Lián Xù barely had time to breathe as rewards continued unfolding before him.
One after another, icons dissolved into streams of light, data cascading across the System interface like a waterfall of fate. His attention sharpened when the final card shimmered—darker, heavier, edged with authority.
[Imperial Secret Guards Redeemed.]
[Long Wǔ (Dragon Martial) Secret Imperial Guards]
[Quantity: 10]
[Cultivation: Core Formation Realm]
Lián Xù's eyebrows shot up.
"Wait—Core Formation?" He leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "All ten of them?"
[Confirmed.]
Before he could laugh, another line appeared.
[Classification: Assassin-Type Imperial Guard Unit.]
[Specialization: Stealth, infiltration, silent elimination, absolute loyalty.]
Lián Xù froze for half a second.
Then—
"Whoa." A grin split across his face. "Assassins… as guards?"
He laughed outright, the sound echoing lightly through the throne room.
"System," he said, raising a hand solemnly before breaking into a grin again, "you have my utmost admiration. Truly. This is inspired."
The System, as usual, did not respond.
Satisfied, Lián Xù straightened and gave a decisive nod.
"Summon them. All of them," he said. "The guards—and the general. I want to see my people."
The air rippled.
A deep, oppressive pressure filled the throne room, followed by the soft sound of boots touching polished stone.
Ten figures appeared in perfect formation.
They moved like shadows given form—silent, precise, disciplined to the bone.
Each wore black combat attire trimmed with subtle draconic patterns. Their faces were concealed behind black dragon-motif masks, the sculpted visages cold and merciless. Not a single strand of aura leaked from them; even standing in plain sight, they felt unreal—like ghosts waiting to strike.
At their head stood one man.
Lü Meng.
He was taller than the rest, his presence immediately distinct. His black robes were simpler but heavier with intent. Long dark hair flowed down his back, restrained only by a clasp near the nape of his neck. A sword—fully masked, its aura perfectly sealed—rested behind him.
Unlike the others, Lü Meng's mask was crimson.
A red dragon, coiled and feral.
The moment they appeared, all eleven figures dropped to one knee in unison.
"This subordinate greets the Master."
The sound was clean. Absolute. Without hesitation.
Lián Xù felt a strange thrill run through him.
"…Rise," he said.
They stood.
His gaze moved slowly over them, appraising. Not hurried. Not careless. The way a ruler should inspect weapons meant to shape history.
He stepped forward.
One by one, he reached out and gave each of the Long Wǔ guards a firm pat on the shoulder.
Solid. Real. Powerful.
"Not bad," he murmured, nodding. "Not bad at all."
Satisfied, he turned his attention to the man at the front.
"General Lü," Lián Xù said, tone light but sharp with intent. "I was told you're a master strategist."
Lü Meng inclined his head slightly.
"This one possesses some understanding of strategy and battlefield tactics," he replied evenly. "But 'master' would be an overstatement."
Lián Xù waved a hand dismissively, grinning.
"Eyyy—don't sell yourself short like that," he said. "A Martial Saint with brains? You showing up like this is basically a gift-wrapped miracle."
His smile softened just a fraction, something resolute settling behind it.
"With you here," Lián Xù continued, "the coming days are going to be… much easier."
Behind Lü Meng, the ten masked figures remained motionless.
Waiting.
Ready.
For the first time since ascending the throne, Lián Xù felt it fully—
Not borrowed authority.
Not hollow power.
But a foundation.
And it was only just beginning.
****************
The study was quiet.
Not the peaceful kind—no, this was the suffocating silence that pressed against the ears, broken only by the faint crackle of a dying candle.
Lián Wèi sat behind his desk, unmoving. His fingers rested atop an unfinished memorial, the ink dried mid-stroke as though his hand had simply… stopped obeying him. His gaze drifted, unfocused, toward the carved Dragon Throne emblem set into the far wall.
His thoughts churned.
How does one train a dragon born without claws?
At thirty, he had been named Regent—not by court vote, not by military acclaim, but by the will of the Dragon Throne itself. An honor. A curse. A responsibility that never slept.
