Chapter 80

Rain hammers the narrow, leaded windows of the austere chamber in the imperial city, each droplet a violent percussion against cold stone. Shadows writhe along the rough-hewn walls, dancing in time with the storm's fury. In the center of this dim, echoing space, Meicong stands alone by a flickering lantern. The flame's erratic glow paints her face with shifting shades of determination and sorrow, and her eyes—distant yet piercing—betray a secret tempest within.

A low wind sighs through the chamber, stirring loose strands of her dark hair as she grips the hilt of a small, leather-bound dagger pressed against her side. Its cold metal flashes faintly in the unstable light, hinting at a deed too grim for daylight.

The memory of a recent, brutal act lingers at the edges of her thoughts—a secret scar of betrayal that she wears like a mantle, unspoken yet undeniable.

A sharp gust rattles the window, and Meicong steps closer to the lantern. The flame leaps, its wild, dancing shadows mirroring the fierce resolve in her gaze. "No more shall their cunning slip away unpunished," she whispers, her voice low and steady, as if sealing a covenant with the night. "I stand here not as a victim, but as the executioner of treachery."

Her words, though spoken softly, seem to echo off the stone, filling the chamber with a promise of inevitable reckoning. The rain's drumming intensifies, and the distant roll of thunder melds with her whispered vow, as if nature itself bears witness to her resolve. The lantern's flame flares once, casting a brilliant, ephemeral halo around her silhouette—a fleeting crown of light that betrays the cold purpose behind her eyes.

Meicong and Meicao stand apart, their figures outlined in the soft, uncertain glow.

Meicao's eyes shimmer with a pleading vulnerability as she steps forward, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hurt. "Brother, why? Kuan saved us. I can't fathom your decision…"

Meicong remains unmoving. She studies her sister with a cool detachment that chills the small room, her expression carved in stone. After a pause that stretches into a measured eternity, she replies in a voice that is both low and deliberate, each syllable clipped with unyielding clarity. "His manipulations left him exposed. I acted not with hate, but with cold clarity."

Meicao's hands tremble slightly at her sides, as if holding back a torrent of sorrow and fury. "But… Brother, how can clarity be so merciless?" she asks, her voice quavering as she searches Meicong's face for remnants of warmth, for any hint that her sibling's act might have been more than a calculated strike. Her words drip with incredulity, the anguish in her tone unmistakable.

Meicong's gaze hardens imperceptibly. "Clarity is the only truth in a world of deceit," she murmurs, stepping closer so that the subtle scent of iron and cold resolve mingles between them. "Kuan's and Yile's ambitions are venom in our veins. I did what was necessary to cut away the rot."

Meicao's eyes widen, and she takes a tentative step back, as though recoiling from a wound that cannot be seen. "You speak as if you have no regret, no remnant of the love he once inspired in you," she chokes out, her voice breaking as tears threaten to spill. "How can you be so unfeeling?"

Meicong's eyes narrow, and for a heartbeat, the sisterly bond strains against the iron boundaries of her resolve. "I do not act out of malice," she insists quietly, her voice firm and unyielding. "I act out of necessity. You may not understand it now, but in the precision of that moment, I knew that exposing him would shatter the illusions they so carefully built around us."

Meibei enters quietly, her footsteps measured, as if she treads on fragile glass. Her eyes, calm and pragmatic, lock onto Meicong with a mixture of concern and resolve. The low light carves gentle outlines on her face, softening the tension of the moment.

"Brother," Meibei begins, her tone even but imbued with an undercurrent of sorrow, "I know you had your reasons—even if I don't fully grasp them. Kuan was… complex. Perhaps your act was necessary."

Flickering torchlight casts angular silhouettes that twist against the cold stone walls, as if the very air seethes with anger. Meice stands, her eyes blazing with unbridled fury. Her voice is low and bitter, each word dripping venom as it slices through the oppressive gloom.

"That heretic, that dog—killed! Finally, justice!" Her tone is harsh, each syllable punctuated by a sneer that twists her features into a mask of savage triumph.

"Your words are as crude as your heart, sister," Meicong replies, her voice cool and controlled, like the smooth slide of a sharpened blade. "There is purpose in the act, even if you cannot see it."

A silence falls between them. The room seems to shrink as the sisters face each other, the space between them thick with conflicting passion. Meice's eyes flare with indignation, her clenched fists trembling with barely restrained rage.

The torchlight seems to pulse in time with her quickened heartbeat. "Purpose? You speak as though you are above it all... Let's see about that."

