The sun rose cold and clear over Beijing, casting long golden blades across the palace rooftops. The cockerels crowed, but no one dared step outside—not today. Doors remained bolted. Windows shuttered. Not even the servants whispered.
Inside the Forbidden Palace, every window was boarded shut. Blood-red flags hung stiff in the airless morning. The jade throne stood still at the heart of the imperial hall, and on it sat the emperor—motionless, eyes closed, skin like wax. To a stranger, he might have seemed a corpse. But the royal court knew better. His hands were folded, fingers laced. He listened.
Around him stood the elite of the Qing dynasty—princesses, generals, ministers—silent as statues in their fear and loyalty.
Flanking the emperor were two lesser thrones.
To his right sat Zhi-Wo, tall and slender, his long fingers carefully unrolling a scroll of chemical formulas. His expression was unreadable, detached. He studied compounds for a fire that clung to flesh and water alike—liquid flame, meant for the tips of his arrows.
The throne on the emperor's left was empty.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, the great bronze doors creaked open. Ten armored figures entered, footsteps echoing across the marble floor. Steel clattered. Dust rose. At their head walked a boy in sky-colored robes.
Mu-Long.
He was only fourteen, but he moved with precision, chin raised. His face bore no emotion, only discipline. He led the Divine Generals like a general born, not made.
The emperor opened his eyes, slow as a glacier shifting. His voice was barely a murmur, but it carried through the hall.
"Ah, Mu. How was your endeavor in Tibet, my son?"
Mu stepped forward and bowed. His tone was quiet, clear, and disturbingly calm.
"It was arduous. But we succeeded. Wong the Great Bear is no longer a threat. His corpse hangs in the pass of Lhasa."
The emperor's mouth curled into a grin.
"Well done, child. Now that you've returned victorious… your brother Zhi has a proposition."
Zhi-Wo rose from his seat, scroll still clutched in one hand. He moved with deliberate ease—measured and exact. There was no limp, no twitch, just an eerie stillness in how little wasted motion he allowed himself. He walked to the center of the hall and bowed once—not out of reverence, but protocol.
"My spies have tracked down Xia-Shibai," he began. "She fled the empire alongside Tao-Da. They're somewhere in Europe, moving toward Jerusalem. Apparently, the younger brother hasn't given up on this deluded fantasy despite losing most of his men."
The emperor narrowed his eyes.
"And what do you propose?"
Zhi-Wo smiled—thin-lipped, dangerous.
"I propose we reclaim the idea, Father. Let me lead the Divine Generals to Jerusalem and seize it in the name of the Qing. Tao-Da's mission was bold, yes—but pitiful. He had to beg students from Europe to join him. No generals. No mandate. Only desperation. We can do what he cannot. We can take Jerusalem and drag Tao-Da and Xia-Shibai home—for punishment, or execution."
A heavy silence fell. Zhi's breathing grew shallow. Sweat trickled down his temple. He scratched his neck with the edge of his hook, hard enough to draw blood.
Then, a voice from behind him.
"That's unnecessary."
It was Mu. He had not moved, but his eyes were fixed forward.
"Brother Tao-Da and Sister Xia-Shibai are already doing what they believe is right. They fight for the dynasty, even if their methods differ. Why punish loyalty?"
The emperor did not turn to face him.
"You are a weapon, Mu. You will speak when spoken to."
Mu nodded once. Not in shame—only obedience. The emperor stood, slowly, the sleeves of his robe trailing like smoke.
"Zhi-Wo. You have permission to pursue this conquest. Take thirty thousand soldiers and five of the ten Divine Generals to accompany you. If you have not claimed Jerusalem within two years, you will be marked for death."
Zhi-Wo exhaled, half laughing in relief.
"Thank you, Father. Thank you, my benevolent lord."
The emperor raised a hand, cutting him off.
"You leave in two days. Fail to depart by then, and you will be executed here in the palace."
He turned to the generals.
"Wei, Yan, Duan, Jilie and Mu-Long. You are assigned to this campaign."
Without a word, the first four generals turned and strode out of the throne room. Mu followed a moment later, slower, his expression unreadable—tired, perhaps. Or indifferent. Or simply numb.
Zhi-Wo remained. The blood had dried on his neck, but his smirk hadn't faded. It twitched at the corners of his mouth, stubborn and sickly, as if it had been carved into his face.
