The Black Tiger Battalion—as they were called—did not live up to the grandeur of their name. When I first laid eyes on them, they looked less like warriors and more like wild dogs: scarred, hollow-eyed, and coiled with violence.
They did not kneel.
They did not salute.
They watched.
As if measuring whether they could get away with slitting a prince's throat.
Ren Xian, their interim commander, stepped forward. A mountain of muscle and old pain, his neck crisscrossed with healed blade marks, his gaze as dull and heavy as a worn axe.
He didn't bow.
He paced a slow circle around me, arms folded, the stench of blood and sweat clinging to him like armor. His voice, when it came, was rough gravel.
"You don't belong here, princeling," he said. "Best run back to your silk sheets before you piss yourself and cry."
The men chuckled—low, humorless barks, the kind you hear before the knife goes in.
I took one step forward, calm.
"If none of you trust me," I said, "then let me give you a reason."
The laughter died.
Ren's eyes narrowed, sharp now. Watching. Waiting.
"Killer follows killer," he muttered. "Not some boy pretending to wear his father's teeth."
I could have recited my lineage. Dropped the names of dead generals my ancestors buried. But I didn't.
Instead, I walked into the center of their camp, drew my blade, and called out, "If you don't think I deserve to lead you, come take it from me."
Silence. Then movement.
A broad man stepped forward—scarred arms, a crooked nose long since broken, murder in his eyes. He didn't speak. Just raised his blade and charged.
I didn't flinch. I didn't dodge.
I let his sword bite into my shoulder. I needed the pain. They needed the sight of it.
Blood poured. I let it.
Then I twisted low beneath his guard, drove the pommel of my sword into his ribs with a crack. He crumpled, choking on blood.
I turned to face the rest.
"My name means nothing to you," I said, voice cold and iron-bound. "So let this be your truth: I will lead you. Through blood, through fire, through every gate of hell."
"And if any of you still doubt—step forward. I won't stop bleeding."
They may not trust me right now but I made them watch. I bled beside them during drills. Ate their rations. Slept where they slept—in mud, in rain, in the noise of night terrors.
I didn't speak often. When I did, it was sharp and precise.
I memorized their names. Their dead. Their victories.
Everyday, I would cut across my palm—offering blood into a copper bowl. At first they mocked it and even felt disgusted by it. But then they started watching it.
Then, they started doing it too.
Qu An, my spy from the North, returned from across enemy lines with three names: Hoang, Li, and Wen—three commanders from the Golden Mandate and Crimson Banner alliance, with pride bigger than loyalty.
That night, under a sliver of moon, I laid the map flat across the dirt floor and lit three candles.
"This is where they'll bleed," I said.
The trap was simple, but required chaos.
Letters were forged. Orders falsified. Troop positions quietly reshuffled. Rumors whispered in the ears of old enemies.
I fed their egos, their suspicions, their hunger to outmaneuver each other.
"General Hoang is hoarding food from the Crimson Banner."
"Colonel Li secretly speaks to our enemies at night."
"Wen's wife is from the Golden Mandate, where exactly does his loyalty lie?"
Qu An delivered the poison in pieces—by bribes and blades. As the ninth day approaches, the enemy was already cracking—before a single arrow had been loosed.
Winning minds is harder than breaking bodies. So I didn't speak of victory.
I spoke of the end.
I told the Black Tigers this wasn't war—it was cleansing. That they would not return. That their names would not be remembered. That they would die surrounded.
"But you will die knowing the barbarian dogs tore themselves apart trying to kill you," I said.
Ren Xian stared into the fire, jaw tense. His voice was low when he finally spoke.
"And what will be left of us when it's done, Commander?"
I met his gaze. "Ash."
Then I knelt, pulled my sleeve back, and with my dagger's edge began to carve the word into my arm.
"Ash," I repeated, blood running down my wrist. "It will be all that's left. But it will be ours."
The flames crackled. The men held their breath.
Then Ren Xian stepped forward.
"You'd better burn brighter than the rest of us, princeling," he said.
And he carved it too.
One by one, they followed. No chants. No speeches. Just blood and silence.
The Tigers had chosen.
Thirty men. Volunteers.
Their mission: charge ahead into an ambush, draw the barbarians forward—bait the trap.
I offered no promise of return.
They didn't ask for one.
Instead, they took black cloth, wrapped it around their faces, and carried torches shaped like spears.
I watched them ride out into the fog.
Their silence was more sacred than any temple hymn.
That night, I sat alone by the river. The sky was too quiet.
The copper bowl trembled.
Just the wind, I told myself.
But when I looked at my reflection—
—it was smiling.
And I wasn't.
The trap was ready. The soldiers were loyal—if not to me, then to the death we promised to make legendary. The enemy was unraveling. All that remained was to light the fire.