The River Hei had turned into a wound that refused to close.
Its banks were slick with ash and armor, the water so thick with blood that even the current seemed to drag itself forward reluctantly.
The Lord Protector stood upon the ramparts wrapped in smoke and silence. His armor was dented, his left arm bound tight with a strip of his own cloak. Around him, the men of the northern host had ceased shouting. They no longer fought for victory—only to keep standing long enough to be remembered.
The Southern Kingdom's drums rolled through the fog again, slow and heavy as thunder under stone. Each beat made the walls shiver.
General Han Rui rode up the slope, his face gray, the whites of his eyes spidered with red. He dismounted and bowed low.
"My lord," he rasped, "they're at the river crossing again. If they push through tonight, the Hei is lost."
The old warrior said nothing. He stared southward, where the horizon smoldered, and northward, where the smoke of the capital still stained the sky.
"How many men left?"
"Three thousand," Han Rui whispered. "Maybe less."
A long silence followed. The wind tasted of rain and metal.
"They've stopped sending arrows," the Lord Protector said at last. "They're waiting for something."
Han Rui nodded grimly. "Reinforcements. Or—" He hesitated. "Or a sign."
The Lord Protector turned his head slightly. "A sign?"
The general swallowed. "The men say the heavens changed last night. That a second sun rose over Ling An."
For the first time in days, the Lord Protector looked up.
The clouds above the northern ridge still glowed faintly — not orange, not gold, but the color of open flesh. The light pulsed once every few heartbeats, like breath.
"Superstition," he said, though his voice was barely more than air.
"My lord," Han Rui continued carefully, "a rider came from the capital. He brought news."
The Lord Protector closed his eyes. "I don't need to hear it."
"But—"
"I said don't."
Han Rui bowed and stepped back. The parchment in his hands trembled once, then he tucked it into his armor without a word.
They both knew. Everyone did.
The Lord Protector gripped the rampart and stared out at the river one last time. "Send word to the border camps," he said quietly. "Tell them the age has changed. Tell them we hold until there's nothing left to hold."
The general hesitated. "And after?"
"After?" He managed a tired smile. "After that, we pray the new sun burns clean."
In Ling An, the new sun had already risen.
It was not fire, nor light, but something in between — a living sphere of radiance suspended above the palace, casting its glow across the ruined streets. Wherever the light touched, shadows twisted into shapes that did not match their owners.
The people called it the "Blessed Eye." The priests of the He Lian Dynasty called it proof of divine union. But those who stared too long began to see their own faces reflected within it — distorted, smiling, whispering words they hadn't spoken.
Beneath that false dawn, the city throbbed.
Wu Jin held court in the Lotus Hall, now rebuilt from bone and polished amber. He sat upon the throne, his voice steady, rehearsed, kingly. Around him the ministers bowed, their faces calm, their hands trembling inside their sleeves.
"The south will fall within the month," Wu Jin declared. "And when it does, the He Lian banners will stretch to the sea. The people will forget what the word 'empire' used to mean."
Wu Shuang sat beside him, silent, her gaze fixed on the floor. The air shimmered faintly around her, like heat rising from desert stone.
Then came the tremor.
Barely perceptible at first — a low, pulsing vibration beneath their feet. The candles flickered. Dust sifted from the ceiling like snow.
Wu Jin frowned. "The foundations again?"
But Wu Shuang's expression had changed. Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time in days, she looked afraid. "No," she said softly. "He's still here."
From deep below, the sound rose — not a quake, but a breath. Slow, vast, steady. The heartbeat of the thing beneath the palace.
And with it came a voice, faint and endless, rolling through every corridor, every mind:
There is no unity without hunger.
Wu Jin gripped the arms of his throne. The ministers cried out as the walls began to move, the carvings of lotus and scripture twisting into unfamiliar patterns — ones that mirrored the scars burned into Wu An's skin.
In the lowest chambers of the palace, the air bent around a figure kneeling in darkness.
Wu An's eyes were closed. His body glowed faintly, the sigils on his flesh pulsing like veins filled with light. Around him, the dead rose — not as corpses, but as reflections. Shadows with faces, whispering in time with his breath.
He exhaled once, and the city's light dimmed.
From the heavens, the second sun pulsed again — brighter, closer, as if drawn by something below.
Wu An opened his eyes.
"Let's begin," he said.