They set fire to the rice storages near the Western Quarter.
Not all at once. Just enough to create a rumor.
By dusk, merchants closed shop. Priests called it omen. A coughing beggar was mistaken for plague.
"It's begun," Shen Yue whispered, watching the smoke rise beyond the lotus gardens.
Not war.
Not yet.
Just rot blooming in silence.
I summoned Wu Jin beneath the Hall of Tranquil Measures.
He arrived in white—silk robes uncreased, jade ring gleaming faintly in the lanternlight. Serene, polished, unreadable.
"You've come to collect," he said, voice like cool water. "The favor I owe."
"Yes."
I slid the scroll forward. Three names. Three threats. Two aligned with Wu Kang, one newly bought by the Southern Kingdom.
He read in silence, then folded the paper and slid it into his sleeve.
"You want them gone. Quietly."
"Yes."
He poured tea, but only for himself. He drank it, eyes never leaving mine.
"You do realize Kang has already been named successor."
"I don't want the title."
"That," he said, "is the difference between us."
He rose and began pacing.
"Wu Kang wants the throne. Wu Ling wants the power behind it. The Southern Kingdom wants to destroy it."
He looked back.
"I want to survive."
He stepped closer, calm and precise.
"I'll help you. Remove these three. Whisper in the right ears. But you will owe me. Not because I need a servant. Because I need an anchor."
"Meaning?"
"The tides are shifting. If Kang falls, I want a raft already afloat."
He glanced out the window where the lanterns trembled against the wind.
"And when I ask for my due—whatever it is—you will give it. Or fall with the rest."
"And if I refuse?"
He turned back, smiling faintly.
"Then I make sure the next fire doesn't burn storage. It burns names."
He left with no further word.
That night, Han Qing moved through the city in plain robes, cataloguing silences more than sound. In back alleys, rumors bloomed like bruises:
"The Fourth Prince brings famine."
"The Southern Kingdom already walks our streets."
"The gods have turned their backs."
He watched a fight break out near the spice market. The guards hesitated. No one knew who they answered to anymore.
"They're softening us," he muttered. "Like meat before it's flayed."
Liao Yun brought grim news: three fake imperial edicts, each passed through merchant caravans connected to Princess Lianyu's agents. Salt was disappearing. Horses rebranded. Warehouses closed at odd hours.
"She's not sabotaging," Liao said. "She's replacing."
"Replacing what?"
"Faith."
Shen Yue moved through the court like a calm storm. She visited three ministers—two old allies of her father, one undecided. She made no threats. She spoke gently.
But her words lingered like poison in tea.
"My lord doesn't ask for obedience. Just memory. Remember who kept the city standing."
The next morning, Wu Kang appeared before the Council wearing his battle cloak—stained still with dried mud and the blood of the northern campaign.
"I request expanded authority," he declared. "The South grows bolder by the hour. We must act."
The Lord Protector neither objected nor endorsed. The Emperor remained behind silken screens.
Only Wu Ling raised her voice.
"Power is heavy when held with fear."
Kang responded coldly:
"Then perhaps the Fourth Prince should step aside. Before that fear poisons the roots."
I stood.
"I will not kneel to wolves."
Eyes turned. Court silenced.
Wu Jin said nothing. But his gaze met mine.
And I saw it:
Calculation. Contingency. Containment.
That night, I opened the scrolls again.
Thirty-seven Black Tiger agents, hidden across the capital.
Each message read:
"Awakened. Awaiting fire."
Across the rooftops, a single red flare arced skyward and vanished.
From Princess Lianyu's courtyard, the low echo of southern drums began—soft, ritualistic, wrong.
"Let the city tremble," she whispered. "Let them look for the knife while we bleed them from inside."
In my chambers, Shen Yue lit the last of the incense.
"Wu Jin helped you. But his kind never help for free."
"I know."
"What did he ask?"
"Nothing."
"Yet."
She stared.
"When he does, it will not be small."
I looked out the window.
The smoke still drifted from the west.
And somewhere in the silence, a blade waited.
Not to strike.
But to answer.
Because I had chosen not to win.
I had chosen to burn first.
So I could choose what rose from the ashes.