"A crown cannot shield the heart from a blade sharpened by justice." — said by Huai Shan
The throne room was no longer a place of majesty.
Once adorned with crimson banners and lacquered wood inlays, the chamber was now half-dark, the vast stained-glass windows cracked, sunlight bleeding through in broken colors. The scent of blood and smoke lingered in the air, mixing with incense that had long since burned down to ash.
Han Yu stood at the top of the dais, sword drawn, robes hanging heavy around him like a funeral shroud. The crown on his brow had slipped sideways during the chaos, one corner glinting dully in the fractured light.
Below him, Huai Shan limped forward, his breath shallow, each step marked by a crimson drop. His tunic was soaked, torn at the side, and his left hand trembled slightly from blood loss. But his grip on the blade remained firm.
"You should have stayed dead," Han Yu said, his voice quieter than expected. Not mocking. Not angry. Just tired. "You were easier to contain as a ghost."
"And you should've ruled with honor," Huai Shan replied. "You were easier to respect before you murdered your own people."
Their blades clashed with a sound like breaking bone.
Han Yu moved like a dancer—refined, efficient, trained in the art of courtly combat. Every strike was precise, elegant, practiced. But Huai Shan? He fought like a survivor. His movements were jagged, unpredictable, born from a thousand hours of hardship, beatings, and raw determination.
Steel scraped steel as they moved through the ruined chamber, their feet kicking up shards of marble and torn silk. Statues toppled, shattered beneath the fury of their duel. The sound of their battle echoed off the high ceilings like thunder in a storm-tossed valley.
Around the perimeter of the hall, Mei Xuan and the others held back. Xu Liang had drawn his sword, but Mei raised a hand to stop him. "No," she said. "This isn't our fight. Not yet."
Liang Yu, bruised and bleeding from the battle that had cleared the path here, nodded grimly. "He needs to finish it."
Huai Shan blocked a downward stroke from Han Yu and twisted sharply, slamming his elbow into the tyrant's ribs. Han Yu staggered but recovered fast, slicing forward and catching Huai across the shoulder. Blood sprayed.
Huai didn't scream.
He stepped forward into the pain, into the blade, and drove his own sword forward in a brutal arc—shoulder to hip. Han Yu barely parried in time. The force sent him skidding back up the steps of the dais.
"You think this ends with me?" Han Yu panted, his chest rising and falling. "You think you've won just because you got this far?"
Huai Shan stared at him with eyes like lit coals.
"No. But it begins here."
Their swords met again—this time with desperation, as if both knew they had only moments left. Huai's arm shook with the effort. Han Yu gritted his teeth, one foot slipping on blood-slick stone.
Then—Han Yu overextended.
Just a half step. A single misjudged movement.
Huai pivoted low, sliding under the swing, and drove his blade upward into the soft flesh beneath Han Yu's ribs. The tyrant gasped—eyes wide, sword clattering from his hand.
They locked gazes.
Han Yu's hands grasped at Huai's shoulders as if trying to hold himself up, as if refusing to believe the end had come. Blood bubbled from his lips.
"I... was only a piece," he whispered. "You haven't touched the Empire."
"I know," Huai said quietly.
Han Yu crumpled to the floor, crown tumbling from his head, coming to rest on the stones with a dull metallic echo.
The throne room was silent.
No cheers. No cries of triumph.
Only the shallow breathing of exhausted warriors and the steady dripping of blood from Huai Shan's blade.
Mei Xuan was the first to move. She climbed the dais with care, each step echoing in the stillness. Huai swayed, and she caught him.
"You're hurt," she murmured.
"So's the world," he said, his smile faint, tired.
They stood together for a moment, staring down at the body of the man who had ruled through fear and fire.
Then the horns began to blow—faint at first, then rising.
Xu Liang rushed to the broken windows. "South wall," he called out. "Torchlight. Regiments. Dozens."
"They moved fast," Mei said.
"No," Huai corrected. "They never stopped moving."
Han Yu had been a tyrant, yes. But the Empire was a machine—and machines did not mourn. They simply shifted gears.
Mei Xuan looked to Huai. "What now?"
Huai glanced at the fallen crown, then at the sword still in his hand.
"Now we make the victory cost them."