*Disclaimer: This chapter contain mature scene it might disturbs the readers if you have the courage please proceed.
The moon hung high, its silver glow spilling over the marble floors of Miracheneous Academy's dimly lit hallways. The soft echo of Hua-Jing's footsteps filled the empty corridor, her arms crossed in suspicion as she noticed a figure approaching.
Shi Zhao Mei, clad in her black-red crop top that accentuated her sculpted, river-polished abdomen, moved with the effortless grace of someone who knew she was being watched. Her long, silky red-back hair, now streaked with crimson highlights, cascaded over her shoulders like a shadow licking at the embers of a dying fire.
Hua-Jing raised a single brow, a sceptical smirk curling her lips.
"So, where is my dear brother?" she asked, her voice laced with both curiosity and accusation.
Shi Zhao Mei blinked, momentarily thrown off.
Hua-Jing continued before she could respond. "I informed Ashai about Aleeman. He told me that Aleeman never came to Vitreum Solaris Glassworks today. So, tell me—since you were with him all day—what exactly was he doing with you?"
Shi Zhao Mei's cheek twitched, but she quickly masked it with a languid, almost lazy smile. She knew full well what Aleeman and she had been doing—discussing her father's ruthless ambition and the web of deception spinning within Ji-Gong Palace—but she had no intention of revealing that.
So, she lied.
"Oh, nothing much," she said with an airy chuckle, brushing a stray crimson-black strand behind her ear. "We were just... roaming around the forest, chatting about school activities. Nothing scandalous, I assure you."
Hua-Jing's eyes narrowed like a hawk sizing up a deceiving prey.
"My brother? Talking about school?" she repeated, her tone dripping with disbelief. "Shi Zhao Mei, Aleeman doesn't talk about school activities. He barely even cares about them. The only thing that drives that thick-headed brute is war and conquest."
Shi Zhao Mei stilled for a fraction of a second before a low, amused chuckle escaped her lips—one of sarcasm and amusement entwined.
"How very… observant of you," she mused, tilting her head. "Yes, your brother is obsessed with war and conquest. He speaks of strategy as if it were poetry, of battlefields as if they were grand paintings awaiting his brushstrokes of blood and steel."
Her voice had taken on an almost melancholic admiration, but she quickly concealed it, flipping her long sleeves behind her back as if dusting off the sentiment entirely.
Hua-Jing scoffed, rolling her eyes, though there was an undeniable knowing glint in them.
"You're acting strange," she said, voice laced with mild suspicion. "But fine, I'll let you off the hook… for now."
With that, she flashed a fleeting smile, turning on her heel. "Alright!, Gemstone Bellied Troublemaker, Bye!" she called over her shoulder, her tone laced with teasing mischief.
Shi Zhao Mei remained rooted to the spot, watching as Hua-Jing disappeared down the hallway, her golden silhouette vanishing into the night.
As soon as she was alone, her expression morphed into something unreadable—distant, intense, almost brooding.
Her fingers subconsciously brushed over her chest—over the rapid thudding of her own heart.
"Why?"
The word escaped in a hushed murmur, barely audible, as if she were afraid to acknowledge it aloud.
Her grip tightened into a fist at her side.
She was Wei Yang Hong, the cursed prince. A man in the guise of a woman. A warrior forged in steel and discipline.
And yet…
Aleeman.
His name alone coiled around her thoughts like a serpent, constricting, suffocating, refusing to loosen its grip. His voice, his unreadable gaze, his stubborn sense of justice, his maddening self-assurance—it was all consuming.
Her jaw clenched as she turned on her heel, her strides purposeful as she forced herself to banish the absurdity from her mind.
"This is nothing," she told herself. "Nothing but the remnants of my cursed fate."
But no matter how much she repeated it, the echo of his voice, the ghost of his touch, the unshakable presence of Aleeman Hakiman lingered—and she knew, deep down, she was losing a battle she never even meant to fight.
The air in the Ji-Gong palace throne room was thick with tension, coiling like a serpent around the gilded columns and dragon-etched walls. The throne itself, carved from obsidian and jade, loomed over the room like a celestial monolith, casting a shadow that stretched towards the imperial court.
Upon it sat Emperor Weng Jin Shun, draped in deep crimson robes woven with golden embroidery, his sharp eyes scanning the chamber with an intensity that could pierce through steel. His fingers drummed against the armrest, the rhythmic taps echoing through the silence.
At his side, Monk Pan Zhihaou sat cross-legged on a cushion, his serpentine gaze unreadable as he slowly traced his fingers over a string of wooden prayer beads. His shaven head gleamed under the soft lantern light, the thin smirk on his lips betraying the tranquillity of a man lost in meditation.
Then, the silence broke.
An imperial guard rushed in, dropping to one knee.
"Your Majesty, General Xuè Lián has arrived."
The Emperor's lips curled in satisfaction.
"Summon her," he commanded, his voice carrying the weight of expectation.
The guard bowed before disappearing behind the grand doors. A moment later, General Xuè Lián stepped into the hall, her twin crimson blades absent from her waist, her every step calculated. She fell to one knee, her hands cupped in gongshou, the traditional gesture of reverence.
"Your Highness," she said, her voice steady but laced with restraint.
The Emperor leaned forward, his gaze burning with impatience.
"Where is the head of the Wolf of Abjannas?"
A beat of silence.
Xuè Lián kept her expression unreadable, but deep within, her heart pounded like a war drum. She could feel the monk's calculating gaze, peeling through her armour like parchment, waiting for any sign of hesitation.
She bowed lower.
"Your Majesty, I beg forgiveness," she began, her voice a blend of submission and steel. "Aleeman Hakiman... He was prepared for us. My men and I fell into his trap—his tactics are unlike any we've encountered before. He is not merely an enemy; he is a threat beyond comprehension."
The moment the words left her lips, a sharp clang echoed through the hall.
The Emperor had drawn his dao.
In a single, fluid motion, he descended the steps of his throne, the sharp edge of his blade pressing against the curve of Xuè Lián's throat.
"Failure," he growled, "is not tolerated."
Pan Zhihaou's lips twitched into a smirk as he tapped a single bead on his prayer string.
"Your Majesty, it is clear," he murmured, his voice like silk sliding over poisoned steel, "that the Wolf has defied you openly. Perhaps a lesson must be taught—not just to him, but to those who fail to uphold your will."
The Emperor's grip tightened on his dao.
"Shall I grant you the same fate as Ying Wei?" His voice was calm, terrifyingly so, as though he were discussing the weather rather than a beheading.
Xuè Lián's fingers curled into the fabric of her robes, but she did not flinch. If she were to die, then so be it—but not by cowering like a dog at its master's feet.
Then—
"Wait!"
The cry sliced through the tension.
The grand doors swung open, and in strode Liu Zhenbao, his black and gold robes billowing behind him. His face was impassive, but his sharp gaze flickered between the dao pressed against Xuè Lián's throat and the Emperor's cold, unyielding eyes.
He stepped forward, placing himself between his father and Xuè Lián.
"Father, you must listen."
The Emperor raised a brow but did not lower his blade.
"Speak."
Liu Zhenbao exhaled slowly before lifting his gaze to meet his father's.
"I was there with General Xuè Lián," he said. "I saw what she saw."
Then, with a calculated pause, he added:
"And I also bring you a message."
The Emperor's expression darkened. "A message?"
Liu Zhenbao's jaw tightened.
"From the Wolf himself."
Pan Zhihaou's fingers froze mid-prayer, his beady eyes narrowing in interest.
The Emperor lowered his dao slightly, just enough to let Xuè Lián breathe, but his stance remained rigid. "Speak."
Liu Zhenbao's voice was steady, but the words that left his lips sent a chill through the room.
"Tell the Emperor that his beloved monk remains above suspicion," Aleeman had said. "Let him continue to trust the 'Old Bald Donkey' without question. Let Pan Zhihaou grow bolder, let him weave his schemes unchecked—because the more confident he becomes, the easier it will be to rip his foundation from beneath his feet."
The throne room fell deathly silent.
For the first time that night, the Emperor did not speak.
Instead, his grip tightened on his dao, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he absorbed the weight of Aleeman's words.
Then—slowly, chillingly—he smirked.
"So the Wolf bares his fangs," he murmured, amusement and fury bleeding into each syllable.
Pan Zhihaou chuckled darkly, his fingers rolling over his beads once more. "It seems the Wolf has challenged our Emperor."
The Emperor turned to Xuè Lián, his golden eyes flashing.
"Prepare for war."
Xuè Lián inhaled sharply. "Your Majesty..."
The Emperor raised his hand, dismissing her and Liu Zhenbao with a single flick of his wrist.
"Go."
Without hesitation, Xuè Lián and Liu Zhenbao performed gongshou, then turned on their heels and exited the throne room.
As the heavy doors closed behind them, the Emperor's smirk slowly faded. He exhaled, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his dao as he murmured to himself, to the looming shadows in the chamber.