A sudden burst of anger and grief explodes into violence as the sisters—each a fierce embodiment of their conflicting beliefs—clash like titans caught in a maelstrom.

Meicao, wielding her scythe and chain with a grace both brutal and balletic, lunges forward. The cold metal sings as it arcs through the air, the chain whipping behind it in a rhythmic, deadly dance. At the same moment, Meice, barefisted and savage, charges with a ferocity that turns her limbs into instruments of raw, untempered rage. Their combined assault is directed against Meicong, her dagger gleaming like a shard of ice, and Meibei, who clutches her baton as if it were an extension of her very soul.

"How can you stand by and let him be defiled?" Meicao spits, gritting her teeth as the edge of her scythe nearly meets its mark on an outstretched arm.

Meice laughs cruelly, her voice a low, guttural snarl amid the clash. "Every strike is a hymn to his destruction!" she roars, unleashing a barrage of savage blows that drive her fist forward like a battering ram against a fortress wall.

Amid the furious melee, Meibei's voice strains as she attempts to interject reason into the chaos. "Sisters, think—this isn't our way!" she pleads, her tone trembling as she parries a wild swing from Meice with her baton. Her eyes, filled with both fear and sorrow, dart between the frenzied forms around her, desperately seeking a path back to calm.

But Meicong cuts through the clamor with a voice that is as steely as the dagger she wields. "Quiet! Our anger is our tool—use it wisely or be consumed by it!" she commands as she sidesteps a ferocious blow from Meice and counters with a swift, precise thrust that barely misses its intended target.

Meicao's scythe slashes in a wide, circular arc, sparks flying as it scrapes along the edge of a battered wooden table. The chain whips out unpredictably, its metallic clatter merging with the crack of bare fists colliding with stone. Meice's fists are like thunder, each hit punctuated by the wet sound of leather meeting flesh and the grunts of exertion and fury. Meanwhile, Meicong moves like a shadow—fluid and calculating—as her dagger flashes with every deft twist of her wrist, parrying and countering with a precision that belies the violence of the moment.

They spill from Meicong's room into a narrow corridor, the confined space amplifying every collision. In the cramped passageway, the sisters' movements become an intricate, almost choreographic dance of death. Fists, blades, and makeshift weapons collide with a force that rattles the ancient stone, and every step sends tremors through the silence. The echoes of their struggle carry down the hall, as if the very walls resound with the fury of their inner torment.

"Your pragmatism blinds you!" Meicao shouts between savage strikes, her eyes burning with raw emotion.

Meibei, struggling to hold her ground, counters with the practiced precision of someone used to restraint. "You claim to follow the Great Wheel and you pledged to kill all the heretics, but your actions represent none of their teaching!" her voice is strained as she parries a vicious strike with her baton.

The struggle surges onward, drawing the combatants into a series of adjacent rooms and corridors. In a cramped antechamber, their movements become a blur of limbs and clashing metal. Meicong slips behind a shattered column, her dagger a silver streak as she darts in and out of the shadows, her cool, measured strikes slicing through the tumult. Meanwhile, Meice's raw fists crash against anything in her path, the sound of her blows like the relentless pounding of a war drum.

At one point, as the sisters surge past a threshold, a guard pauses by a heavy door. For an instant, the corridor falls eerily silent, as if a gust of wind has swept through. The guard, unnerved, glances about, but the sisters are already beyond his sight.

In a flurry of motion, the sisters maneuver through hidden corridors and deserted rooms, until at last they burst out into the open courtyard.

There, under the indifferent gaze of a moon shrouded by storm clouds, the final scene of their epic struggle unfolds. The courtyard, vast and shadowed, becomes a stage where each sister's blow, each twist and turn, is magnified.

The courtyard echoes with ragged breathing and muffled curses, the sisters still poised for violence beneath the moon's faint glow. Pieces of stone lie scattered where stray strikes have pummeled the palace walls, and footprints track a path of conflict through the snow. Meicong and Meibei, battered but unyielding, stand in silent readiness. Meicao's chest heaves with each breath, anger radiating from her clenched fists, while Meice's eyes remain a flicker of lethal intent, fists trembling at her sides.

Just as the tension readies to erupt anew, a low, resonant command pierces the grim hush:

"Enough."

Yile steps from the shadows at the courtyard's edge. His silhouette stretches unnaturally in the pale torchlight, robes swirling around his lithe frame like a coiling serpent. Though his voice is pitched softly, it has the unmistakable ring of authority that demands immediate obedience. He surveys the four sisters with dispassionate calm, eyes lingering on the bruises and cuts that mark the recent violence.

"Meicong," he says, his tone unwavering, "come with me. Now."

