The night the Kingdom of Yue fell, the wind carried the smell of smoke long before the flames reached the palace.
Prince Zhen stood barefoot on the cold jade floor of the eastern corridor, clutching a wooden practice sword that was too light to be of any use. He was nine years old, and his hands trembled not from fear alone, but from confusion. The palace had always been quiet at night. Lanterns glowed softly, servants moved like shadows, and the air smelled of ink, incense, and old books. Tonight, the air tasted sharp, like iron and burning oil.
A distant boom rolled across the capital, deep enough to shake the carved beams above his head.
Zhen flinched.
"What was that?" he whispered.
No one answered him.
The corridor that usually echoed with the gentle footsteps of palace attendants was empty. A lantern at the far end flickered wildly, its flame bending as though something unseen had rushed past it. Another sound followed, closer this time. Not thunder. Not drums.
A scream.
Zhen's heart slammed against his ribs. He dropped the wooden sword and ran.
He had been taught not to run in the palace. Princes walked with calm dignity. Princes did not shout. Princes did not panic. But Zhen was nine years old, and the scream had sounded like it was tearing itself apart.
He turned a corner and nearly collided with a court maid who was fleeing in the opposite direction. Her hair had come loose from its pins, and blood streaked her sleeve.
"Your Highness," she cried, grabbing his shoulders. "Go back. Hide. Please."
"What's happening?" Zhen asked, his voice thin. "Where is my mother?"
The maid stared at him, eyes wide and wet, as if she were looking at a ghost. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Finally, she let go of him and ran, disappearing down the corridor as another tremor shook the palace.
Zhen stood frozen for a heartbeat.
Then the air changed.
Pressure descended without warning, heavy and crushing, like an invisible hand pressing down on his chest. His breath caught. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor, gasping. He had felt Qi pressure before during lessons, when the palace instructors demonstrated their techniques, but this was different. This was vast, cold, and merciless.
Enemy Qi.
The invasion had reached the inner palace.
Zhen scrambled to his feet and ran again, this time toward the central hall where the throne room lay. His small lungs burned, and tears blurred his vision, but he kept moving. He could hear more screams now. The clash of metal. The shattering crack of stone as something powerful struck the palace walls.
As he burst into the throne hall, heat washed over him.
Flames climbed the silk banners of Yue, devouring the golden lotus emblem stitched into their fabric. Guards lay scattered across the floor, some unmoving, others groaning softly. At the far end of the hall, beneath the towering dragon-carved throne, stood his father.
King Yue stood with his sword drawn, blood soaking the hem of his robes. His once-neat hair had come loose, and his breath came in heavy pulls. Around him, the palace cultivators of Yue fought desperately, their Qi flaring in fading bursts of light.
Opposite them stood the invaders.
They wore dark armor etched with unfamiliar symbols, and their Qi burned crimson and black, thick with killing intent. Hanlong.
The great empire had come.
"Zhen!" his father shouted.
The sound of his name cut through the chaos like a blade. Zhen stumbled forward.
"Father!"
Before he could take another step, a shockwave tore through the hall. One of the Yue cultivators screamed as a spear of condensed Qi punched through his chest. Another was thrown against a pillar, bones snapping like twigs.
Zhen felt something tear inside him.
He screamed and tried to run to his father, but a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind, lifting him off the ground.
"No!" Zhen kicked and clawed. "Let me go!"
It was his mother.
Queen Mei held him tightly, her face pale but steady. She pressed his head against her chest, shielding his eyes.
"Do not look," she said softly. "No matter what happens, do not look."
"I want Father," Zhen sobbed. "I want Father."
"I know," she whispered. "I know."
A roar shook the hall as King Yue surged forward, his sword blazing with the last of his cultivated Qi. For a moment, hope flared in Zhen's chest. His father had always seemed invincible, a pillar that could never fall.
Then the crimson Qi of Hanlong swallowed him.