That night, the streets of Beijing burned with crimson banners and blinding torchlight. Firecrackers burst like gunshots overhead. The crowd surged against the barricades for a glimpse—of heroes, of monsters, of legends walking before war.
The Divine Generals marched on horseback through the capital like a parade of Gods.
Wei, the Golden Cicada, led the procession with his chin high and his steps perfectly measured. His armor shimmered in lacquered gold and deep bronze, segmented like an insect's shell—each plate trimmed in black lacquer, polished to blinding perfection. His helmet curled like a carapace around his head, with mandible-like protrusions and spiked antennae sweeping backward. He walked as though every eye deserved to be on him. And they were.
Yan, the Vermilion Bird, fluttered behind him, robed in a storm of fiery silks and flowing charms. Sheets of crimson paper streamed from his sleeves, inked with spellcraft and sacred markings, while a feathered fan of hammered iron rested in his gloved hand. He moved with performance in every step—graceful, aloof, theatrical. The crowd watched as if under a spell.
Duan, the Black Tortoise, could barely be called human anymore. She loomed like a fortress carved from iron. Her armor, layered and riveted, formed a heavy shell that arched over her shoulders and down her back—complete with a built-in cannon mounted between her shoulder blades like a turret. Her limbs were encased in thick plating, her steps seismic, her breath slow and seismic. Nothing could move her. Nothing could stop her. She was a castle that walked.
Jilie, the White Tiger, came barefoot except for leather bindings, draped in the bleached hide of a tiger that had been tanned to an eerie white. The massive pelt hung from one shoulder, its skull still intact, leering atop his back. His true weapons were strapped to his hands—curved iron claws that extended over each finger like extensions of his own bones. His grin was toothy, his gait loose and cocky, half-challenging the crowd with every glance.
Mu-Long, the Azure Dragon, was elegance wrapped in discipline. His armor was minimal—sleeveless indigo plates lined his chest and sides, while his arms and legs were left wrapped in soft cloth, loose and flowing like the robes of a temple acolyte. Long blue sashes swirled as he walked, and a thin silver mask covered the lower half of his face, shaped like a dragon's snout. His chain was wrapped around his torso and his dadao was carried by six soldiers behind him.
And behind them, unarmored, came the rest of the army. Thousands upon thousands of soldiers all adorned in their imperial armour. Wielding rifles, swords, bows or anything else which could be imagined. Between them rumbled a multitude of caravans. The most lavish—small, unassuming—carried Zhi-Wo in silence, completely hidden. Just him, his studies and his ivory bow which lined the entire wall.
"Let the boy play king in the west," Zhi muttered under his breath. "We'll tear down his little kingdom soon enough."
Far from Beijing...
Grey clouds bruised the skies above Naples. Wind howled through the streets, tugging at cloaks and banners. It was the kind of morning that felt like a warning.
Tao-Da's group gathered on the outskirts of the city, overlooking the broken road that led east.
"We'll go through Pompeii to reach the Amalfi line," Tao said, clearing his throat. "I—I'm hoping to reach Venice within the week. But for that to happen... we all need to pull our weight. Okay?"
A round of faint cheers and nods answered him. The wind nearly drowned them out.
Lumiere and Moses flanked Wilhelm, steadying him as he practiced walking on his new peg. Every step was stiff, mechanical, but he kept going, jaw tight with determination.
Julian and Kolya moved to the front with Tao, scanning the road ahead.
Xia walked among the soldiers at the rear. She had donned her armor again—ill-fitting and scuffed—but wore it anyway. She kept her eyes fixed on Lumiere. More than before. The memory of that night lingered, heavy and unspoken. A strange dread gnawed at her: that whatever intimacy had sparked between them might never return. Not now. Not after what was coming.
The group marched on, and the city behind them began to fade into fog and noise. Mount Vesuvius loomed in the distance, a grey silhouette against the clouds.
Naples became a memory. Pompeii rose ahead.
And far from all of them, in the heart of the Ottoman Empire, upon the highest tower of the Jerusalem palace, Elijah stood beneath a curtain of clouds, his coat snapping in the desert wind. The ancient stones trembled faintly beneath his feet.
He looked east, where the silver wind stirred over the dunes.
"The winds are changing," he murmured. "We're entering a new stage."