"You will kneel before me soon enough, Wolf of Abjannas. And when you do… I will have your head."
The imperial halls of Ji-Gong Palace stretched out before them, their lacquered wood and gilded pillars standing like silent sentinels beneath the flickering lanterns. Outside, the night air was thick with the scent of lotus blossoms and rain-kissed stone, as if the heavens themselves held their breath, awaiting the first clash of steel in the war that now loomed over them.
General Xuè Lián walked beside Crown Prince Liu Zhenbao, their footsteps a measured rhythm against the polished marble. The tension of their audience with Emperor Weng Jin Shun still clung to them like a storm waiting to break.
She exhaled, her grip on her twin crimson dao, Xuefang & Luoyan, tightening unconsciously before she turned to him with a nod of gratitude.
"Thank you for speaking on my behalf," she said, her voice even, though a trace of unspoken relief lay beneath it.
Liu Zhenbao merely glanced at her, his face unreadable. "I was simply following orders," he replied coolly, though there was no true bite to his tone. He folded his hands behind his back, his sharp imperial robes flowing with the motion. "You were right—the Wolf is dangerous. But I do not yet understand why he would announce war against our Emperor so openly. It is unlike him."
Xuè Lián's lips pressed into a thin line as she thought back to Aleeman's words.
"Tell the Emperor that his beloved monk remains above suspicion."
A flicker of doubt traced the edges of her mind like a phantom whisper. Could it be true? Could Monk Pan Zhihaou, the man who had stood by the Emperor's side for decades, truly be scheming within the shadows?
"Then when morning comes, we will find out," Liu Zhenbao continued, his voice smooth, but something within him felt unsettled.
They walked in silence for a moment, their thoughts tangled in unseen threads—until Xuè Lián abruptly halted in her step.
Liu Zhenbao blinked, turning back to her. "What's wrong?"
Xuè Lián's posture stiffened, her usually steely composure faltering, and for the first time in years—perhaps ever—her cheeks turned a faint pinkish hue.
The image had haunted her mind since she saw it.
That modern, daring ensemble. The black-red crop top. The low-waist, tailored trousers. The sleeves flowing down her arms like whispers of rebellion.
And most unforgivable—the gemstone nestled at Shi Zhao Mei's navel, gleaming under the lantern light like a forbidden treasure.
The moment she had seen her prince—or rather, the fallen prince Wei Yang Hong—in that audacious outfit, something inside her had stirred.
Something unnamed.
Something that did not belong in the heart of a warrior.
She pressed a fist to her lips, forcing down a cough, but it was too late—Liu Zhenbao had already caught the telltale shade of pink creeping up her face.
"General?" His brow arched, suspicion flickering in his golden eyes. "What is it?"
Xuè Lián cleared her throat sharply, but her voice betrayed her trepidation. "It's nothing... just... I was merely recalling when I saw our prince... in that... revealing modern attire."
Silence.
A slow, horrified realisation dawned upon Liu Zhenbao's face, his own cheeks now flaring a deep pink.
His imperial composure cracked like brittle ice, and for a split second, he resembled not a Crown Prince of Ji-Gong, but a bewildered scholar caught in an unholy scroll of poetry depicting things he should never have read.
His hands curled into fists at his sides.
"You..." he exhaled sharply, looking away as if the very memory was a sin against heaven. "You should not speak of such things regarding our prince."
Xuè Lián's lips curled into a wicked smirk, her embarrassment momentarily forgotten as she folded her arms.
"Oh? But I saw you look away too when you saw her, did you not?"
Liu Zhenbao's jaw clenched, and he turned his back to her, feigning disinterest.
"That was merely... out of respect," he muttered, but his ears betrayed him, turning an undeniable shade of crimson.
Xuè Lián chuckled, shaking her head. "Respect? That's what we're calling it now?"
He spun back to her, eyes sharp with warning.
"Enough," he hissed, "our duty is to protect her, not comment on how modern attire has completely ruined her image as a prince."
"Ah, but that is exactly why it is distracting," Xuè Lián mused, enjoying his discomfort far too much. "We have always known Wei Yang Hong as the fallen prince... yet seeing her now... in such clothing, with such confidence... it is difficult to reconcile the past with the present."
Liu Zhenbao pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Just—drop it. And do not mention this to anyone else."
Xuè Lián gave a mock salute. "As you command, Your Highness."
He shot her a glare but did not reply.
And as they continued walking, the weight of the war ahead loomed over them—but neither could shake the memory of the Gemstone-Bellied Troublemaker from their minds.
The night in Miracheneous Academy was still, save for the occasional whisper of wind through the open balcony, rustling the silk curtains like a ghostly presence lingering at the threshold. The moon hung like a pale sentinel, its silver glow filtering through the latticework of her room, casting fleeting shadows along the walls.
Shi Zhao Mei lay sprawled across her silken sheets, one arm draped over her forehead, her long raven-black hair spilling like ink across the pillow, strands clinging to her flushed skin. She was still dressed in her usual nightwear—a loose, dark silk robe, cinched just above the waist, yet slightly undone at the collar, exposing the smooth line of her collarbone.
Her chest rose and fell unevenly, as though something deep within was stirring, clawing at her from the inside.
She couldn't sleep.
She had told herself she was tired. After everything—the training, the arguments, the lingering tension of war looming over their heads—she should have been exhausted.
Yet, every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.
Aleeman Hakiman.
That damnable wolf.
His voice—low, commanding, unwavering. His stance—firm, calculated, unyielding.
The way he had deflected every attack during their duel beneath the setting sun, the glint of his sabres, the undeniable fury in his eyes, and more than anything else—
The way he looked at her.
Not as an enemy. Not as a fallen prince. Not even as a cursed warrior.
But as if he saw her.
Wei Yang Hong.
Not the prince. Not the troublemaker.
Just her.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her robe, the pulse at her throat betraying her.
She knew what this was.
It wasn't weakness. It wasn't mere fascination.
It was dangerous.
With a sharp inhale, she pushed herself up, her bare feet pressing against the cool marble floor as she made her way toward the mirror.
The reflection that greeted her was one she barely recognised anymore.
The girl staring back at her wasn't the same Wei Yang Hong who had once sat proudly in the imperial halls, wearing the golden robes of a prince.
This girl—this woman—was something else entirely.
Her black and red hair shimmered beneath the moonlight, cascading over her bare shoulders like a river of fire and midnight. Her lips, slightly parted, still tasted of unsaid words—of things she would never allow herself to confess.
And her **eyes—**they no longer held the cold indifference of a royal.
They held something raw, something untamed—something that belonged to a woman caught between the past and the present, between destiny and defiance.
Her gaze lowered.
The gemstone at her navel glowed faintly, catching the dim light, a cruel reminder of what she had become—what she had lost.
She scoffed.
"Tch."
Hua-Jing had told her, the moment she wore this outfit, "Approach my brother like this, and he won't be able to stop looking at you."
Hua-Jing had been wrong.
He had shrugged her off as if she were nothing but an annoyance.
Yet… why?
Why had his gaze lingered?
Why had his voice softened?
Why had his stance, for just a moment, faltered?
Her fingertips traced over the gemstone absently, her mind spiralling back to the moment under the setting sun, when their blades clashed like thunder, when his eyes—burning like molten gold—had locked onto hers, and for that fleeting instant, she had felt something even more dangerous than battle.
She had felt seen.
And she didn't know whether to embrace it or destroy it.
Her heart pounded violently.
"Stop this," she whispered, her voice barely above breath, as though scolding herself.
She was a warrior.
A cursed prince.
A child of the Ji-Gong clan.
She could not afford distractions.
And yet, despite every logical warning screaming in her mind—despite every reminder of who she was, what she was, and the war awaiting them—
Her lips curved into a smirk.
"Weird brute."
And for the first time in years, she laughed.
The morning sun ascended over Nur-Al-Sanjak, its golden rays bathed the Vitreum Solaris Glassworks in a celestial glow, painting the colossal structure in hues of amber and rose. A monument of artistry and industrial might, the Glassworks stood as a testament to ingenuity, its towering brass spires and polished copper domes gleaming like a beacon of progress upon the Halmosian skyline.
Nestled within the North-Eastern sector of the capital, it was the largest glass production and solar energy facility in Abjannas, presided over by Ashai Hakiman, second elder brother to the famed Wolf of Abjannas, Aleeman Hakiman.
The facade of the Glassworks was a marriage of steampunk innovation and architectural grandeur, an exquisite fusion of brass, polished copper, and reinforced steel that reflected the very essence of Halmosian craftsmanship. Gigantic stained-glass murals, depicting the history of Abjannas' rise to power, blazed like fiery mosaics beneath the morning light, their prismatic reflections dancing across the cobblestone paths.
