"Even gods become insects in palaces where cruelty wears silk."
Yuè Yuán had seen dynasties rise and rot.
He had stood over a thousand bodies and whispered peace into their dying ears.
But it was only in the halls of the Zhou Empire—dripping in red silk, gold lacquer, and rotting perfumes—that he ever learned what true decay smelled like. Not death. Not blood.
Power.
He walked quietly behind the line of ministers that morning, his shadow longer than theirs though he stood apart, dressed simply in cloud-colored robes. The court bowed when the Emperor passed; they nodded, but never kneeled, when Yuè Yuán entered.
That was the weight of reputation—not granted, but survived.
Beside him, a voice chuckled softly.
"Still making the nobles nervous, Immortal?"
It was Hào Rán—his friend of nearly fifty years. A mortal, yes, but with a spirit strong enough to have earned Yuè Yuán's trust and loyalty, a rare thing. Clad in the midnight blue of the Kingdom's High Commander, Hào Rán cut a lean figure—gruff, honest, too quick to drink, and too stubborn to die.
"They think you'll take the throne one day," Hào Rán added, lips quirking. "Would you?"
Yuè Yuán shook his head. "I wouldn't take the rotted bark off a dying tree. Much less sit beneath it."
Hào Rán laughed. "Then I'll take that as a no."
In the audience chamber, incense curled toward the painted rafters. There, the Emperor—Zhaowei of Zhou, ruler in name but not in fear—sat high upon the jade dais, fingers tapping thoughtfully against the carved arms of his throne.
The ministers droned about crop failures, rebellious border generals, and the ever-thinning funds for spiritual cultivators. Beneath the veil of official tongues, the court was restless. Their children were choosing swords over scrolls. The outer provinces whispered the word war.
And in the shadows behind the royal pillar, Prince Jie-Zhou watched them all.
He had no seat. No title. No voice.
But his silence was a sword none of them dared challenge.
"Your Majesty," one of the ministers—a tall, smooth-voiced man named Miǎo Ruì, Chancellor of the Left—cleared his throat politely. "About the proposal to reassign Yuè Yuán's instruction post—there are concerns that placing a cultivator of such spiritual standing so close to a royal prince might... disrupt expectations."
Yuè Yuán said nothing.
Neither did Jie-Zhou.
But the latter's gaze flicked toward Miǎo Ruì's scroll.
Then at the teacup in front of him.
Then, deliberately, he lifted it and drank from it—slowly, eyes never leaving the Chancellor's.
When he placed the cup down again, Miǎo Ruì visibly broke into a sweat.
The Emperor leaned forward. "I requested Yuè Yuán personally."
Miǎo Ruì bowed. "Of course, Your Majesty. Only—"
"Enough."
The word cut like frost.
It wasn't from the throne.
It was from Jie-Zhou.
The entire court went still.
He stepped out from the shadows then, not walking—gliding—as if every eye was his to command.
"If you fear what I might become," he said softly, "you're already admitting I'm more than I seem."
Miǎo Ruì paled.
Yuè Yuán watched without blinking.
Jie-Zhou continued. "Let the Immortal teach me. Let the world see what your cowardice creates."
He bowed mockingly to the court, turned, and walked away.
Later that evening, in the crimson gardens of the Western Pavilion, Yuè Yuán found him.
Beneath a blooming apricot tree, surrounded by guards who stood as still as statues, Prince Jie-Zhou knelt beside a small pond.
The water reflected nothing.
"I thought you would scold me," the prince said without turning.
Yuè Yuán approached. "Would that change anything?"
"No." A pause. "But it would be predictable. I hate predictable."
The Immortal folded his sleeves and knelt beside him. "You spoke the truth. That was enough."
Jie-Zhou's lips twitched, almost amused. "That's dangerous, you know. Telling me I'm right."
Yuè Yuán looked at the water with him. "I've lived too long to lie for politics."
Another silence. Then—
"Do you know what the Empress calls me when no one listens?" Jie-Zhou asked.
Yuè Yuán looked up. "Do you want me to know?"
The boy—no, the young man—turned. His eyes were twin eclipses.
"She calls me the stain. The crack in the palace tiles. The 'child she didn't break soon enough.'"
Yuè Yuán said nothing. But his hand twitched slightly.
Jie-Zhou stood. "So let her see what a stain looks like when it eats the floor."
That night, in a private library sealed with red wax, two other figures met in secret.
Xián Quán, the Empress's aide.
And Míng Tāo, head of the Shadow Archives.
"Is the boy progressing?" Xián Quán asked, sipping wine.
Míng Tāo smirked. "Far beyond what even she fears. But that teacher—Yuè Yuán—he complicates the picture."
Xián Quán raised an eyebrow. "You think he'll get in the way?"
"No," Míng Tāo replied. "I think... he'll make it worse."