They thought I had no army.
They were wrong.
On the morning after the fire near the Western Quarter, the streets were quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that precedes storms, executions, or betrayal.
Then came the sound of synchronized boots.
Thirty-seven men. No banners. No announcements. They emerged from markets, tea stalls, shrines, and gate posts.
Their armor mismatched. Their faces unfamiliar.
But when they moved?
Even Wu Kang's guards stepped back.
The Black Tiger veterans had returned.
No fanfare. No trumpet. Just presence—the kind that came from those who had walked through ash and returned not whole, but harder.
Han Qing stood at their head, eyes like a drawn blade. Not in the gold of the palace guard, but in battlefield steel. His insignia was concealed, but his bearing said everything.
"Ling An has rotted," he said to the people, as they watched from balconies and alleyways. "We cleanse it not with words, but with discipline."
By nightfall, the markets had reopened. Salt flowed again. Two corrupt quartermasters were found floating in the river. A minor noble vanished.
Order returned. But so did fear.
And with it, suspicion.
"You moved soldiers from Cao Wen?" Shen Yue asked, watching the city from the shadowed steps of the Hall of Written Judgments.
"Not soldiers," I replied. "Memories."
She didn't argue. But she didn't smile either.
"The ministers are calling it treason."
"Then let them call it that after they've enjoyed peace."
"Peace bought by illegal steel is not peace," she whispered. "It's a pause before execution."
In the council chamber, Wu Kang seethed.
"He brought troops across the northern line without decree!" he shouted.
"He stopped the riots," the Lord Protector muttered.
The council hall, layered in silks and hung with firelight, seemed to flicker with more than flame. Every face was a mask.
Wu Ling, as always, did not raise her voice. She merely glanced at the incense clock and said:
"Sometimes, broken laws are less dangerous than broken cities."
Wu Kang stormed out, footsteps loud as a war drum.
Wu Jin remained, lounging with his wine untouched.
"Let the Fourth Prince play soldier," he said. "He won't hold them long."
The Lord Protector stared at him.
"Then perhaps you would like to lead the next defense?"
Wu Jin bowed lightly, hands behind his back.
"I am no commander. I prefer cleaner battlegrounds."
But others were not so idle.
In a sealed pavilion veiled by moonlotus trees, Princess Lianyu met her father.
The Lord Protector dismissed his guards.
"You speak as emissary of the South," he said. "Or as daughter?"
"As both," she replied.
She poured tea. Not wine.
"The South does not seek war," she said. "Only recognition. A seat at the table it once carved."
He raised an eyebrow.
"And yet your merchants subvert our markets. Your letters sow rebellion."
"Words are weapons. But they only cut when trust is already dead."
She set her cup down.
"I ask for no war, only a new map. One that reflects what already is."
He studied her, then spoke in a voice touched by exhaustion.
"If this war begins in full, I will need a general."
"Then choose wisely," she said. "Some blades turn in the hand that wields them."
By the fourth bell that night, messengers galloped into the capital. Imperial scrolls sealed in red wax.
The war had begun.
"The Southern Kingdom has taken Northern Bù Zhèng." "Four cities along the southern border have fallen." "Twelve banners march toward the outer capital roads."
Panic spread through the ministries.
Guards fumbled at gates. Scribes wept over maps. Temple bells rang unasked.
Wu Kang demanded full military control. Wu Jin declined command with feigned modesty.
"My talents lie in persuasion," he said. "Not formation."
And just like that—with Kang politically isolated, and Jin refusing military burden— the court turned, slowly, toward me.
A name none dared speak just days before. Now, whispered like a necessary curse.
The Lord Protector summoned me at dawn. He stood alone, facing the city, his hands behind his back, staring into the thinning mist.
"I've fought five wars," he said without turning. "Won three. Lost two. But all of them began the same way."
"How?" I asked.
"With too much talk."
He turned.
"The army needs a spine. And I need someone who can hold a sword and a secret."
He looked at me long.
"You will lead them. Not for the crown. But for the city."
I bowed.
But inside, I felt the blade twist.
They would send me to fight.
And if I failed?
They would bury me with the honor of a loyal corpse.
Shen Yue found me an hour later in the chamber of records, tracing supply lines with Liao Yun.
"They will never forgive you," she said.
"Not until I win," I replied.
Han Qing entered, carrying new troop reports. His face was tired, but his hands steady.
"We have three days," he said. "Then the Southern banners reach the outer road."
"Then we hold for four," I said.
I looked across the burning edges of the map.
North was quiet. South, screaming.
And in the capital?
Only whispers.
The Black Tiger does not roar.
It waits.
And then, it devours.