Towering copper-plated chimneys spiraled into the heavens, exhaling wisps of alchemized steam, infused with solar energy—a revolutionary feat in the realm of eco-industrial alchemy. Sprawling aqueduct-like pipes, adorned with intricate golden inlays, wove through the complex, transporting superheated sand and molten glass like the lifeblood of a mechanical titan.
But the crown jewel of the Glassworks was its three colossal solar domes, each a masterpiece of mechanically enhanced lenses, designed to capture and magnify the sun's essence. Their surfaces—reinforced with intricate brass filigree—exuded an elegant yet mechanical beauty, a fusion of science and mysticism. As the sun kissed the horizon, the domes whirred to life, rotating upon clockwork-driven axles, their synchronized movement resembling celestial orbs charting the heavens. These structures powered the infernal glass furnaces below, igniting the very heart of Vitreum Solaris.
Above the bustling city, magnetized sky trams, gliding upon elevated brass railways, ferried workers and merchants to and from the Glassworks. Below, pneumatic elevators, encased within spiraling towers of glass and metal, granted swift passage between factory floors, observation decks, and Ashai Hakiman's private chambers—where the master of glass himself observed the empire he had built.
Outside, upon the gilded entrance steps, Ashai Hakiman stood beneath the glorious expanse of the morning sky, clad in the traditional regalia of Abjannas' master artisans. His white börk sat upon his head with dignified ease, while his red kaftan, layered over a grey içlik, fluttered faintly in the warm breeze. His indigo şalvar, cinched by an intricately woven kuşak, bore the mark of his lineage, and upon his feet, his çarik tread lightly upon the sun-kissed stone.
He adjusted his spectacles, his sharp eyes scanning the awakened behemoth before him, and with an exhale, he murmured,
"Alright then... Time to work."
His voice, though measured, bore the weight of a thousand ambitions.
Stepping inside, the design of Vitreum Solaris unfolded in all its breathtaking magnificence.
Within the factory's vast interior, the air thrummed with the rhythmic hum of machinery, a symphony of steam, metal, and alchemy. The glow of molten glass, shifting from sapphire blues to burning golds, cast eerie reflections upon the steel-plated floors, where golden rays refracted through crystal skylights, creating a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting colours.
At the very heart of the facility, the Grand Central Kiln burned with solar flames of blue-white intensity, its infernal breath consuming sand and transforming it into liquid glass of unparalleled purity. Suspended above this smouldering crucible, a floating brass-and-glass control chamber housed alchemists and engineers, who dictated the delicate balance of temperature, pressure, and composition through an intricate web of analog dials, pneumatic levers, and enchanted brass circuitry.
Automated clockwork arms and steam-powered glassblowers, driven by the precision of mechanical sentience, sculpted molten glass into magnificent stained windows, reinforced solar panels, and crystalline artifacts.
To one side, a vast studio, illuminated by arcane lanterns and refracted sunlight, served as the sanctum of Abjannas' greatest glassworkers. Here, artisans sculpted intricate mosaics, alchemical lenses, and decorative glass weaponry, the very essence of art and warfare entwined. Floating anti-gravity worktables, supported by etherium-infused gears, allowed them to craft massive glass sculptures midair, unbound by earthly limitations.
Each stained-glass panel, produced with unwavering precision, told a tale of conquest, divinity, or celestial beasts—the living history of Abjannas, preserved in fire and sand.
Giant brass conveyor belts, powered by hydraulic pistons and rotating gear engines, transported the completed works through various etching, colouring, and reinforcement stations. Automated stamping machines, engraved with intricate Turabian calligraphy, inscribed holy verses and arcane sigils into solar panels and cathedral windows, weaving faith and technology into a single entity.
Pipes filled with liquefied sapphire and obsidian fed into specialized machines, producing fortified bulletproof glass and military-grade visor lenses—a testament to the duality of Abjannas: a civilisation of scholars and warriors alike.
Beyond the factory floors, the Grand Trade Hall of Vitreum Solaris pulsed with the haggling voices of merchants, noble emissaries, and ambitious scholars. From the farthest corners of Halmosian, dignitaries had come to strike lucrative trade deals, eager to purchase custom-built solar reactors, artistic stained glass, and futuristic glass armor for their respective states.
Amidst them all, seated within his elevated office, Ashai Hakiman overlooked his empire with the keen gaze of a strategist and the heart of an artist.
The future of Abjannas was being shaped in these very halls, through the fire of the kilns and the will of men who dared to dream beyond steel and sand.
Ashai moved through the vast workshop with the fluidity of a man accustomed to discipline. Brass-rimmed instruments clinked as he arranged them on polished workbenches, while the rumbling internal combustion of the steam engines signaled the awakening of the glass furnaces.
He adjusted the pressure gauges, ensuring the molten glass would be at precise temperatures, and with a firm press of a switch, the mechanical pulse of the Glassworks roared to life.
And then—
A shatter.
Loud. Abrupt. The unmistakable cry of breaking glass reverberated from below, echoing through the industrial cathedral of the workshop.
Ashai froze, every hair on his arms rising. His fingers instinctively found the hilt of Solflare Requiem—his masterpiece of Halmosian gunsmithing.
A blend of clockwork precision, solar energy infusion, and traditional marksmanship, the ornate firearm gleamed beneath the overhead lamps. Its stained-glass energy chambers pulsated faintly, and its mechanically shifting barrel awaited command, ready to transform from a long-range rifle into a rapid-fire revolver with the flick of a lever.
Narrowing his eyes, Ashai descended the steel spiral staircase leading to the lower chambers, where the boilers churned and the true heart of the Glassworks burned.
The darkness below was thick, a shroud of lingering heat and shadow. He flicked on a hanging arcane lantern, casting a cold azure glow through the storage chamber.
And then—he heard it.
A low, guttural sound.
A snore.
Ashai's brows furrowed. Keeping Solflare Requiem at the ready, he followed the noise, his footsteps careful against the metal-plated floor.
And then— his heart nearly leapt from his ribcage.
Perched atop a stack of wooden crates, sprawled in the most undignified manner possible, lay Aleeman Hakiman—the so-called Wolf of Abjannas.
Snoring. Loudly.
For a moment, Ashai simply stared. Then, exhaling sharply, he kicked the nearest crate.
CRASH.
Aleeman tumbled off the boxes with a startled grunt, landing on the cold metal floor with an unceremonious thud.
"Aleeman! Aleeman! Hey, wake up!"
A groggy mutter. A half-lidded stare. A blink of unbothered nonchalance.
"Oh. Brother. When did you get here?"
SLAM.
A firm palm to Aleeman's forehead was Ashai's only response.
"Oh, come on!" Aleeman groaned, rubbing the spot with a wince.
Ashai pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about "younger siblings being a curse upon the earth" before glaring down at him.
"You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Aleeman, utterly unrepentant, merely tilted his head.
"Did I? When?"
Ashai clenched his jaw, muttering a quick prayer to any deity willing to give him patience.
"You should be at the academy," he said flatly.
"I know."
"So?"
A hesitant pause.
Aleeman rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, actually… I came here late last night."
"What?!"
Ashai's exasperated tone echoed off the steel walls.
"You mean to tell me," he continued, crossing his arms, "that instead of going back to your dorm like a normal student, you decided to sneak into my workshop, make yourself comfortable on a stack of crates, and fall asleep like some vagrant?"
Aleeman shrugged. "I wouldn't call it sneaking. More like… improvising."
Ashai was half a second away from throwing something at him when he sighed, waving a dismissive hand.
"Fine. If you're going to be here, you might as well be useful. Come on."
He led Aleeman up the spiral staircase, back to the main floor, where the furnaces burned with sapphire fire and the mechanical arms whirred with precision.
"I need a design."
Aleeman arched a brow. "A design?"
Ashai nodded. "Something customers will love. Something elegant, yet practical."
A moment of thoughtful silence passed before Aleeman rolled up his sleeves.
"Alright then. Let's see what I can do."
With fluid movements, he set to work.
The molten glass, glowing like captured sunlight, flowed onto the sculpting plates. His hands moved with precision, guided by instinct and an artist's eye, shaping the material into delicate yet bold forms.
Under the watchful gaze of his elder brother, Aleeman crafted with a surprising level of expertise.
Vases, flowers, intricate patterns—each one a testament to patience and raw creativity. Automata-assisted arms, powered by steam-driven precision, aided in shaping and cooling the glass, while Ashai watched, his expression shifting from skepticism to genuine admiration.
By the time Aleeman stepped back, sweat glistening on his brow, a collection of beautiful glasswork lay before them, catching the sunlight like fragments of a dream made solid.
Ashai let out a low whistle, patting his younger brother's shoulder.
"You know," he mused, "for a so-called warlord, you're pretty damn good at this."
Aleeman, still catching his breath, gave him a flat look. "Don't sound so surprised."
"Oh, I'm not. I'm just trying to figure out how to keep you here so you actually finish what you start."
Aleeman chuckled, wiping his hands.
