Golden River Fleet. Thirty thousand by sea, another thirty on land. You sit at the heart of power. His success, impressive as it is, leaves no roots here in Ling An."
Wu Kang's frown slowly faded. He tapped the rim of his wine cup, thinking.
"Yes," he murmured. "A battle won is not a war. And a war is not a throne."
He looked up.
"Father has sent him west — to Longzhou. A dying city with rotting canals and starving peasants. He calls it a mission, but it's a punishment in all but name."
The room was silent now, truly silent.
Wu Kang's voice dropped, almost to a whisper.
"We must watch him. Closely. No more victories. Not even a rumor. The next time he tastes glory… it must be his last."
He stood, raising his cup high.
"I will not be eclipsed. I will not be forgotten. I will not kneel at the feet of a brother who walked through ash to wear a crown. I will rise above it — above all of them."
The others hesitated — then raised their cups in turn.
As the wine was drunk and the lanterns flickered, a quiet understanding passed between them.
Something had been set in motion.
And no toast could wash the blood off that.
Longzhou.
The name echoed in my thoughts like a curse whispered through iron bars.
I sat alone in the stillness of my chamber. The silks were clean, the floor scrubbed, the lamps dim—but nothing in the room felt clean. Nothing felt like mine. The scent of war and burnt lotus still lingered in my robes, no matter how many times I changed them.
My body was healed, but something beneath the skin had not stopped rotting.
This is no mission, I thought. It's a cage built with silk and duty.
They say I returned in victory. That I shattered the north. That I am to be rewarded.
But I know what this truly is: a test wrapped in courtesy. A trap baited with honor. Longzhou is far enough to be forgotten, close enough to be judged. They want me to stumble. To falter. To prove them right.
And still… I must go.
Even as the visions returned.
They were not as they once were. They no longer came only in dreams. They pressed into waking, bleeding between thought and breath.
It began with sound.
Laughter. Not joyous. Not cruel. Just wrong.
Then images—shifting and fast. Soldiers with skin peeled away to reveal scripture instead of muscle. Faces melted into calligraphy that screamed in a tongue I almost understood.
And the vault.
It rose in my memory like a submerged corpse breaking the surface.
The vault beneath Cao Wen's palace. Where knowledge was sealed not to be preserved—but to be contained. Where scrolls were bound with sinew. Where stone tablets breathed when no one looked.
I had opened it. Walked its halls. Read what should not have been written. I told myself I was prepared for its truths.
But I had not noticed—something followed me out.
I looked into the water basin and froze.
The reflection no longer flinched. No longer blinked when I did. Its mouth hung slightly open, as if tasting something on the air that I could not smell.
Its expression was not mine.
And neither, I realized, was the exhaustion in my chest.
I hadn't wept since returning. Not after the killings. Not after the burnings. Not even when I stood among the surrendered generals and watched them kneel, blindfolded, waiting for death.
Because something in me—something essential—was gone.
Not stolen. Not shattered. Just… quiet.
Like a part of me had been asked to leave, and it had obeyed.
What did I trade in that vault?
My ambition? My soul?
Or something far more human—remorse?
I wanted to scream, but the thought felt foreign. Pointless. As if the man who would have screamed no longer existed.
Instead, I stood.
I dressed.
I gave orders to prepare for Longzhou.
But as I fastened my cloak, I caught the faint scent of ink and lotus ash rising from my collar—though no incense had been lit.
And I knew then: the vault had not shown me what would come.
It had already begun.