The cannon strikes the inner wall.
This time, it holds.
Barely.
Dust rains from the ceiling of the throne hall as another blast rolls through Ling An. The Southern Kingdom has brought their heavy guns forward—iron-mouthed beasts dragged through streets still slick with blood. They fire not to breach quickly, but to wear down resolve.
Outside the northern ridges, Zhou's banners shift.
Not a retreat.
Not hesitation.
Advance.
Measured. Disciplined. Silent.
They have seen enough.
They no longer believe Ling An will stabilize.
Inside the throne hall, the air has thinned.
My father wipes blood from his mouth and steadies himself against a cracked pillar. He is slower now. Not much. But enough.
"You feel it," he says quietly.
I do.
The Presence inside me is no longer coiled.
It is strained.
Not weakened.
Stretched.
Too much distortion. Too many anchors. The city's geometry screams under competing pressures—Southern artillery tearing at the outer wards, Zhou frameworks beginning to reassert beyond the northern walls, and the palace itself splitting under the weight of our clash.
Wu Jin stumbles as another tremor shakes the hall.
"They're through the third ring," he says, voice tight. "The Tigers are falling back."
Not routed.
Not broken.
But falling back.
"Liao Yun ordered the retreat," he continues. "They're consolidating near the inner gates."
I do not answer.
Because I am already moving.
My father intercepts.
Steel crashes again.
This time the impact drives both of us backward. The Presence surges—too hard—and something tears deep in my chest. Breath becomes effort. Vision narrows.
"You're overextending," my father says.
"And you're running out of time," I answer, though my voice is raw now.
He presses in.
His blade moves faster than it has all night. No more patience. No more lecture. Just execution.
I block once. Twice.
The third strike breaks through.
Steel bites deep into my side.
The Presence flares violently—but instead of expanding, it collapses inward, locking the wound shut by force alone. Pain becomes white noise. My legs nearly give out.
Across the hall, Wu Jin watches in horror.
This is not strategy anymore.
This is father killing son.
"You'll lose the city," Wu Jin shouts at the Lord Protector. "If he falls, the Tigers fracture!"
My father does not look at him.
"He's already fracturing," he replies calmly.
Outside—
The Southern Kingdom breaches the inner avenue.
Infantry flood the courtyards in disciplined waves, shields raised against arrow fire. Cannons are dragged closer. The sound is constant now—boom, crack, collapse.
Black Tiger horns respond from within the palace perimeter.
Fewer this time.
On a high tower overlooking the chaos, Shen Yue grips the railing hard enough that her knuckles whiten. She watches Southern troops surge into districts she bled to secure. She watches Tigers fall back in tight formation.
She does not move.
Not yet.
In the north, Zhou advances further.
Their frameworks pulse faintly again, sensing instability. They do not need to attack outright. They simply need to be ready when the capital fractures.
Back in the hall—
My father lunges again.
I barely parry.
The impact sends my sword flying from my hand.
It skids across the jade floor and shatters against a fallen torch stand.
I stand empty-handed.
Bleeding.
Breathing like a broken animal.
The Presence hums faintly now—not powerful, not triumphant.
Tired.
"You've reached your limit," my father says quietly.
Perhaps I have.
The hall spins.
The throne behind Wu Jin splits further down its center, wood groaning as if it understands the metaphor too well.
Another cannon blast.
This one closer.
Dust and debris rain from above. A section of the ceiling caves in, sunlight slicing through the smoke like a blade.
Southern soldiers shout somewhere just beyond the palace gate.
Wu Jin steps forward despite himself.
"Stop!" he yells. "Both of you!"
My father raises his blade.
For the first time tonight, I see it clearly.
If I fall—
Ling An collapses.
The Tigers splinter.
Wu Jin becomes nothing more than a banner for whichever empire arrives first.
The Presence flickers weakly.
It cannot carry me much longer.
I take one step forward.
My father meets it.
Steel arcs downward—
And I raise my hand to catch it.
The blade slices through my palm.
Blood pours.
But it stops.
Mid-air.
The Presence does not surge.
It simply refuses.
For a heartbeat, the world holds.
Then—
Another cannon strike shatters the inner gate.
Southern soldiers pour into the palace courtyard.
Zhou horns answer from the north.
Two empires converge.
And inside the throne hall, father and son stand locked in a moment too fragile to sustain.
I am at the end of my rope.
And the world has chosen now
to pull.