Crash!
Zhāo Han froze as his father's head—the mighty King of Qīngliǔ—was severed cleanly and rolled to his feet.
The young crown prince stood paralyzed, unable to scream, unable to breathe. The messenger from a foreign empire—an envoy they themselves had invited to his coronation—had just murdered the King in front of the entire court.
Not a soul dared to blink.
The envoy turned, sword dripping with blood, and pointed at Zhāo.
"Look outside the palace," he sneered. "A gift awaits you."
Then, without warning, he stabbed his own heart. The body collapsed, leaving two corpses lying on the stage.
Boom!
The hall shook with an explosion. Panic erupted. Nobles rushed toward the doors, but as soon as they spilled outside, cannon fire ripped through them. Flesh, blood, and ash rained down.
"Greetings from Xuánhǔ!" a voice thundered from the hilltop. At his side stood five cannons, fully loaded and aimed at the capital. "Let the festivities begin! Soldiers, storm the kingdom of Qīngliǔ! Slaughter every last one of them!"
"Zhāo! Zhāo!" His mother, Queen Wei Lan Han, shook him back to his senses. The fifteen-year-old crown prince's face was pale, his eyes hollow with shock. "We have to go! Now!"
As they run away, he looked back. Soldiers were flooding through the gates, burning homes, cutting down men, women, even children. His mother pulled him into a hidden passage, but the sounds of screams and collapsing stone followed them everywhere. Qīngliǔ Palace crumbled under the relentless rain of cannon fire. Corpses littered the ground, mangled beyond recognition.
They ran—mother and son—through the storm of fire and stone. Today should have been Zhāo's proudest day, his coronation as heir to the throne. Instead, it was the day everything he loved was torn away.
His father. His kingdom. His people.
Only his mother and his betrothed, Ruò Yún Han, remained.
"Ruò Yún!" Zhāo cried out as her hand slipped from his. The girl stumbled, collapsing onto the blood-soaked ground. "Mother, stop! Ruò Yún fell behind!"
"Wait—what?" The Queen turned in horror. Ruò Yún was far, too far.
Zhāo sprinted back just as a soldier in black armor reached her first, spear gleaming under the firelight. With desperation, Zhāo snatched up a heavy branch and smashed it against the soldier's skull. The man staggered, cursing.
"Ruò Yún, get up! We must run!" He grabbed her hand, pulling her up.
"Heh… so this is the spoiled crown prince?" the soldier mocked, picking up his blade again. He dragged the weapon across the ground as he walked forward. "Leaving your people to die so you can run away? Pathetic."
He raised his sword high. "Die!"
"Argh!" Zhāo gasped as pain slashed across his back. Blood soaked his robe as he collapsed. The soldier loomed over him, grinning.
"The prince's head is mine—"
Clang!
No pain. Only warm blood splattered across Zhāo's face. His eyes flew open. A hand—bloodied, trembling—was stopping the blade.
"Run!" his mother roared, gripping the steel with her bare hand.
"I—Mother! Your hand—"
Before he could move, the soldier's second sword plunged into her stomach, piercing through her back. Zhāo's world shattered.
"Go… now!" Wei Lan Han gasped, blood pouring from her lips.
"No!" Zhāo screamed, his voice breaking, tears burning down his cheeks. He reached for her, only for Ruò Yún to drag him back.
"Zhāo Han, we can't stay! We must run!" she cried, pulling him away.
"Let me go! Can't you see my mother's dying there—"
Boom!
A cannonball struck. In an instant, his mother and the soldier vanished in flames. Flesh and ash scattered across the ground.
"Mother!" Zhāo's scream tore through the night. Her final smile burned into his memory.
His kingdom destroyed. His parents gone. In one day, he lost everything.
"Zhāo! Please—we have to go!" Ruò Yún's face was wet with tears, but her grip on him was firm.
Zhāo clenched his teeth, dragging Ruò Yún with him. "We will survive," he swore, though blood still poured from his wound.
Together they ran, broken and battered, into the mountains. At last they stumbled into a cavern faintly glowing with strange green stone.
Zhāo collapsed, vision fading. Ruò Yún lay unconscious beside him. He stared at the ceiling covered in cobwebs.
"Maybe… we can hide here for a while—"
Step. Step.
Footsteps echoed in the dark. Zhāo's body tensed. With what little strength he had, he forced himself upright.
"Who's there!?" he demanded, breath ragged.
From the shadows, red-skinned men stepped forward, their ragged clothes hanging loose, curved black blades in their hands.
"You…" Zhāo whispered, his voice trembling.
And then, darkness swallowed him.