The scroll arrived with the imperial crest, its edges still warm from the wax.
Zhou unrolled it in silence. His eyes scanned the content, then looked up sharply.
"They gave you the right," he said. "To judge and execute."
Shen Lian's expression didn't change. "One name?"
"One name. A symbol. They're watching what you do with power."
At midday, the garrison courtyard filled with soldiers and civilians alike. The accused—a former quartermaster—was dragged forward, bound in iron.
The man spat, shouting about false charges and conspiracies. But Shen Lian simply raised the decree.
"The order comes from the capital," she said. "But the blade comes from here."
She descended the steps, walking slowly to the block.
No one offered her the sword. She took it herself.
Steel rang as she drew it from the sheath.
She looked the man in the eye.
"You took from the stores," she said. "You weakened the soldiers. You endangered the province."
He opened his mouth to speak again, but the blade was already falling.
A single stroke.
Blood splattered across the stone.
The courtyard was silent.
She turned to the crowd. "This is not the palace. This is not a game. In South Garrison, justice is swift, and memory is long."
That night, no one questioned her again.
Not the guild. Not the officers. Not the spies.
In a sealed box, the Emperor received the head—and a note beneath it.
"Given the power, she used it. Without hesitation."
He read it in silence.
Then burned it.
And smiled.