The strike came too fast for Zhen to understand. A dozen attacks converged at once. Light exploded. The hall shook violently. When the brilliance faded, his father was on his knees.
The sword slipped from his hand and clattered across the stone floor.
Queen Mei's breath hitched.
Zhen felt her body stiffen.
Slowly, as if moving through water, King Yue lifted his head and looked at them. His gaze found Zhen, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.
He smiled.
It was small and tired, but it was real.
Then a blade pierced his chest from behind.
Zhen screamed.
His mother's arms loosened as if all strength had drained from her. Soldiers rushed forward. Someone tore Zhen from her grasp. He reached for her, fingers grasping at air.
"Mother!"
She did not answer.
Hands forced him to his knees. A boot pressed between his shoulder blades, pinning him to the ground. Tears streamed down his face as he watched the hall burn, watched his world collapse piece by piece.
A man stepped into his view.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his armor marked with the crest of Hanlong. His eyes were sharp, assessing, and utterly calm.
"This is the prince?" the man asked.
"Yes, General," someone replied.
The general studied Zhen for a long moment, then crouched so they were eye level.
"So small," he murmured. "Barely any Qi at all."
Zhen glared at him through tears. "You killed my father."
The general did not deny it.
Instead, he reached into his sleeve and produced a jade shackle, pale green and carved with runes that made Zhen's skin prickle. The moment it snapped around his wrist, something inside him went silent.
His Qi vanished.
Zhen gasped, clutching his arm. Panic surged through him as he tried to circulate his energy the way his tutor had taught him. Nothing answered. It was as if a door had been slammed shut inside his body.
"What did you do to me?" he cried.
The general rose to his feet. "You are alive," he said. "Be grateful."
"Kill him," one of the soldiers muttered. "Why keep the cub?"
The general shook his head. "No. Let him live."
Zhen looked up, confusion cutting through his terror. "Why?"
The general's gaze was cold. "So the people of Yue will remember who owns their fate."
They dragged him from the throne hall as the palace collapsed behind them. Outside, the capital was a sea of fire. Houses burned. Cultivators clashed in the streets, their Qi lighting the night sky in violent bursts. Zhen watched it all in numb horror, the images searing themselves into his memory.
At the gates of the palace, his strength finally gave out.
His vision dimmed, and his knees buckled.
He would have fallen if not for a gentle hand that caught his arm.
The touch was warm. Steady.
He looked up and saw a girl standing beside the Hanlong soldiers. She was only a little older than him, perhaps eleven or twelve, dressed in pale robes embroidered with lotus petals. Her hair was neatly bound, her expression calm in a way that felt impossible amid the chaos.
Her eyes met his.
Something passed between them, quiet and strange.
She placed her fingers lightly against his wrist, just above the jade shackle. A soft warmth spread through his arm, easing the burning pain in his meridians. Not enough to restore his Qi, but enough to keep him conscious.
"Who are you?" Zhen whispered.
She hesitated, then leaned closer so only he could hear.
"Remember this night," she said softly. "And remember yourself."
Before he could ask more, a sharp voice cut through the air.
"Lady Hua."
The girl stepped back immediately, lowering her gaze. "Yes, Matron."
An older woman in similar lotus robes regarded Zhen with cool interest. "Is the hostage stable?"
"He will live," Lady Hua replied.
The matron nodded. "Good. Prepare him for the journey. The emperor will want to see him."
They bound Zhen's hands and led him away from the burning city. He did not resist. He could not. As they passed through the shattered gates of Yue'an, he turned his head one last time.
The kingdom of Yue burned behind him.
In his clenched fist, hidden beneath his sleeve, was a small jade pendant his mother had pressed into his hand when no one was looking. He squeezed it tightly, as if it were the last piece of his world he could still hold.
I will remember, he thought.
The night swallowed him as the banners of Hanlong rose high above the ruins.
And somewhere deep within his silent, shackled meridians, something small and stubborn refused to die.