"Not a chance."
Ashai grinned, shaking his head.
"Alright, alright. Just put them on the shelves—carefully. Try not to break anything."
Aleeman nodded, carefully carrying the finished pieces toward the display shelves, when—
Something caught his eye.
A gleam of something unusual.
His steps halted.
His gaze locked onto a particular object—one that did not belong among the others.
His fingers brushed against it, and a familiar cold sensation spread through his palm.
Aleeman narrowed his eyes.
"What in the name of Almighty is this…?"
The Miracheneous Academy, a bastion of intellect and arcane prowess, stood like a fortress of knowledge and ambition. Its towering pagodas, woven with silver calligraphy and gilded runes, stretched toward the heavens, whispering of centuries-old wisdom and the unwritten destinies of those who walked its halls.
Within this sacred institution, where scholars and warriors alike honed their minds and blades, a conversation of particular intrigue unfolded.
In the quiet corridors of the academy, Mei-Xi-Li and Hua-Jing walked side by side, their voices a gentle murmur against the morning hush.
Mei-Xi-Li, with her raven hair tied into an intricate braid, wore her usual expression of contemplation—half curious philosopher, half reluctant academic. Her robes, woven with subtle sigils, whispered softly as she moved.
Beside her, Hua-Jing, ever the cynic draped in charm, tossed her crimson sash over her shoulder, her jade earrings glinting in the dappled sunlight.
"I still do not understand why you insist on storing our staffs in that ancient wooden relic," Hua-Jing mused, casting a dubious glance at the closet where Mei-Xi-Li had just stowed their weapons.
"It is tradition," Mei-Xi-Li replied, her tone patient yet firm. "One does not simply leave their artefacts scattered like discarded parchments."
"Tradition?" Hua-Jing scoffed, resting her elbow against the closet door. "Tell me, Mei, do you think tradition will protect us when some reckless fool ignites half the academy in a duel?"
Mei-Xi-Li shot him a dry look. "If the academy burns, Hua-Jing, it will be because you wagered against the wrong fire mage in another of your absurd bets."
Hua-Jing placed a dramatic hand over her chest, feigning mock offense. "Oh, the slander! The false accusations! I am but an innocent scholar—"
Mei-Xi-Li rolled her eyes. "An innocent scholar who once convinced an entire first-year class that drinking molten silver would grant them enlightenment."
Hua-Jing grinned unabashedly. "Yes, well… their mistake was believing me."
"You were punished for two months."
"Worth it."
Mei-Xi-Li exhaled slowly, as if summoning the patience of a thousand meditating monks.
They walked into the vast lecture hall, a colossus of carved ebony and marble, its ceiling painted with celestial maps and battle scenes. Yet—
Aleeman was nowhere to be seen.
Mei-Xi-Li took her usual seat, tapping her fingers lightly against the wooden desk. "Strange. Aleeman is never late."
Hua-Jing leaned back, arms crossed. "Perhaps our beloved wolf has found himself tangled in something... messier than usual?"
A wry smirk played at Mei-Xi-Li's lips. "That, or he overslept in some unfortunate corner of the city."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the academy, another student sat seething in quiet resentment.
John Wei-Tang, his fingers curled into fists, gazed darkly out of the training hall window. Beneath his polished demeanor and courteous bow, there lurked something venomous—a wound that had long festered, hidden behind his charcoal-black robes and silver-threaded insignias.
Aleeman.
The very name made his jaw tighten. The very image of that self-righteous, reckless mongrel of a warrior stirred something in him that he refused to name.
"He does not belong here," John muttered under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aleeman walked through the halls of Miracheneous as if he were untouchable, as if he were something more than just another warrior with a lineage too grand for his own good. And worse, people listened to him.
John tapped his calloused fingers against the hilt of his blade, his mind already spinning a plan.
He did not want to simply defeat Aleeman.
He wanted to humiliate him. To undo his reputation thread by thread. To remind him that power alone is not enough to secure one's place in history.
Elsewhere, Shi Zhao Mei, draped in robes of ebony and jade, walked alone through the cobbled paths of the academy's outer gardens, her thoughts a tempest of conflicted emotions.
The sky stretched vast above her, a sea of ashen blue with the distant glow of a waning moon. The wind whispered through the willows, rustling the leaves like a thousand hushed voices carrying secrets long forgotten.
And yet, her mind lingered on one name.
Aleeman.
Her father called it a declaration of war. But Aleeman's words to her had been different.
"A reminder, not a war," he had told her, his voice calm, his gaze unwavering.
A reminder of what?
That he was still watching? That he was still playing a game that no one else had quite figured out yet?
Shi Zhao Mei exhaled softly.
She had known Aleeman too long to believe he would act without reason. And yet, she could not deny the weight of her father's anger.
The lines of battle were being drawn.
Whether she willed it or not.
To step into Queen Liskarm Jee's chamber was to step into a realm where history and future wove together in a dance of power and inevitability. It was a place where every detail whispered a silent warning, where every shadow held a secret, and where even the air carried the weight of unspoken menace.
The very walls, lined with ornate baroque carvings, bore the scars of conquest, yet thrummed with the arcane pulse of hidden circuitry, an unnerving blend of antiquity and forbidden progress. Above, the stained-glass dome bathed the chamber in an ethereal glow, its gears shifting with the rhythm of unseen mechanisms—an eerie celestial ballet of glass, metal, and magic.
And at the centre of it all sat Liskarm Jee, the queen of iron and guile, perched upon her throne of velvet and gold, draped in an air of detached supremacy. Her very presence exuded a deliberate stillness, like a serpent waiting to strike, or a clockwork machine waiting for the perfect second to activate its killing blow.
A knock.
Sharp. Measured. Expected.
Liskarm did not even glance up. Instead, she let the moment hang, her fingers still moving across the holographic interface embedded in her desk, shifting between maps of military movements, economic sanctions, and the subtle traces of whispered betrayals.
Finally, with the grace of a woman who commanded time itself, she spoke—her voice was cool steel wrapped in silk.
"Enter."
The heavy brass doors groaned open, and through them stepped Knight Kaelith, her boots clicking against the polished obsidian floor, her posture crisp with the weight of duty.
In her gloved hands, she carried a sealed letter, the sigil of the Eastern Region's Ji-Gong Clan pressed into the wax—a serpent coiled around a sword.
"A message from the Eastern Region," Kaelith announced, her tone clipped, efficient, yet laced with an undercurrent of trepidation.
Liskarm snatched the letter from her grip with an elegant swipe, tearing the wax seal with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to both diplomacy and deception. Her emerald eyes, sharp as a falcon's talons, scanned the parchment with unreadable intensity.
A smirk—wicked, knowing—curled at the corner of her lips.
"Interesting," she murmured, her voice carrying the same tone one might use when watching two fools brawl in the mud for entertainment.
Kaelith tilted her head slightly, her violet gaze flickering with curiosity.
"From whom, Your Majesty?"
Liskarm leaned back in her ornate throne, the shadows from the stained-glass dome casting fractured crimson and indigo hues across her sharp features. She folded the letter with deliberate precision, then exhaled a quiet chuckle, the sound like silk sliding over a blade.
"It is from the Ji-Gong Clan," she finally answered, her fingers tapping against the desk in a measured rhythm, as if already calculating the next ten moves in an invisible game. "Aleeman has challenged a war against Emperor Weng Jin Shun."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of implications.
Kaelith's brows furrowed. "So, Your Highness, what shall we do?"
Liskarm's smirk deepened, a predator's amusement flashing in her gaze. She did not answer immediately. Instead, she crossed her fingers, resting them just below her chin, the gesture deceptively serene, yet carrying the subtle tension of a noose being tightened around an unsuspecting neck.
Finally, she spoke.
"Let them be."
Kaelith blinked, uncertain.
Liskarm's smile widened, slow and deliberate—a queen watching the first pieces move on a chessboard of her own design.
"I want the Emperor to take the head of the wolf."
A pause. Then, a soft chuckle, void of warmth.
"Then, when our time comes..."
Kaelith's fingers twitched at her sides, her expression a mask of practiced neutrality, though a flicker of unease flickered in her eyes.
"And if he fails?" Kaelith pressed.
Liskarm did not miss a beat. "We will."
She finally stood, moving toward the gothic windows that overlooked Julivanian, her capital. The glass had already begun to shift in colour, the sunset casting it into a deep wine-red, the reflection in the glass making her appear bathed in blood.
She turned her gaze back toward Kaelith, her expression unreadable, yet her eyes burned with a dangerous certainty.
"Let the dragon and the wolf kill each other," she murmured, "then we shall take what is left."
Kaelith bowed slightly, absorbing the cold, calculated ruthlessness of the plan. "And the Cursed Prince?"
At this, Liskarm laughed softly, an almost musical sound, though it carried the distinct weight of impending doom.
She turned back toward the window, her hands clasped lightly behind her back.
