The square is smaller now.
Not in distance—but in permission.
Every step I take costs more than the last. The Presence remains coiled and steady, but my body has begun to disagree with it, muscle lagging behind intent, breath arriving a fraction too late. Blood slicks the stones beneath my boots—hers and mine—and the city listens with the patience of something that knows it will outlast us both.
Wu Shuang circles.
She is no longer testing.
She is finishing.
"You adapted faster than Father expected," she says, blade held low, angled for the kill. "But adaptation isn't evolution."
I raise my sword. My arm shakes. I do not hide it.
"Neither is obedience," I answer.
She moves.
The strike is perfect—no flourish, no excess. I parry too slow. The impact rattles my bones and drives me backward, spine slamming into a broken column. Pain blooms white-hot as the Presence tightens, trying to correct damage faster than flesh allows.
Wu Shuang presses in.
Her blade carves through the space beside my throat, then turns mid-cut—turns—and slams into my ribs with force that empties my lungs. I collapse to one knee, coughing blood, vision narrowing.
"You're still choosing people," she says calmly, standing over me. "That was never going to be enough."
I try to rise.
She kicks the sword from my hand.
Steel skitters across the square and stops at the feet of a Black Tiger. No one moves. Orders do not exist here anymore.
Wu Shuang places the tip of her blade beneath my chin and lifts my face, forcing me to look at her.
"I could end this now," she says. "End the city's confusion. End Father's patience. End you."
The Presence hums, low and furious, offering more than my body can safely take. I feel ribs grinding. Something inside me tears—not spiritually, not mystically—physically.
I smile anyway.
"Then do it," I rasp. "And see what crawls out of the space you leave behind."
For the first time, doubt flickers across her expression.
Just a flicker.
Before she can answer, the air tightens—not with her power, not with mine—but with authority trying to reassert itself.
A runner stumbles into the square, breath ragged, eyes wide with terror and urgency.
"A message," he gasps. "From the palace. From His Majesty."
Wu Shuang does not turn.
I do.
The runner swallows hard. "The Emperor—Wu Jin—requests an audience with Lord Wu An. Immediately. He says… he says the city cannot survive another fracture tonight."
Silence spreads.
Not relief.
Calculation.
Wu Shuang withdraws her blade an inch.
"Interesting," she murmurs. "He chooses now."
I force myself to stand, using the column, blood dripping freely now. "He finally understands," I say hoarsely. "That nothing moves unless I allow it."
Wu Shuang looks at me sideways. "Careful. That sounds like Father."
"Then listen closely," I reply. "Because this is where I stop."
The Black Tigers shift—just a breath—ready to close ranks, ready to die if needed.
Wu Shuang steps back half a pace.
For a heartbeat, it seems as if she might allow it.
As if she might let me walk away.
Her gaze lifts briefly—to the palace, to the banners, to the watching walls where Zhou's shadows still linger beyond sight, to the south where incense and ambition gather strength.
Then her eyes return to me.
Decision hardens.
"No," she says softly. "This is where I stop you."
The runner screams a warning.
Wu Shuang lunges.
The blade flashes—not at my throat, not at my heart—but at the space between my ribs, aimed to sever something deeper than flesh. The Presence surges, furious and silent, trying to force my body aside.
Too slow.
Too damaged.
I feel the edge enter—
And the world folds inward.
Stone fractures. Shadows leap. The square erupts in motion as the Black Tigers roar and surge forward, Shen Yue's voice cutting through the chaos, sigils flaring too late to stop what has already begun.
Wu Shuang's face is close—calm, intent, almost regretful.
"This ends here," she whispers.
Steel bites deeper.
And the city screams.