The Southern Kingdom does not retreat far.
They regroup beyond the shattered courtyard walls, cannons dragged into tighter formation, musketeers forming disciplined ranks beneath incense banners that refuse to lower.
Zhou does not withdraw.
Their frameworks glow faintly in the northern dusk, watching, measuring.
Ling An breathes through broken ribs.
And inside the throne hall, I feel it.
The limit.
The Presence is steady but thin now, like a blade used too long without sharpening. My wounds knit slowly, not cleanly. My limbs are heavy. The palace geometry stabilizes around me, but at a cost I can feel accumulating behind my eyes.
My father steps forward again.
Not attacking.
Waiting.
"You cannot hold this position," he says quietly. "You are already spent."
I say nothing.
Because he is right.
The Southern artillery roars again.
The blast this time cracks the inner gate entirely. Stone explodes inward. Southern infantry pour through the breach, disciplined and relentless.
Black Tigers answer with musket volleys.
The hall fills with smoke.
I step forward—
—and the world tilts.
My knee buckles.
The Presence surges to correct it, but it flickers—too many distortions, too much pressure from north and south.
My father sees it instantly.
This is the moment.
He lunges.
Blade aimed not to wound.
To finish.
I raise my hand—
Too slow.
Steel flashes toward my throat.
And another blade intercepts.
The impact rings like a funeral bell.
Wu Jin stands between us.
Not armored.
Not prepared.
Just determined.
"You will not," he says through clenched teeth.
My father's eyes widen—not in fear.
In disbelief.
"Move," he says quietly.
"No."
Southern soldiers breach the hall entrance behind us.
Zhou horns echo faintly from the north.
The throne cracks further, collapsing behind Wu Jin.
"You wanted to rule," my father says. "Then rule."
Wu Jin's voice trembles—but does not break.
"I wanted to rule a kingdom," he says. "Not inherit your war."
My father shifts his blade.
Wu Jin is not fast enough.
Steel slides through his side.
Clean.
Precise.
His breath leaves him in a short, stunned gasp.
Everything slows.
I catch him before he falls.
Blood spreads across his robes, dark and immediate.
"You fool," my father mutters.
Wu Jin looks up at me—not at him.
"I couldn't… let you lose," he whispers.
Behind us, Southern troops hesitate at the sight of the throne hall tableau—father, son, emperor, blood.
"Don't," I say.
Not to Wu Jin.
To the world.
He smiles weakly.
"You said… stop asking permission."
His grip tightens weakly at my sleeve.
"Then stop."
The Presence snaps.
Not uncontrolled.
Not wild.
Focused.
Something inside me breaks—but not downward.
Outward.
The Southern soldiers nearest the hall entrance are lifted off their feet as the air compresses violently. Muskets explode in their hands. Stone ripples outward from where I kneel.
Wu Jin exhales.
And goes still.
For one heartbeat—
There is no sound.
Then the counterattack begins.
Not from rage.
From clarity.
I rise slowly, Wu Jin's blood soaking into my hands.
The Presence no longer hums.
It resonates.
The palace geometry aligns violently around me. Fractured pillars straighten. The cracked throne collapses entirely, swallowed into the floor as if erased from relevance.
Southern soldiers surge forward in desperation.
I step toward them.
The first wave never reaches me.
Their formation splits as the floor opens beneath them—not swallowing, but displacing. Bodies are thrown aside like debris caught in a tide.
My father watches.
For the first time tonight—
He looks uncertain.
Zhou frameworks flicker violently in the north as the distortion expands. Their monks stumble mid-chant. Their commanders bark confused orders.
Ling An is no longer a contested city.
It is a fault line.
I move through the Southern troops like a blade through cloth. Steel shatters against my skin. Gunfire warps mid-flight, rounds veering wide as if ashamed.
Behind me, the Black Tigers roar and surge forward, emboldened, formation restored.
The Southern Kingdom collapses into retreat.
Cannons are abandoned.
Standards fall.
Zhou's banners freeze in place.
My father stands alone in the hall.
I turn to him.
Wu Jin's body lies between us.
"You forced the choice," I say quietly.
He does not deny it.
"You would have lost," he replies.
"Yes," I say.
"And now?"
I look at the ruined hall, the retreating Southern troops, the stunned Zhou observers beyond the northern ridge.
"Now," I answer, "they know."
The Presence settles, vast and terrible.
The counterattack has begun.
And it will not be measured in territory.
It will be measured in
removals.