"If Aleeman and Emperor Weng Jin Shun both die in the war..." she mused, almost idly. "Shi Zhao Mei—also known as Wei Yang Hong—will be all that remains."
She tilted her head, her voice lowering into something whisper-soft yet venom-laced.
"And you know, Kaelith, how we treat our enemies."
A pause. Then, with a wicked curl of her lips, she added—
"Like guests."
The way she said it sent a distinct chill through the room, the words dripping with the slow, honeyed poison of a death sentence disguised as hospitality.
Kaelith straightened, her jaw tensing before she bowed once more.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
As she turned to leave the chamber, her expression was carefully composed, but the ghost of unease lingered in her gaze.
As the doors creaked shut behind her, Liskarm Jee remained, standing before her empire, watching, waiting.
For soon, the war would begin.
And when the dust had settled, only she would decide what remained.
The air within Kumaruchaisan Castle hung thick with the weight of history—stone walls adorned with warlord banners, their ancient insignias faded, yet unyielding, like the legacy of the kings who had sat upon the Ironwood Throne. The chamber, bathed in the dim glow of golden candelabras, smelled of aged parchment, molten wax, and the faint metallic tang of steel sharpened for unseen wars.
At the heart of this imposing sanctum, seated behind an obsidian-inlaid desk, was Tekfur Kekaumenos, the sovereign of steel and stratagems, hunched over a relic-bound tome, his fingers gliding over pages that whispered of forgotten alliances and treacheries buried beneath the sands of time.
His brow, furrowed in a manner as immovable as the mountain his castle was built upon, bore the etchings of a man whose mind was a battlefield unto itself. His iron-plated gauntlet rested upon the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, the dull sheen of its blade reflecting the amber flames of the hearth, as if thirsting for a destiny yet to unfold.
Then—a knock.
Not hesitant. Not meek. But a knock of duty, urgency, and perhaps an omen yet unspoken.
Tekfur Kekaumenos did not stir immediately. Instead, he let the moment linger, as if daring time itself to challenge his dominion.
Finally, his voice—deep as the chasm where kings are buried—rumbled through the chamber.
"Enter."
The doors, great and imposing, creaked upon their ancient hinges, groaning as though they too bore the burden of ages.
Through them stepped Alphagut, his frame draped in a crimson military cloak, his ashen-grey hair tied back, though strands of silver defied the discipline of youth, cascading over his brow. His boots struck the marble floor in a rhythm as measured as the march of an army—neither hurried nor slow, but the gait of a man who had stared into the abyss and walked away unshaken.
He halted before the desk, his stance rigid yet deferential, before bowing with the precision of an automaton crafted for war.
"My liege." His voice bore the clipped enunciation of a soldier who had no time for poetry, only orders and their execution.
Tekfur Kekaumenos's gaze lifted, and in that instant, the very temperature of the room seemed to shift.
His eyes—piercing, pale, like frost-bitten steel beneath the dying sun—settled upon Alphagut, measuring him as one might measure a blade before the killing stroke.
"What is it?"
Alphagut exhaled, though there was no hesitation in his movements, only the weight of words that bore the potential to reshape the board upon which kings played their cruel game.
"There is a matter that requires your wisdom."
Silence.
A silence so profound it was almost tangible, as if the very walls held their breath, knowing that one misstep in this room could spell the fall of empires.
Then—a flicker.
Not in the light. Not in the air. But in the sharp tilt of Tekfur Kekaumenos's lips—a smirk, cold as a winter wind upon a battlefield strewn with the carcasses of forgotten warriors.
He leaned back, fingers steepling before him, the firelight casting jagged shadows across the planes of his face, turning him into something almost spectral, a wraith crowned in sovereignty and silent menace.
"Wisdom?" he echoed, the word dripping from his tongue like honey laced with venom. "Wisdom, Alphagut, is the bastard child of bloodshed and betrayal. Speak plainly. What do you require?"
Alphagut's jaw tensed—not in fear, but in understanding. This was a man who did not entertain riddles, only results.
"The borderlands stir, my liege." He kept his voice steady, though the weight behind his words was unmistakable. "Whispers from the east speak of movements beyond what was anticipated. There is unrest—silent, but growing. If left unchecked, it may bloom into something... inconvenient."
A long, measured breath.
Tekfur Kekaumenos tapped the armrest of his chair, his gauntlet-clad fingers creating a steady, rhythmic cadence against the ancient wood, as if mimicking the heartbeat of an empire poised on the precipice of war.
Finally, he spoke.
"Send a shadow before the storm." His voice was a blade sliding from its sheath, slow, deliberate, and promising only finality. "I want scouts in the eastern corridors. Unseen. Unheard. If they find whispers, they will listen. If they find flames, they will smother them."
Alphagut gave a curt nod, his expression betraying neither approval nor discontent, only the unwavering resolve of a man who had long since surrendered his will to duty.
"And if they find steel?"
Tekfur Kekaumenos's lips curled, a cruel glint flashing in his gaze.
"Then they will remind the east why the wolves of Kumaruchaisan do not bark."
A pause.
Then, as if the world had already begun to shift beneath his decree, he added—
"They only bite."
The room felt colder then, the weight of those words settling upon the air like the first snowfall before a long, merciless winter.
Alphagut, understanding the order for what it truly was—a prelude to bloodshed—inclined his head once more.
"It shall be done, my liege."
Tekfur Kekaumenos merely nodded, dismissing him not with words, but with the subtle flick of his hand, as though commanding not a man, but a spectre bound to his will.
And so, Alphagut turned, his crimson cloak trailing like a spectre of war behind him, his boots echoing one final time upon the marble before the great doors groaned shut.
Silence settled once more within the chamber.
Yet, within the watchful eyes of Tekfur Kekaumenos, something stirred—
Something dark.
Something inevitable.
For in the east, the embers of rebellion had begun to glow faintly beneath the night sky.
And soon—
The wolves would feast.
The sun dipped below the horizon, its final golden rays spilling through the stained-glass windows, turning the workshop into a cathedral of kaleidoscopic light. Ashai and Aleeman stood amidst their latest creations—vases like frozen fire, goblets that shimmered like liquefied moonlight, and glass roses so intricate they might've been plucked from an enchanted garden.
Ashai, wiping the sweat off his brow, took a step back and surveyed Aleeman's craftsmanship with an approving nod.
"Well, well, look at you, little brother. Who knew you had the dexterity of a jeweller and the patience of a saint? I'd wager even the Empress of Halmosia would break decorum to purchase one of these."
Aleeman, grinning yet feigning modesty, folded his arms. "Oh, please. Flattery suits you as well as a saddle suits a fish. But if you must heap laurels upon me, at least do so while feeding me. I am one breath away from starvation."
Ashai snorted, waving him over to the lunch table where an extravagant spread of grilled lamb, warm flatbreads, and aromatic rice awaited them. "Fine, fine. Sit before you wither away and turn to dust—though, between us, I'd say your bones have enough stubbornness to resist decay for centuries."
As Aleeman wolfed down his meal with the elegance of a starved hyena, Ashai leaned back in his chair, a smirk creeping onto his lips like a cat slinking up to mischief.
"Speaking of stubborn bones—how's the academy treating you?"
Aleeman, mid-bite, froze for a second. Then, after an exaggerated swallow, he shrugged. "Oh, you know. Same old drudgery—professors droning, students scheming, me contemplating my escape routes daily."
Ashai raised a brow. "Contemplating or executing? Because Headmaster Falani mentioned something about you feeding twelve kebabs to the Janissaries before he shipped you off to their Guild for 'discipline'."
Aleeman choked on his drink.
"A—ah. That. Hah. Funny story—"
"No, no. By all means, elaborate," Ashai said, grinning like a devil in a cathedral.
Aleeman grumbled, stabbing his rice with unnecessary aggression. "It was a social experiment!"
"A what?"
"A social experiment! I merely wished to observe whether a Janissary's battle discipline would crumble under the influence of deliciously spiced kebabs!"
Ashai burst into laughter. "So let me get this straight—you bribed a dozen elite warriors with skewered meat, and now you're being sent to their Guild for combat training? You do realise they are not known for their mercy, yes?"
Aleeman rubbed his temples. "I would argue that mercy is an overrated virtue. Besides, they seemed quite pleased. At least, until the Headmaster found out."
Ashai leaned forward, his voice dropping into that infuriatingly knowing tone only older brothers could master.
"Oh, by the way—I heard an interesting name tossed around the academy… Shi Zhao Mei from Samiyoshi."
Aleeman stiffened. The fork in his hand trembled. His left eye twitched ever so slightly.
Ashai grinned. "Now, care to explain why your name and hers keep appearing in the same breath?"
Aleeman exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Oh, for the love of—I have no interest in girls!"
Ashai raised a brow. "No interest, hmm? Curious. Most men develop an interest right around the time they stop believing girls have cooties."
