The Lord Protector continues speaking.
Not loudly.
Not urgently.
As if war is something that happens to other men.
"You both mistake scale," he says calmly. "You think this moment defines the future. It does not. Empires move slowly. Blood is currency, not catastrophe. Wu Shuang understood that."
The name hangs in the air.
Wu Jin flinches.
I do not.
"She was necessary," my father continues, almost gently. "She carried what you could not yet bear."
A pause.
For the first time, something shifts in his expression. Not weakness.
Memory.
"She was precise," he says. "She learned quickly."
His eyes lower briefly—just briefly—to where the floor still remembers her blood.
"She did not hesitate."
It is not grief.
But it is close.
That is when I move.
No warning.
No declaration.
The floor fractures beneath my first step. I cross the distance between us before Wu Jin can inhale, blade already drawn, presence tightening inside me like a storm collapsing into a single point.
The Lord Protector barely shifts.
He parries.
Steel rings through the throne hall like a bell announcing the end of dynasties.
Wu Jin stumbles back, crown slipping, breath catching in his throat as the shockwave splinters a column behind him.
"Stop!" he shouts.
We do not.
My father meets my strike with frightening economy. No wasted motion. No theatrics. His blade moves like thought—minimal, exact, denying my angles before they form.
"You're emotional," he says evenly as we lock blades inches from his throat.
"You're finished," I answer.
He pivots, redirecting my weight. I slam into the steps of the throne and recover instantly, cutting low. He hops back, jade tiles cracking under his heel.
For a moment, we circle.
Wu Jin stands frozen near the throne, watching father and son carve the room apart. The torches flicker wildly, shadows stretching and writhing along the ceiling as if something above the palace is pressing downward.
Wu Jin's hands shake.
This is not what he imagined.
He wanted power.
He did not want this.
Outside—
The Southern Kingdom advances again.
Cannons thunder closer now. The outer districts tremble as walls give way. Black Tiger horns sound—not victory, but repositioning.
In the western wards, Liao Yun issues the order no one wanted to hear.
"Fall back to the second ring!"
The Tigers obey.
Not in panic.
In discipline.
They retreat through planned corridors, collapsing streets behind them, burning supply caches, leaving traps in silence. Southern soldiers pour into abandoned zones only to find empty ground and sudden death.
But they are gaining.
Step by step.
Closer to the inner palace.
On a high balcony overlooking the inner court, Shen Yue watches.
She does not interfere.
Her hands are folded inside her sleeves, eyes tracking both the battlefield below and the hall beyond. She can feel the distortions of father and son clashing. She can feel the city straining.
Her expression is unreadable.
Inside the throne hall—
I drive forward again, faster now, Presence humming louder with every impact. My strikes become heavier, more relentless. The jade floor shatters beneath us.
"You think killing me ends this?" my father says as he blocks a downward cut that would have split him in half.
"I think it stops you," I reply.
He shoves me back with a burst of force that dents the air itself.
"No," he says quietly. "It only removes the architect."
"And what does that make you?" I snarl.
He pauses.
Then—unexpectedly—
Sadness flickers across his face.
"Late," he says.
He lunges.
Faster than before.
His blade grazes my shoulder, then slashes across my ribs. Blood spills hot and immediate. I answer with a savage backhand strike that tears across his chest, slicing through armor and flesh alike.
He staggers.
Just slightly.
Wu Jin gasps.
This is real now.
Not positioning.
Not strategy.
Father bleeds.
Son bleeds.
The throne behind them cracks down the center.
"Stop this!" Wu Jin shouts, voice breaking. "The South is breaching the inner districts! Zhou will move if they see this!"
No one answers him.
Steel collides again.
My father presses close, voice low enough that only I hear.
"You're strong," he says. "Stronger than I expected."
I shove him off and answer with a strike that splits the air.
"And you're still in my way."
The impact throws him back against a pillar. Stone explodes outward. He drops to one knee, blood staining his robes.
For a breath—
The hall is silent.
Outside, the roar of Southern troops echoes through the inner courtyards.
They are close now.
Close enough to see palace walls.
On the balconies, Shen Yue's eyes narrow.
Below, Liao Yun draws the Tigers inward, collapsing the last outer barricades. Retreat—not defeat—but pressure.
Wu Jin stands between us again, trembling.
"You're going to destroy everything," he whispers.
I look at him.
Then at my father.
Then at the shattered hall around us.
"It was already broken," I say.
The Lord Protector rises slowly.
Blood drips from his sleeve.
His gaze is steady.
"You see?" he says to Wu Jin. "He cannot stop."
Outside—
A cannon fires.
The inner palace walls shake.
Southern banners crest the final avenue.
And the next strike will decide whether the capital falls to foreign hands—
Or to its own blood.