For an instant, the sisters remain locked in place. Meicao's lips part in an inaudible snarl, Meice tightens her fists until her knuckles blanch, Meibei's baton remains raised in tense caution, and Meicong's dagger glints in the moonlight. Yet all speech—shouts, insults, curses—dies on their tongues. The weight of Yile's presence seems to compress the night air around them, compelling them into stillness.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Meicong lowers her blade. Her gaze flickers from one sister to the other, assessing their raw fury and unspent aggression. She says nothing—no apology, no promise—and merely gives a curt nod. Meibei bows her head, whether in relief or resignation is unclear, and takes a step away from the confrontation. Meicao hisses, but does not advance. Meice's shoulders quake in pent-up rage, yet even she does not defy the arrival of this calm, controlling force.

Yile inclines his head, acknowledging the temporary cessation of violence, and turns on his heel. Without looking to see if Meicong follows, he walks back into the darkest recesses of the palace corridors. Meicong trails behind him, her posture rigid and her breathing still uneven from the fight.

A single, guttering candle struggles against the gloom of a narrow corridor deep within the palace. Its feeble light carves jagged shapes across damp stone walls, revealing the faint gleam of ancient runes or cracked plaster. Here, in this hidden artery far from the echoes of the courtyard, Yile stops. He half-turns, his features bathed in an uneven glow, every angle accentuating the composed malice in his gaze.

Meicong stands a few paces behind, dagger still in hand. The adrenaline of battle has not fully bled from her limbs; she holds herself taut, like a predator poised to strike. Yet her eyes betray neither shock nor reluctance—merely a studied indifference.

Yile's voice is cool, laced with a subtle undercurrent of satisfaction. "I must admit," he begins, "your actions have consequences—ones that I welcome. Kuan's betrayal has cost us dearly."

Meicong inclines her head slightly, her tone deliberate and low. "Did it? Did he? You know, Yile, I never told him that you would send the Moukopl army to Tepr so early. I needed to see his reaction." She steps closer, the dagger glinting by her side, as though the mere presence of that weapon underscores her words.

Yile's eyes narrow. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and when he speaks again, his voice carries a dangerous edge. "And did you get the reaction you desired?" His tone is a loaded invitation to reveal more, brimming with quiet menace and curiosity both.

"Yes," Meicong answers, gaze unwavering. "His complacency, his manipulative retreat—it confirms what I suspected." She keeps her voice measured, a calm finality underscoring every word. Beneath that composure, something unreadable lurks—a flicker of regret, or perhaps faint sorrow. Yet it vanishes as quickly as it appears.

"Kuan was never one to accept his own expendability," Yile murmurs, more to himself than to Meicong. Then he focuses on her again, his smirk returning. "Yet here we are." He gestures, letting the tension swirl without offering resolution. "If he preferred to go become a savage in the mountains or in the steppes, so be it."

Meicong's grip tightens on the dagger hilt, though she does not raise it. "Yile, has it not occurred to you that I could stab you just like him?" she says quietly, each syllable precise, as though hammered out of steel. "The only reason why I do not, is because you still hold a purpose in the grand scheme of things. And I will continue to do what you ask me, as long as you keep loyal to your goal."

Yile nods once, slowly, as if acknowledging an unspoken pact. "I'll keep that in mind," he concedes, voice dropped to a near-whisper that resonates in the close darkness.

Then, turning sharply, he begins to make his way down the corridor's length, the hem of his robe brushing the dank floor with each step.

"The bastard almost guessed it all, but I managed to save it." Meicong mutters. She follows a heartbeat later, and the faint glow of the candlelight dances after them, reflecting on slick stones until the gloom swallows them whole.

...

...

A tense hush blankets the dark hillside as Kuan holds his blade to Meicong's throat. The moon cuts stark silhouettes across their figures. Around them, the distant Moukopl force remains an ominous backdrop, marching onward beneath a moon-limned sky. Despite the looming threat of steel at her neck, Meicong stands straight, eyes locked on Kuan's, refusing to flinch.

"You think you can subdue me like this, Brother?" she hisses, the contempt in her tone matching the cool smirk on her lips. "After everything you promised, you turn your blade on me?"

Kuan's breathing is ragged, a near-snarl curling through his voice. "Don't twist the story, Meicong. You betrayed me—betrayed all I've done for you and your sisters. I took you in when Behani cast you out… or did you forget so easily?"

Her laugh is mirthless, harsh as the steppe wind. "Forget? Oh, how could I forget your sudden fascination with the Northern Pagans?" She nearly spits the word, a distaste flickering across her features. "You want to live among them, in their crude yurt settlements, while leaving the rest of us behind to rot in the empire's claws."