His nephew sat upon that throne now.
Lián Xù—emperor by blood and fate.
And yet…
A mortal.
No cultivation. No spiritual pressure. No aura to silence a room.
Lián Wèi's fingers curled slowly into his palm.
In this world, a ruler without cultivation was not a king.
He was bait.
His gaze shifted to the hanging map of the Azure River Kingdom. Red pins marked borders, passes, and disputed regions—too many, clustered like wolves circling a wounded beast.
Other River Kingdoms boasted five Martial Saints.
Some had more.
Azure River had once held three.
The late emperor.
Lián Wèi himself.
And Lián Hào.
Now, one name had been carved into a memorial tablet.
Two, he corrected grimly.
Two Martial Saints standing between survival and annihilation.
Lián Wèi exhaled, long and heavy, rubbing at his brow as if he could grind the worry from his bones. His chair scraped softly as he pushed back, rising at last—
The door slammed open.
Cold air rushed in, snapping the candle flame sideways.
Boots struck the stone floor—measured, controlled, deadly quiet for someone so heavily armored.
A tall figure entered, clad head to toe in Azure Dragon armor. The metal bore scratches and battle scars, not decorative etchings. This was armor that had tasted blood. His presence alone seemed to thicken the air.
Lián Wèi froze.
Then relief washed over him so sharply it almost hurt.
"Hào'er," he said, his voice warm as he crossed the room. "You're back?"
He gripped his nephew's shoulders, grounding himself in the solid reality of him—warm, alive, powerful.
"How were the borders?"
Lián Hào inclined his head.
"Uncle."
For a heartbeat, the severity in his expression softened. Just enough.
"They're secure," he said. "I reinforced the formations myself. The crossings have been sealed, and the patrol rotations adjusted." A pause. "Stronger than before."
Lián Wèi nodded, a breath he hadn't realized he was holding finally escaping him.
"Good."
Lián Hào's gaze flicked toward the door, then the window—habits carved by years of war.
"I returned in secret," he added. "No one knows I'm back in the capital."
The relief on Lián Wèi's face dimmed slightly.
That caution meant something was wrong.
Lián Hào straightened, his voice lowering.
"There's more," he said. "Xu'er has been watched."
Lián Wèi stilled.
"…Watched?"
"Enemy scouts," Lián Hào said grimly. "Shadowed movements. Deliberate routes."
Lián Wèi's fingers tightened against the edge of the desk.
"Are you certain?"
Lián Hào met his gaze directly.
"There are spies in the capital," he said. "Possibly within the palace itself."
The words fell like stones.
Lián Wèi turned away slowly, his steps measured as he faced the Dragon Throne emblem once more. Candlelight flickered across the carved dragon's eyes, making them seem almost alive.
"So it begins," he murmured.
He drew in a steady breath—one born of long years in court and battlefield alike.
"I was still deciding how best to train His Majesty," Lián Wèi said at last, his tone sharpening. "What path would keep him alive long enough to grow."
He turned back.
"And now you arrive."
A faint smile curved his lips—not soft, but resolved.
"I believe the heavens have answered me."
Lián Hào's brows furrowed.
"Uncle," he said cautiously, "you don't mean—"
"Yes."
Lián Wèi's gaze was steady, unyielding.
"I want you to train the emperor."
The room seemed to tighten, the weight of the decision settling between them.
Lián Hào looked down, silent. His jaw clenched once. Twice.
Then he lifted his head, eyes burning with something fierce—protective, ruthless, resolute.
"If I take him," he said slowly, "I will not treat him as an emperor."
Lián Wèi did not flinch.
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"I will break him," Lián Hào continued. "Strip away comfort. Strip away pride. He will bleed. He will suffer."
Lián Wèi closed his eyes briefly.
"…I know."
Lián Hào bowed his head.
"Then I will make him strong enough," he said, "that no one will ever dare hunt him again."
Lián Wèi exhaled.
For the first time that night, the pressure on his chest eased—just a fraction.