Aleeman scowled. "Jeez, you two—I swear, between you and Samiyoshi, one would think romance is an occupational requirement."
Ashai pretended to ponder. "Well, some might argue that having a partner who can handle your nonsense is indeed a requirement for survival."
Aleeman, trying desperately to shift the subject, glanced at the shelves. His eyes landed on a crimson glass rose, its petals gleaming like frozen fire, delicate yet defiant in its artistry.
"Hey, Ashai… can I have that?"
Ashai immediately smirked, his eyes glinting with wicked amusement. "Ohhh? My little brother's in love?"
Aleeman, caught in the trap, sputtered. "N-not that thing! I just—thought it looked nice!"
Ashai, wiping imaginary tears of pride from his eyes, sighed dramatically. "Alas, the boy has fallen! He blushes! He stammers! The symptoms are clear!"
Aleeman, cheeks now an undeniable shade of pink, growled. "I swear, if you don't shut up, I'll—"
Before he could finish, Ashai suddenly grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.
Aleeman, utterly baffled, blinked. "HUH?!"
Ashai, in the most serious tone imaginable, whispered: "Step one."
Aleeman tilted his head like a confused puppy. "Step one of what?"
Ashai narrowed his eyes, gripping Aleeman's chin.
"Step one of the ancient and noble art of 'rizz'."
Aleeman jerked back. "What now?!"
Ashai sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. "Rizz, dear brother. It is the craft of wooing, the artistry of persuasion, the skill of making a woman weak in the knees."
Aleeman, horrified, shoved him away. "You freak!"
Ashai rubbed his jaw dramatically. "Dude, I was merely demonstrating! See, if you do it right, she'll lean in—lips parting ever so slightly, eyes fluttering, her breath—"
Aleeman held up a hand. "Stop. STOP. If this fails, I am throwing you to the wolves. No, worse—to the sheep."
Ashai gasped. "Not the sheep!"
After lunch, Aleeman rose, straightening his tunic and adjusting his gloves.
"I'm heading to the Janissaries' Guild."
Ashai, leaning back lazily, smirked. "And school?"
Aleeman, already halfway to the door, waved dismissively. "I'll attend later. I have… urgent matters to attend to."
Ashai rolled his eyes, then, with a sharp whistle, tossed the glass rose toward him.
Aleeman, startled, caught it deftly.
Ashai grinned. "Try your best to hook up with Shi Zhao Mei, yeah?"
Aleeman glanced at the rose, then back at his brother. For a moment, something unreadable flickered across his face.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
"Tch. You're insufferable."
"That's what brothers are"
And with that—he left.
The air inside Miracheneous Academy's science hall was thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and the faint ozone of static energy from the luminostone chandeliers overhead. Rows of students sat in regimented discipline, their faces illuminated by the flickering holographic diagrams projected from Professor Farshid Robertsong's mechanical gauntlet—a relic of academia that crackled with the electric hum of knowledge.
At the front of the hall, Professor Robertsong, an elderly yet fiercely animated man, adjusted the golden-rimmed monocle upon his aquiline nose before he continued, his voice ringing with the authority of a scholar and the sharpness of a blade honed by decades of intellect.
"Now, class, let us return to our discussion on the technological revolution brought forth by Vitreum Circuitry." His fingers danced in the air, summoning an intricate blueprint of a gear-driven energy core. "As you are aware, traditional automaton mechanisms relied upon steam and combustion, but with the advent of crystalline energy infusion, we have surpassed limitations that once shackled our industries."
Students scribbled furiously, quills scratching against paper, the rapid note-taking akin to the rhythm of a printing press stamping knowledge onto eager minds. But not all minds were eager.
Hua-Jing, seated near the window, tapped the end of her quill against her notebook in absent disinterest. The words of Professor Robertsong drifted into her ears like the distant murmur of ocean waves, familiar yet utterly unabsorbed. Her gaze—lazy, unfocused—drifted toward the window, where the golden afternoon sun bathed the academy fields in a mellow radiance.
Then—something caught her eye.
There, upon the training grounds, a lone figure moved with the relentless rhythm of a war drum. Punch. Pivot. Kick. Strike. The blur of motion, the ferocity of a disciplined form, the unwavering stance of one who was not merely training, but waging a private battle against the air itself.
Shi Zhao Mei.
The girl donned fingerless combat gloves, her knuckles raw from impact, her breath steady as an iron forge working at midday. She moved with the fluidity of flowing ink and the force of a tempest, each strike carving through the air as if she were sculpting a path of inevitability.
Hua-Jing arched an eyebrow.
"Why in the hell is she out there bumping the class?" she muttered under her breath, her inner monologue seething with a mixture of bewilderment and vague admiration.
She didn't have long to ponder.
"Miss Hua-Jing."
Professor Robertsong's voice sliced through her thoughts like a blade through silk. The lecture hall fell silent as every pair of eyes shifted toward her.
She straightened in her seat, blinking away her distraction.
"Yes, sir?"
The professor's monocle glinted dangerously.
"Do forgive my interruption of your grand reflections on the outside world, but I do believe your presence is required in this room, not beyond that window." His voice was laced with sardonic amusement, yet it carried the unmistakable weight of a warning.
She let out a sheepish cough, offering the most diplomatic nod of compliance she could muster.
"Apologies, sir. Won't happen again."
Satisfied, Professor Robertsong resumed his lecture, though not without a final glance of scrutiny.
Meanwhile, outside, Shi Zhao Mei's battle continued.
The rhythmic pounding of her fists against the training pillar echoed across the academy grounds, each impact a wordless declaration of war. Sweat beaded upon her brow, sliding down her temples like rainwater tracing the curves of a blade.
Her breath was measured, her stance rooted, but within her mind—a storm raged.
"Aleeman…"
His name slashed through her thoughts, carving a jagged line between past and present, between what was and what would be.
She exhaled sharply, delivering a precise, devastating strike, as if by breaking the wood before her, she could shatter the very reality he had set in motion.
"You—arrogant fool. Challenging my father, the Emperor? A mere reminder, you called it? No, Aleeman. This is not a reminder. This is war."
Her muscles tensed.
Her eyes burned with something deeper than fury, something sharper than hatred—resolve, laced with a venom she refused to taste.
"I should loathe you."
A swift roundhouse kick, sending splinters flying into the air.
"But I don't."
She stilled, her breath coming in short, quiet exhales, watching the fractured wood sway before falling in defeat.
The wind carried whispers of the academy's chatter in the distance, but none of it reached her ears.
All she could hear was the unspoken challenge that lingered between herself and Aleeman.
She raised her fists once more.
"Fine then, Wolf of the West. If you seek war with the Dragon of the East—"
Her knuckles cracked, her stance tightened.
"—then I shall ensure you are burned before you reach the gates of my father's empire."
And with that, she struck again.
The sun blazed mercilessly over the bustling streets of the Eastern Region of Ji-Gong, its golden light glinting off the vibrant silk banners fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Vendors hollered, pushing their wares—steamed buns that oozed with molten pork, rice cakes dusted with crushed sesame, and sizzling skewers of spiced lamb that sent tendrils of smoke curling into the air.
Amidst this bustling cacophony, a group of warriors lounged at a street-side tavern, tankards of rice wine in hand, their conversation slipping between banter and whispered reverence.
Bai Hànfeng, a man whose jawline was sharper than the blade he carried, took a deep swig from his ceramic flask, his eyes narrowing as he tilted his head back in contemplation.
"Aleeman," he muttered, swirling the last remnants of his drink before slamming the flask onto the wooden table. "I challenged the Wolf of the West in combat, and do you know what happened?"
The group leaned in, curiosity etched across their faces.
Bai Hànfeng let the silence hang before chuckling, shaking his head. "He was outsmarted."
A collective gasp—not of disbelief, but of sheer astonishment.
Zhang Ruiying, her raven hair swaying in the breeze, rested her elbow on the table, a half-smirk curling on her lips. "A boy in his teen years outmaneuvering warriors thrice his age? Unbelievable. The way he carries himself—that sharp gaze, that unyielding aura... it's like he commands fear without even trying."
The group nodded, murmuring their agreement.
"There's something in the way he stands," Huang Feilong said, rubbing his chin. "Like an emperor who hasn't yet claimed his throne."
"Or a shadow in the midst of a battlefield, waiting to strike," added Lin Yuexin, sipping her tea with a knowing smile.
Just as the air thickened with admiration, Lu Fangxiao suddenly leaned forward, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
"Speaking of Aleeman," he began, "do you all remember that conversation between Liu Zhenbao, General Xuè Lián, and him?"
A few chuckles, some nods, and a couple of confused looks.
"You know…" Lu Fangxiao wiggled his eyebrows. "When the Cursed Prince showed up looking…"
Before he could finish, Mei Xianhua—ever the opportunist—interjected with an impish grin.
