The night was a heavy shroud over the underground palace of the Imperial Astronomer.
Here, sunlight was a forgotten myth. Pale, ghostly green "Everlasting Lamps" clung to the stone walls, their flickering light illuminating the face of Grand Preceptor Xing Chen—a face as inscrutable and still as a stagnant well. His slender fingers brushed over a secret missive, the paper emitting a sharp, brittle rasp against his skin.
The report was stark: The Consort of Zhan is stricken with a terminal plague; Prince Zhan has abandoned all governance, indulging nightly in the company of a personal maidservant, with whispers of elevating the concubine and discarding the legitimate wife.
"To think, this Xiao Zhan..." Xing Chen murmured, a derisive curl forming on his lips. "Back in the capital, when he was merely the Third Prince, he played the part of a man without desire—a sickly shadow who seemed ready to draw his last breath at any moment."
He recalled the Xiao Zhan of the capital: a man so indifferent to fame and power that he was almost transparent. Even Xing Chen had once believed him to be nothing more than a prince destined for an early grave.
"Now that he is in the remote reaches of Zhanchuan, where the mountains are high and the Emperor is far, he has undergone a transformation. Not only has he developed a taste for flesh, but he revels in it nightly?" Xing Chen let out a sharp, staccato laugh. A flicker of suspicion crossed his eyes, only to be instantly devoured by his own towering arrogance. "It seems that 'fragile shell' of his mended quite quickly. Men... once the shackles are removed, the rot in their bones grows as uncontrollably as weeds."
In his worldview, no man could escape the twin traps of wine and women. Xiao Zhan's fall was not just expected; it was an essential piece of his grand design. He turned slowly toward the dark-clad scout kneeling in the shadows.
"Do you know how to report the situation in the Zhanchuan fiefdom to His Majesty?" Xing Chen's voice was a low, commanding rasp.
The scout, shivering in the biting chill of the subterranean hall, pressed his forehead lower to the damp floor. "This servant understands. I shall report that the Consort's life hangs by a thread, and that Prince Zhan is a profligate wretch who indulges in debauchery and humiliates his legal wife. Not a single detail shall be missed."
Xing Chen nodded with cold satisfaction. With a sweep of his wide Daoist robes, he conjured a draft that sent the green flames dancing violently.
"Go. Let the Emperor know that his son in the borderlands has become a toothless drunkard. It is for the best... for everyone."
The scout vanished into the darkness like a phantom. Xing Chen stood alone, watching the emerald fire. He had no way of knowing that the "profligacy" he so firmly believed in was merely a comedy of errors—the result of the wooden, clumsy protectiveness of the guard Ying Ren and the relentless pursuit of Huo Xi, a farce born of profound misunderstanding.
Xing Chen turned and walked toward the deepest bowels of the palace: the Death Cells.
His boots struck the slick, viscous floor with a rhythmic tap, tap, tap that echoed hollowly through the lightless corridor. Here, the stone walls wept black water, and the air was cold enough to shatter a man's resolve.
At the end of the corridor, the once-mighty General Chu Zheng—the man who had defended ten thousand miles of the Great Qi frontier—was suspended by cold, profound-iron chains. The links pierced through his shoulder blades, anchored deep into the rock. Chu Zheng was a skeletal ruin of a man, his legendary armor shattered, yet even with his life fading, his bloodshot eyes burned with an unyielding, iron-hearted defiance.
"General Chu, news has come from Zhanchuan," Xing Chen said, standing outside the bars. He spoke with a light, airy tone, as if chatting with an old friend about the weather. "Your precious daughter, the Consort of Zhan, has contracted the plague in those wretched lands. Her days are numbered. How disappointing... When she left the capital with Xiao Zhan, she had the gall to look me in the eye. I thought she was a tigress of the Chu clan, but it seems mortal flesh is weak after all."
Chu Zheng snapped his head up. His cracked lips trembled, and his voice was a raw, agonizing rasp. "Zhao Ning?... You lie! What of Xiao Zhan? Zhao Ning is his wife—has he not summoned the finest physicians to save her?"
"Xiao Zhan?" Xing Chen laughed, a jagged, piercing sound that scraped against the narrow walls. "The Prince is far too busy. He spends his nights in a garden of soft delights, cradling a beautiful concubine. Your dying daughter has likely been cast to the back of his mind long ago."
"Impossible!" Chu Zheng roared, his body convulsing in his shackles. The iron rings shrieked against the stone; the scabs over his wounds tore open, sending dark blood dripping down the cold chains. "Xiao Zhan is no heartless coward! Xing Chen, you think to break me with such pathetic lies?"
Xing Chen's gaze turned instantly lethal. "Believe what you wish. But I suggest you keep breathing, General. I have spent a fortune on spiritual medicines to keep your soul tethered to this corpse. I want you to see the finale—to watch the Chu clan rot in the mire, and to watch the Great Qi you defend crumble into dust."
"Xing Chen!" Chu Zheng hissed through the blood in his mouth. "We have no personal enmity! You are the Grand Preceptor, favored by the throne! Why would you frame a loyal clan and slaughter the pillars of the state?"
"Enmity?" Xing Chen straightened the pristine folds of his robe with agonizing slowess. "Chu Zheng, you are too naive. Power shifts with the tide. Your only mistake was being too rigid. This court is a rotting carcass, yet you refused to bow to me. Since you would not be the blade in my hand, I had no choice but to break you."
"Bow to you?" Chu Zheng spat a mouthful of blood. "I am a General of Great Qi! I serve the Emperor's decree! This path of yours... this kidnapping of ministers... you harbor the heart of a traitor! You seek the throne!"
"The throne? Such a tedious, exhausting seat," Xing Chen whispered, leaning close to the bars with a gaze of terrifying, manic brilliance. "The man on the throne is but a beautiful puppet. I prefer to be the one pulling the strings. Oh, and one more piece of 'good' news. The Chu line has not ended yet. Though the Consort is ill and your third son is lost at sea... I have sent your first and second sons to a wonderful place: the Eastern Border."
Chu Zheng's heart plummeted. A chill raced up his spine.
"The Empress there lacks strong, proud men to serve as her 'Royal Husbands,'" Xing Chen whispered with sickly excitement. "Think of it—your sons will enjoy supreme favor in a foreign land. Your grandchildren might one day rule the Eastern Border, masters of that realm of poisons and medicine. As a grandfather, shouldn't you be happy for their bright futures?"
Chu Zheng's mind went numb. He knew the legends of the Eastern Border—a matriarchal land where medicine and voodoo were indistinguishable. A "Royal Husband" was merely a title; in truth, they were "Living Cauldrons" used for testing poisons and cultivating venomous insects.
If they were favored, they might linger in agony; if they failed the Empress, they would be hollowed out, their souls drained while their bodies were kept alive by alchemy.
"You... you monster..." Chu Zheng stared at Xing Chen with a hatred so profound it felt as though his spirit might detach from his body to tear the man apart.
Xing Chen watched the General's collapse with a final, pleasant sigh.
"Rest well, General. I shall return once the news of the Consort's funeral arrives."
He turned and departed, his black robes billowing in the cold draft like the wings of a massive bat. The dungeon fell back into a suffocating silence, broken only by the faint, rhythmic clinking of the iron chains.
Chu Zheng lowered his head, his tears mingling with the blood on the floor.
"Yun Ning... Feng Ning... Yu Ning... Zhao Ning..."
In the darkness, he whispered the names of his children, over and over again.