The room was still, bathed in a quiet blue just before dawn. Akira lay half-turned on the silken bedding, one arm draped over his waist, the other bent to cradle his head. The sheet had slipped slightly, revealing the line of his collarbone and the faint tension etched into his jaw. He wasn't truly asleep. Even in slumber, something chased him.
In the dream, he was running fast, breath ragged, feet pounding against ground that shifted like mist. Ahead, a figure moved just beyond reach,
He called out.
They stopped.
And then, before he could reach them, their form scattered—breaking apart into hundreds of glimmering butterflies that spiraled into the sky like golden petals in a storm.
He lunged.
His fingers closed around one. But when he opened his hand, what lay inside wasn't alive.
The wings were torn delicate veins shredded, crushed into silence. It crumbled suddenly, without a sound, turning into ash that caught fire in his palm and scattered on the wind.
His breath caught. "No…"
His eyes snapped open.
The ceiling above him was pale with the first gold of dawn. A faint breeze filtered through the window lattice, brushing over his skin. Akira exhaled slowly and sat up, one hand dragging through his hair. His voice was low, almost confused.
"…What kind of dream was that?"
He turned his head slightly. Outside, the edge of the sky was breaking into pinks and oranges. Light spilled over the courtyard tiles in rippling gold. He reached toward the nearby stand, fingers brushing the surface of lacquer before lifting the golden mask resting there. Its surface caught the morning sun, warm and gleaming.
He held it for a moment, then gently slipped it over his face.
"They should be here by now," he murmured, "Time to welcome my four… headaches."
Just beyond the palace's towering High Gates—an ancient arch of white stone engraved with gold-scripted blessings—a wide ceremonial platform stretched beneath the rising sun.
The Dawning Steps shimmered faintly with spiritual wards and sacred inscriptions, carved by the first emperors to honor the bloodlines blessed by the heavens.
Akira walked steadily across the marble expanse, each step echoing, his golden mask in place and robes flowing lightly in the morning breeze. Behind him, Zuzu trailed with shoulders slumped and a scowl etched across his face.
"Of all days," Zuzu muttered under his breath, clearly unimpressed. "They're finally coming back…"
Ahead, Daita stood at the emperor's right side, his arms folded neatly behind his back. His gaze flicked to the approaching prince, then to Zuzu, and he let out a quiet sigh.
As Akira stepped up beside him, Daita leaned slightly and muttered under his breath, "What took you so long? Don't tell me you were still asleep."
Akira scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, his voice low. "I was…"
But before he could finish, a sudden shift in the air silenced them both.
The High Gates groaned open.
A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, lifting loose petals and silk streamers into the air. Sunlight streamed through the parting gates like divine fire.
First came the imperial guard—four squared rows marching in perfect rhythm, armor catching light with every step. Their movements carved a path down the long jade-tiled walkway, flanked by banners representing each of the four directions: North, South, East, and West.
Behind them, two elegant palanquins emerged—lacquered in dark wood and inlaid with silver and moonstone, veiled by gauze that fluttered in the wind. One bore the fierce insignia of the Celestial Dragon, its coils etched in gold. The other carried the delicate crest of the Magnolia Blossom.
At the sight, the Emperor's stern expression softened—just slightly.
Following the palanquins, two figures on horseback came into view. Both dismounted in unison, their postures straight, movements fluid with practiced grace. Dust lifted around their boots as they walked toward the platform with unhurried calm.
Then, four men stepped forward from among the guards.
Their robes bore the sigils of the Four Directions—each the head instructor and guardian of a quadrant of the Empire.
They bowed deeply before the Emperor.
"Your Majesty," said the one clad in crimson armor, voice clear and respectful. "The imperial heirs have completed their trial. They crossed the Four Calamities and emerged not only unscathed but ascended. Each has reached a new rank."
"They have returned."
The wind shifted.
From the twin palanquins, veiled in gauze and moonlight, two figures stepped out—one in crimson robes embroidered with flames, the other in layered silk of stormy blue. As soon as they emerged, their eyes met and instantly turned away. Their movements were elegant, but the air between them crackled like a storm waiting to break. A flick of hair. A sidelong glance.
Behind them, two young men dismounted their steeds, having witnessed the cold exchange. The boys mirrored their sisters' gestures with equal stubbornness, one raising an eyebrow, the other clicking his tongue in annoyance. As the girls strode forward, each boy fell in step behind one.
They moved like four points of a compass, separate yet bound by the same direction.
The silence broke as Four generals—each clad in distinct colors of the cardinal directions—stepped forward and bowed low in unison. Their armor bore scars from recent battles, and their expressions were laced with pride.
"Your Majesty," intoned the first, his crimson cloak fluttering in the breeze, "Her Highness, Princess Raizen Zehui, has returned from the Northern Range. She has reached the Fourth Rank after subduing the Glacier Serpent of Mount Saien."
Zehui stepped forward gracefully, her chin tilted high. She bowed, but her eyes flicked sideways to Zemei like a silent challenge.
The second general stepped forth, silver-plated and stern. "His Highness, Prince Raizen Zeyu, has returned from the Southern Scorch. He has reached the Fifth Rank by surviving the Trial of the Blazing Vale without a drop of water."
Zeyu adjusted his sleeves with a smirk, stepping ahead and bowing lazily, then immediately turning to toss a smug look at the boy beside him.
The third general in robes of indigo, speaking for the West announced, "Her Highness, Princess Raizen Zemei, returns victorious from the Storm Labyrinth. She reached the Fourth Rank after enduring twelve nights without shelter."
Zemei stepped forward like thunder wrapped in silk. She bowed sharply, then gave Zehui a deliberately slow look from head to toe. "Northern winds must be getting weaker," she said sweetly. "Or was the serpent just old?"
Zehui smiled without warmth. "You'll know what cold feels like… when you reach the mountains I did."
The last general, a man cloaked in moss green, stepped forward. "His Highness, Prince Raizen Zemu, has returned from the Eastern Marsh. He has reached the Fifth Rank after defeating the Mirror Beast… and resisting his own reflection for seven days."
Zemu gave a lazy bow and muttered to Zeyu, "Fighting monsters is easy. Living in your shadow? That's a real trial."
Zeyu snorted. "Keep talking. Maybe one day someone will believe you."
Their bickering was enough to earn a long sigh from Daita and a visible twitch from Zuzu, who stood just behind Akira, arms crossed.
The Emperor said nothing—but his gaze, though stern as stone, softened for the briefest breath as he looked over the four. Despite the hardened stances, the soot and sweat still on their skin, there was no mistaking it.
They were still young.
Zehui was the first to step forward again. She bowed low with poise and said evenly, "It is an honor to stand before you again, Your Majesty. The North was cold, but it did not freeze the fire in my limbs."
A faint glimmer crossed the Emperor's eyes. He gave a slight nod, then raised a hand.
An attendant approached, carrying a long rectangular tray draped in red silk. The Emperor stepped down from the dais himself and pulled the cloth away.
Resting on the tray was a sword—its sheath a deep lacquered crimson, with silver-gold etchings coiling down its length like flame. A crimson gem sat embedded in the hilt, pulsing faintly with spiritual energy.
The Emperor held it out.
"This is your reward," he said. "I heard your sword was shattered during the battle. I had this one forged using the remaining pieces of your old blade. It resonates with your inner core, so you won't need to undergo the weapon trials again—besides, your father's blade once bore the same gem."
His tone remained calm, yet there was an unmistakable note of pride beneath it.
"I didn't need you present to choose it."
Zehui accepted the sword with reverence and bowed once more, but didn't reply—her gaze fixed on the blade as if testing its weight in memory.