Steel screams again as Wu Shuang and I collide.
Not blade on blade—will on will.
My sword bites into the space beside her neck, missing by less than a breath as she twists, her counterstroke shaving the air from my cheek. The Presence tightens, allowing my body to do something it has no right to do: stop, pivot, strike again inside the same moment.
The ground fractures beneath us.
This is no duel.
This is two calamities arguing over priority.
"You're slower," Wu Shuang says calmly as she deflects another blow, gold-black blood still steaming where I cut her. "The city anchors you."
"It reminds me what I'm fighting for," I snarl.
She laughs softly. "That's what makes you dangerous—and inefficient."
She drives her blade forward. I catch it with my sword and the impact sends a pressure wave outward, shattering windows three streets away. For a heartbeat, the world whites out.
Then the square reforms.
And behind us—
The other battle begins.
Shen Yue does not rush the palace steps.
She claims them.
Her sigils bloom outward in disciplined arcs, not binding, not attacking—severing channels. Messages die mid-flight. Orders lose their recipients. The palace guards hesitate, suddenly unsure who they are protecting or why.
Liao Yun walks beside her, sword lowered but ready, eyes sharp.
Wu Jin stands at the top of the steps, crown askew, breath shallow. For the first time since he took the throne, no one is shouting commands at him.
They are waiting.
"Don't do this," Wu Jin says, voice thin. "If you fracture what's left, Zhou will—"
"Zhou is already waiting," Shen Yue cuts in. "So is the South."
She steps closer, gaze steady, almost kind. "You're not preventing collapse. You're delaying responsibility."
The Lord Protector stands a pace behind Wu Jin, hands folded, expression composed. He looks past Shen Yue, past Liao Yun—toward the square where I fight.
"This is not your place," he says calmly. "You're meddling in forces you can't balance."
Shen Yue turns to him.
"No," she says. "I'm preventing you from pretending balance still exists."
Wu Jin's hands shake.
"Everyone is against me," he whispers. "Zhou hates me. The South doesn't recognize me. My own city won't answer me. And he—" his eyes flick toward me, distant and violent in the square "—will tear everything down if he wins."
"And if he loses?" Liao Yun asks quietly.
Wu Jin does not answer.
Because he knows the truth.
If I lose, the Lord Protector wins.
And if the Lord Protector wins, the throne becomes nothing but a chair he allows Wu Jin to sit in.
"You wanted to be Emperor," Shen Yue says softly. "Not a symbol."
Wu Jin laughs weakly. "I wanted to rule."
"And now?" she presses.
He looks out over Ling An—the broken wards, the stalled Zhou lines beyond the walls, the incense banners of the South barely visible on the horizon.
"I don't even know who I'm ruling for," he admits.
That is the moment.
The Lord Protector finally moves.
He steps forward, placing a hand on Wu Jin's shoulder—not forceful, not threatening.
Possessive.
"You rule because someone must," he says gently. "And because without the throne, there is only chaos."
Shen Yue's eyes harden. "No. Without the throne, there is choice."
Liao Yun shifts, blade lifting just enough to make the intent clear.
Wu Jin is trapped.
Behind him: the Lord Protector, calm, patient, ready to use him until he breaks.
Before him: Shen Yue and Liao Yun, offering no safety—only honesty.
Beyond the walls: Zhou, waiting for weakness.
To the south: an Emperor who will happily reclaim him or erase him.
And in the square—
Me.
A living reminder that control through fear never stays contained.
Wu Jin closes his eyes.
For the first time, he understands that becoming Emperor did not put him above the game.
It put him inside it.
Wu Shuang's blade snaps me back into the present.
She drives me to one knee with a strike that rattles my bones. The Presence surges, furious now, not at her—but at the delay.
"You feel it," she says. "The city pulling away from him."
I rise, blood dripping from my mouth, grin sharp and feral.
"He was never the center," I say. "You just needed him to think he was."
She pauses.
Just long enough.
That hesitation costs her another cut—shallower this time, but deliberate.
Her blood hits the stone.
And does not fade.
She looks past me, toward the palace steps, sensing the shift.
"…So," she murmurs. "He's finally alone."
"Yes," I say. "Like all Emperors."
The Presence hums—deep, approving, dangerous.
Around us, the night holds its breath.
Because the war is no longer about who wins Ling An.
It is about whether Wu Jin breaks—
or finally chooses which monster he will stand behind.