Han Xin stood at the center, surrounded by the Council, his posture rigid, his gaze distant. His crown was the first to go.
Han Jun stepped forward, his expression carved from stone. With a slow, deliberate motion, he reached up and removed the gold crown from Han Xin's hair. As it lifted, Han Xin's snow-white hair spilled down his shoulders like a waterfall—untamed, unbound, no longer held by the weight of divine authority.
Next came the robes. Layer by layer, his immortal vestments were stripped away each one embroidered with celestial law, each one a symbol of his rank. Beneath them, he wore only a simple tunic, the kind worn by mortals who had never tasted the stars.
His sword, a blade forged from moonlight and oath was taken last. It was lifted from his side and placed into a sealed chamber, its glow dimming as if mourning its master.
