The square convulses.
Wu Shuang no longer probes. She commits.
Her blade cuts downward and the space between us collapses, not inward but sideways, like a page folded too hard along the wrong crease. I am thrown through it, shoulder first, skidding across stone that has decided to become glass. The Presence snaps tight, not saving me—adjusting me—so I hit alive.
I rise into the follow-through.
Steel meets rule.
Rule meets refusal.
Our blades lock, sparks of broken sutra-light spraying like insects. I lean in, teeth bared, breath ragged, and feel her strength not as force but as certainty. She believes in her outcome. That belief presses harder than any weight.
"You're still anchored to people," she says, voice calm at my ear. "That's why you'll lose."
I shove, tearing us apart, and answer with a cut meant to kill. She twists; it takes flesh, not bone. Gold-black blood spatters my sleeve.
"I'm anchored to consequences," I say. "You're anchored to design."
She smiles despite the wound. "Design wins."
We collide again, and the city flinches.
On the palace steps, the choice arrives like a blade laid flat across Wu Jin's throat.
The Lord Protector turns his head slightly, just enough for Wu Jin to hear him over the distant thunder of the duel. "This ends one way," he says gently. "You step aside, and the city stabilizes. Or you interfere, and Zhou finishes what tonight began."
Wu Jin looks at Shen Yue.
Not pleading.
Measuring.
"Is he still… himself?" Wu Jin asks quietly.
Shen Yue does not lie. "Enough."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only honest one," she replies.
Behind them, palace guards shift, uncertain. They have orders. They have no clarity. Authority has thinned to a suggestion.
Wu Jin exhales, long and shaking. "I wanted a reign," he says. "I wanted to be necessary."
The Lord Protector's hand tightens on his shoulder. "You are."
Wu Jin shakes his head. "No. I was useful."
He steps forward.
The Lord Protector's hand slips.
Just for a breath.
Liao Yun moves.
Not to strike—to block. He places himself between Wu Jin and his father, blade angled low, unmistakable.
"This far," Liao Yun says evenly, "and no further."
The Lord Protector regards him with mild interest. "You would bar me?"
"I would bar anyone who decides the city's fate without standing in it," Liao Yun replies.
Wu Jin's voice cracks. "Stop."
The word carries.
Not as command.
As decision.
Palace guards lower their weapons—some reluctantly, some with relief. Shen Yue steps beside Wu Jin, close enough that the Lord Protector cannot reclaim that space without showing his hand.
For the first time, the Lord Protector's calm fractures.
"You think this saves you," he says to Wu Jin.
Wu Jin meets his gaze. "I think it saves the city from being yours."
Silence.
Then the Lord Protector smiles—small, cold. "We'll see."
He steps back.
Not retreating.
Repositioning.
In the square, Wu Shuang feels it.
The alignment shifts—not enough to stop her, but enough to irritate her precision. She falters half a step as our blades meet again, and that is all I need.
I drive in, shoulder low, blade angled to trap. The Presence tightens, granting me permission, and her rule-edge skids—caught.
We lock, faces inches apart.
"You chose him," she says, eyes flicking toward the palace.
"I chose against your father," I answer.
"That's the same thing."
"No," I say, and force the lock wider. "It's a longer war."
She breaks free with a burst of force that sends me staggering back. Her breath is quicker now. Her blood drips, luminous, onto stone that remembers it.
"You can't win this," she says. "Not cleanly."
I plant my feet. "I don't need clean."
Around us, the Black Tigers tighten their ring—not closing in, not striking—holding. They are a line that says: this ends here, one way or another.
Wu Shuang looks at them, then at me, then—finally—toward the palace.
Her expression changes.
Understanding.
"So," she murmurs. "He chose."
"Yes," I say. "And now you do."
For the first time, she hesitates—not from fear, but calculation colliding with uncertainty.
Beyond the walls, Zhou's horns sound once—withdrawal, measured and cautious. To the south, banners pause, incense thinning as messengers ride hard to revise plans that assumed the palace would fall tonight.
The city holds.
Barely.
Wu Shuang lowers her blade a fraction. Not surrender. Not peace.
A pause.
"This isn't over," she says.
"I know," I reply. "But tonight is."
She steps back, shadow folding neatly into place, eyes never leaving mine. "Then enjoy your borrowed city," she says softly. "Father never loses interest. He only changes instruments."
She turns and is gone—swift, precise, leaving a silence sharp enough to cut.
I stand there, bleeding, breathing, the Presence settling into a low, dangerous calm.
On the palace steps, Wu Jin closes his eyes.
He has chosen against his father.
Which means he has chosen war without the illusion of control.
I wipe my blade clean on ruined stone and look toward the west, where roads lead away from thrones and toward consequences.
The night releases its breath.
And somewhere beneath Ling An, something ancient listens—patient now, because it knows the next decisions will be made by those who finally understand what they cost.