"Like an absolute work of art," she supplied smoothly, swirling her cup of wine. "Or, to be precise, like a—"
And then, as if fate had a cruel sense of humour—
A hush fell over the table. The street noise faded into a distant hum.
For standing before them, clad in an outfit that defied the laws of decency and tradition alike, was none other than…
The very Cursed Prince turned breathtaking woman, Shi Zhao Mei, sauntered into view.
She wore a modern crop top, something so outrageously daring that it left very little to imagination. The tight fabric clung scandalously to her frame, exposing her midriff, her collarbones, and just enough skin to cause a monumental circuit failure in the minds of every single man present.
Bai Hànfeng, the once-fearless warrior, choked on his wine.
Zhang Ruiying arched a single, knowing brow.
Huang Feilong visibly gulped.
Xie Longwei's grip on his cup tightened so hard it cracked.
Ren Xiaotian had forgotten how to blink.
Wu Xianfeng just… stared.
Lu Fangxiao, now suddenly aware of the literal manifestation of his words, sputtered, "B-body."
Silence.
A silence so deafening that even the street vendors paused, sensing a shift in the cosmos itself.
And as if the gods weren't finished torturing them, two towering figures approached—
General Xuè Lián, a woman built like a fortress, with a gaze that could cut through lies like a hot blade through butter.
And beside him, Crown Prince Liu Zhenbao, elegance and power woven into human form, his robes embroidered in imperial gold, his presence so imposing that even the air seemed to bend to his will.
The warriors snapped out of their daze, scrambling to their feet, their hands instantly forming the gongshou salute, bowing in deep respect.
Liu Zhenbao's gaze swept over them, his lips curved into a smirk as if he had caught them in the middle of something profoundly suspicious.
"What," he drawled, "exactly were you discussing just now?"
The group exchanged furtive glances, beads of sweat forming at their brows.
"N-nothing important, Your Highness," Bai Hànfeng blurted, attempting a hasty recovery. "Just… admiration! Yes, admiration of, uh, Aleeman's strategic brilliance!"
Zhang Ruiying nodded vigorously, her face a mask of pure innocence. "Indeed, we were discussing the art of warfare! Absolutely nothing else!"
Lu Fangxiao, still caught in the aftershock of Shi Zhao Mei's bold fashion choice, could barely string together words. "Yes, we were—uh—talking about…" He side-eyed his comrades desperately.
Mei Xianhua kicked him under the table.
"The tides of war," she supplied smoothly. "And… rice wine."
Liu Zhenbao squinted.
General Xuè Lián remained stone-faced, though there was a slight twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth.
The Crown Prince let the tension linger, before turning to his general.
"What do you think, General Xuè Lián?" he mused.
Xuè Lián, ever the stoic warrior, folded her arms and surveyed the hastily assembled disaster before him.
Then, with a voice so deadpan it could haunt a graveyard, he replied:
"I think they were caught in the act of something deeply stupid."
A pause.
And just like that—
Bai Hànfeng downed his entire cup of rice wine in a single breath.
Within the vast stone-walled fortress of the Janissaries' Guild, the air was thick with the scent of oil, gunpowder, and steel. Sunlight streamed through high-arched windows, illuminating rows of elite warriors sharpening their yataghans, disassembling flintlock rifles, and practicing formation drills in the courtyard. The rhythmic clang of steel meeting steel rang through the halls like the heartbeat of war itself.
Seated on a long wooden bench near the weapons rack, Tariq Al-Khattab, a rugged swordsman with a perpetual smirk, polished his scimitar with meticulous care. Beside him, Zayd Bin Malik, ever the pragmatist, cleaned the chamber of his ornate jezail rifle, while Mehmet Arslan and Rüstem Bey debated over whether modern rifles would ever truly replace traditional melee combat.
"I say a man's worth is measured by the weight of the steel in his hand," Mehmet muttered, running a whetstone along the edge of his blade.
Rüstem Bey, an older and seasoned warrior with a streak of grey in his beard, scoffed, "And I say, Mehmet, you'll be kissing the dirt if a jezail bullet kisses your skull before you even draw that sword."
Before the argument could escalate, the guild's massive gates creaked open, and in strode Aleeman, his black kaftan flowing behind him like a storm rolling over the battlefield. His very presence carried the weight of impending war.
The Janissaries immediately stood from their benches, placing their hands over their chests in solemn salute, their gazes sharp with respect.
Aleeman's voice cut through the air like a well-honed blade: "Prepare the horses. Sharpen the sabres. Ready the rifles."
A flicker of confusion passed over Tariq's face before he tilted his head, arms crossed. "Bey, who exactly do we ride against?"
Rüstem Bey, ever the voice of caution, arched a brow. "A war so sudden? Who's foolish enough to provoke the wolves of the West?"
Aleeman's gaze remained cold, unreadable, his fingers adjusting the leather straps of his gauntlets. Then, in a tone that sent shivers down their spines, he replied:
"A Reminder."
Zayd Bin Malik let out a low whistle. "A reminder to whom, Bey?"
Aleeman's lips curled into the ghost of a smirk as he finally lifted his gaze.
"To the Emperor of the Ji-Gong clan."
A heavy silence filled the air for a brief moment. Then, without hesitation, the Janissaries snapped into action—rifles slung over shoulders, swords sheathed at their sides, horses saddled in swift efficiency.
There were no further questions. There was no need for them.
For when Aleeman Bey declared a reminder, it was always written in blood.
The Grand Minar Palace, a behemoth of calligraphy grandeur woven with Halmosian ingenuity, stood as a testament to the empire's dominance, a shimmering bastion of authority under the noonday sun. Its towering minarets, adorned with turquoise mosaic and golden arabesques, pierced the sky like celestial daggers, whispering prayers to the heavens while casting shadows over the sprawling courtyards below. Colossal domes, layered with interwoven lattices of sapphire-stained glass, shimmered with iridescent hues as sunlight caressed their sacred geometry.
The interior was a kingdom unto itself—a labyrinth of polished marble, swirling zellij tiles, and endless corridors lined with murals depicting the conquests of the Hakiman dynasty. Gilded chandeliers, held aloft by silver chains, cradled orbs of alchemical fire, casting a warm, ethereal glow over the endless expanse of silk-draped archways. Fountains murmured in hypnotic rhythms, their crystal waters perfumed with the delicate scent of rose and oud, while towering cedar doors bore intricate carvings of lions and celestial dragons—symbols of strength and divine right.
At the very heart of this opulent fortress lay the Sultan's Chamber, a sanctum of intellect and intrigue. The walls, lined with embroidered silks and delicate calligraphy, whispered secrets of past rulers, their wisdom etched in gold leaf. A monumental stained-glass window, framed by latticed bronze, overlooked the imperial gardens—a sea of pomegranate trees and perfumed tulips swaying in rhythmic unison.
Behind a colossal ebony desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl, Sultan Alibek Hakiman sat, the weight of an empire resting upon his broad shoulders. His keen, hawk-like eyes traced the lines of a parchment before him, a map of territories far and wide, shifting under the soft flicker of candlelight. His quill, dipped in ink darker than the abyss, hovered in thought as he pondered the latest affairs of the realm.
A knock rapped against the door, firm but respectful.
"Enter," the Sultan commanded, his voice a rumbling tide of authority.
The doors groaned open, and Vizier Nasir Tamzid, a man draped in robes of indigo and gold, stepped forth with the poise of a seasoned diplomat. His neatly groomed beard bore streaks of silver, a testament to both wisdom and the burdens of governance. In his hands, a sealed letter rested, its crimson wax imprinted with the sigil of the Vitreum Solaris Glassworks.
"A letter, My Sultan," Nasir announced, his voice carrying the weight of significance. "It bears the seal of Aleeman."
At the mention of the name, Sultan Alibek's lips curled into a smirk, an expression both entertained and intrigued. He extended a hand, his bejeweled fingers glinting under the lantern's glow, and took the parchment with a deliberate slowness. The seal snapped with a crisp crack, and his sharp gaze darted over the script, absorbing each word like an eagle assessing its prey.
The chamber fell into a hush, the only sound being the distant hum of fountains beyond the latticed windows. Then, as the Sultan reached the final line, a deep, knowing chuckle rumbled from his chest.
Nasir, ever the keen observer, arched an eyebrow. "My Sultan, does something amuse you?"
Alibek exhaled, his smirk widening as he set the letter down with a faint thud. "Our wolf has challenged the Dark Dragon." His tone was calm, yet beneath it lurked the undercurrents of admiration.
Nasir's brow furrowed. "A war?"
Alibek leaned back in his gilded chair, fingers interlacing as he tilted his head in thought. "A reminder."
Nasir blinked, momentarily thrown off. "A reminder?" he repeated, as if the term itself were foreign upon his tongue.
"Yes, you heard correctly, Nasir." Alibek's voice was edged with quiet amusement. "Aleeman is a restless wolf, pacing the fringes of the battlefield, snapping at the heels of empires. But his actions… his actions are justified." He tapped a finger against the parchment. "He does not seek destruction. He seeks understanding."
Nasir nodded, though the glint of contemplation in his eyes betrayed the questions stirring within. "As you say, My Sultan."
The Sultan exhaled once more, his gaze drifting to the stained-glass window beyond. The light filtering through the latticed filigree painted his face in hues of crimson and gold—a monarch bathed in the glow of destiny.
The wolf had howled at the dragon.
Now, the empire would wait to see which beast bled first.
A hush blanketed the imperial corridors of the Ji-Gong Palace, the very air thick with the scent of ink, steel, and expectation. War was no longer a whisper in the dark—it was a drumbeat, an inexorable march towards destiny.
Within the Emperor's private chamber, Weng Jin Shun, sovereign of the Eastern Realm, stood before an ornate bronze mirror, clad in crimson lamellar armour etched with golden serpentine dragons, each scale a testament to the dynasty's undying lineage. His battle robes, woven from the rarest Vermillion silk, cascaded like molten fire, the embroidered sigils of his ancestors burning bright beneath the flickering lanternlight.
As he fastened the golden pauldron upon his shoulder, a delicate hand, soft yet commanding, reached forth—Empress Mei Lan, regal and resplendent, her silhouette framed by the flickering light of an intricately carved lantern. Adorned in an imperial violet hanfu, the threads of her sash shimmered like liquid moonlight, her jade earrings swaying gently as she approached.
Her eyes, pools of midnight sorrow and resolve, bore into him as she exhaled, her voice a measured whisper wrapped in steel.
"My Lord… is this truly the path you must tread?" Her words were woven with a gravity that only a woman who had seen empires rise and fall could carry.
The Emperor, unyielding as the mountain, did not turn. Instead, he adjusted the bindings of his bracers, his fingers tracing the ancient war glyphs carved into the leather—sigils of protection, strength, and inevitability.
"The wolf has bared his fangs, Mei Lan." His tone was neither wrathful nor uncertain—it was absolute. "If I do not strike, he will grow bolder. If I do not answer, I invite weakness. And weakness…" He paused, tightening the final strap with a forceful tug, "is death."
Mei Lan stepped closer, her breath warm against the nape of his neck. "Aleeman is no mere barbarian seeking conquest. He is…" she hesitated, as if tasting the words before uttering them, "an enigma. He moves not with recklessness but with precision. A boy of his age should not command the art of war with such preternatural ease."
At this, the Emperor finally turned. The flickering lantern cast deep shadows across his face, highlighting the scars carved by time and battle. His eyes, dark as the abyss, held no fear—only a relentless fire, as if forged by war itself.
"Then he shall learn that there are forces in this world that no amount of cunning can outwit."
A moment of silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Mei Lan studied him, searching for a crack in the facade of imperial indomitability, but none revealed itself.
With a measured breath, she inclined her head, her long lashes casting shadows over her high cheekbones. "Then may the heavens judge the victor."
The Emperor stepped past her, his iron-clad boots echoing through the chamber, reverberating like the drums of war. As he strode through the grand corridor, the silk banners of the Ji-Gong clan billowed from towering pillars, emblazoned with golden sigils of dragons locked in eternal combat. The scent of sandalwood and burning incense clung to the air, mingling with the distant clang of steel as the imperial guard made final preparations.
Ahead, the Moonstone Gate, the threshold between courtly grace and the theatre of war, loomed like the mouth of destiny itself. As the great doors swung open, the first rays of dawn bathed the imperial army in a golden blaze—the Crimson Tide of the East, their polished armour gleaming like the scales of a celestial serpent poised to strike.
Emperor Weng Jin Shun did not hesitate. He was no mere monarch. He was the storm. He was the reckoning.
And Aleeman would soon understand the price of summoning a dragon to battle.
The open field of Xinhi lay cloaked in an eerie stillness, the kind that lingers before an impending storm. The sky, streaked with dawn's ashen glow, bore witness to the silent war of glances between two opposing forces. On the left, mounted upon his indomitable Şimşek, Aleeman sat like a tempest waiting to be unleashed, his army of Halmosian warriors standing in disciplined ranks behind him—iron sentinels prepared to carve their legacy into history. On the right, Emperor Weng Jin Shun, draped in his imperial battle regalia, rode forward with the poise of an age-old dragon, his golden armour catching the muted rays of the morning sun, a stark contrast to the obsidian lances of his warriors.
Flanking him were Crown Prince Liu Zhenbao, resplendent in deep crimson robes lined with silver thread, and the ever-formidable General Xuè Lián, her twin crimson dao, Xuefang & Luoyan, strapped across her back, glinting like fangs thirsting for blood. Bai Hànfeng and Zhang Ruiying rode slightly behind, their expressions carved from steel, yet their eyes betrayed the quiet intrigue that simmered beneath their stoic façades.
A breeze, cool and foreboding, slithered through the field, whispering over the banners that fluttered high, bearing the insignias of two nations now poised for war.
From the shadows of the dense thickets, unseen but ever-watchful, Shi Zhao Mei positioned herself atop a gnarled tree branch, her longbow nocked with an arrow of black obsidian. Her breath, slow and measured, barely stirred the crisp air as she whispered to herself,
"If he makes the wrong move, I will strike. If he dares speak of war with that reckless tongue of his, I will end him before the first blade is drawn."
Yet as she adjusted her aim, her hand trembled—if only slightly.
Below, Aleeman urged Şimşek forward, his expression a masterful blend of composed arrogance and latent fury. He murmured beneath his breath, words that barely escaped the confines of his own mind,
"Emperor, do not force me to take your head."
Across the field, Emperor Weng Jin Shun met his approach, his expression carved from centuries of imperial command, unreadable yet menacing.
Behind them, Tariq Al-Khattab leaned towards Zayd Bin Malik and muttered,
"He speaks as if the Emperor's head is his for the taking. The wolf may have sharp teeth, but the dragon has fire."
Zayd scoffed, adjusting the grip on his sabre.
"Fire may burn, but steel still cuts."
On the opposing side, General Xuè Lián turned to Liu Zhenbao, her crimson eyes sharp with curiosity.
"Your Highness, what will happen?"
Liu Zhenbao, ever the composed strategist, folded his arms and exhaled through his nose, eyes locked on the two figures now standing mere feet apart.
"I do not know," he admitted. "Let us see."
Yet even as he spoke, the tension in the air coiled tighter, as though the very ground beneath them held its breath.
Shi Zhao Mei, still concealed in the foliage, narrowed her gaze as she kept her arrow aimed directly at Aleeman's heart.
"What are you going to do, Aleeman?" she whispered to herself.
Now, face to face, the wolf and the dragon stood at the precipice of battle.
Emperor Weng Jin Shun's voice was measured, yet every syllable carried the weight of dominion.
"You come before me with the audacity of a man who has forgotten his place." His golden eyes gleamed, unreadable. "Tell me, boy, what is it you truly seek? Glory? Vengeance? Or are you merely a reckless fool playing at war?"
Aleeman's expression did not falter. He met the Emperor's gaze with unwavering resolve, his words edged with ice.
"What I seek is justice. What I demand is reckoning." His voice, calm yet unrelenting, cut through the silence like a finely honed blade. "You wear the crown of a ruler, yet you stain your hands with the blood of the innocent. You call yourself an emperor, yet you wage war upon your own people."
The Emperor's smirk was slow, deliberate.
"Is that what you believe? That you are some harbinger of justice?" He let out a chuckle, cold and devoid of humour. "You are but a child swinging a blade too large for his grip. A wolf that bares its fangs at a dragon, not knowing the fire that will consume him."
Aleeman's grip on Şimşek's reins tightened.
"Then let us test whose fangs are sharper."
A silence fell—a dreadful, suffocating silence.
Then, Aleeman issued his challenge.
"I call for a duel." His voice rang across the field like the toll of a war bell. "If I am victorious, I will hunt you down, Emperor, and you shall pay for the harm you have inflicted upon my people."
Emperor Weng Jin Shun tilted his head, a slow smirk curling his lips.
"And if you lose?"
Aleeman's reply was immediate.
"Then you may take my head."
The Emperor's chuckle deepened, his amusement evident. "A reckless wager from a reckless child. Very well." He turned his horse slightly, then barked a command, his voice carrying across the battlefield.
"Soldiers, bear witness! Today, the young wolf challenges the dragon! And in this duel, fate shall decide the course of war!"
On the opposite side, Aleeman's own voice rang through the ranks.
"Stand firm, my brothers! This is not merely a battle of steel, but a battle of will! Witness this moment, for it shall be the spark that ignites the future!"
The two riders turned, moving to take their positions for the impending duel.
In the shadows of the trees, Shi Zhao Mei's grip on her bow tightened.
"If he falls here… then the world may fall with him."
And as the sun cast its first true light over the battlefield, the clash of destinies had begun.