His knife presses close, though he steadies his shaking hand. A bead of sweat slides down his temple. "You think I wanted to just… run away? My entire plan—my entire existence—has been to strike from without while Yile strikes from within. To see the Moukopl crumble. I want to purge that filth, not join it!" His voice cracks at the final syllable, as though desperation collides with anger.

Meicong's eyes flash, suspicion warring with curiosity. "Why should I believe you? Yile told me you always had your own agenda. He said you abandoned the empire's cause at the moment it needed you most."

"Yile… so that's it." Kuan's laugh is bitter. "The cunning bastard. He told you I was the traitor, yes? That I was deserting you and your sisters for some new, foul alliance out in these barbarous lands?"

Her silence is telling. She swallows hard, each second drawing their stand-off taut. The pressure of the blade at her throat doesn't ease, but a subtle flicker of doubt crosses her features. "He said you sold our secrets to the Pagans, that you'd kneel to them and pit them against us."

Kuan's eyes flare with indignation. "That viper has been poisoning your ears. Don't you remember when I came to Behani? I told you then: I would tear down the world that rejected you and your sisters. I never wavered from that. Every choice I made was to see this empire devoured by its own arrogance."

Meicong doesn't speak. The night wind rustles her hair, and the shadow of the incoming Moukopl detachment moves closer, an invisible threat under the starlight. At last she clears her throat, voice subdued. "I remember your vow," she says. A strangled note of regret creeps into her next words. "But Yile hinted that you made new promises behind our backs… that you left us to fend for ourselves." She falters, recalling the half-truths whispered into her ear under the flickering light of palace corridors.

Kuan, jaw clenched, slowly lowers his knife—just a fraction—so that steel no longer bites her skin, though his eyes remain dark with anger. "I never abandoned you," he says, his voice quiet yet fierce. "Yile is a piece of shit, feeding you doubt to turn you against me. Because if you doubt me, you remain in his palm, a perfect little weapon for him to deploy."

A shudder courses through Meicong. She remembers, in an abrupt rush, the small, passing remarks Yile made: Kuan's grown tired of our goals. He's found new allies… You can't trust him—he'll discard you. Each phrase now echoes in her mind, having poisoned her judgment until she had turned on Kuan without question. A wave of frustration overtakes her. "So all this time, I was manipulated," she murmurs, voice unsteady. "By Yile."

Kuan allows a tense breath of relief, some of the wrath melting from his posture. "It appears so," he answers. "Believe me, I suspect he's weaving all sorts of threads—your sisters, too. No doubt he's told them a story that paints me as the worst traitor. He wants to keep everyone dancing on his strings."

She shuts her eyes, recalling every snippet that seeded her doubt. The corner of her mouth twists in anger—at herself, at Yile, at the labyrinth of deceptions that ensnare them all. "We've made ourselves quite the spectacle."

He exhales, lowering his knife fully now. "We can correct this, but we must act carefully," he says, his tone shifting toward calm urgency. "Yile is shrewd, and he'll suspect you if you suddenly change course. We need to prove to him that I'm truly gone—truly worthless—while you remain loyal to him."

Meicong's gaze sharpens. "How, exactly?" A trace of the old hostility still clings to her words, but curiosity prevails.

Kuan's lips curl into a humorless smile. "We need something… drastic. Enough to convince him I've betrayed him for good, and that you, my dear 'executioner,' have done what's necessary." He pauses, letting the tension coil. "I want you to stab me. A real wound—painful, but not lethal. I'll bleed, I'll stagger, and you'll walk away the victor, fulfilling Yile's narrative."

Her eyebrows shoot up, though she doesn't flinch from the suggestion. "You want me to put a dagger in your gut so you can parade around as the wounded scapegoat?"

"Not quite parade," he says with a mirthless chuckle. "But it'll be enough to show Yile I'm done for. Meanwhile, you earn more of his trust—he'll assume you stayed loyal to his truth, that I was the traitor all along."

Meicong's eyes flick down to the dagger in her own grip, and a cynical laugh rumbles in her chest. "You really are insane," she mutters. "At least you have the courtesy to let me do the honors."

Then she narrows her gaze, a spark of sly humor glimmering. "And after that, you're just going to crawl off into the shadows and die? Don't tell me your grand plan ends there."

Kuan's expression grows contemplative. "I—I hadn't thought that far. I assumed I'd recover in secret, or patch myself up quickly enough to carry on. Pain is nothing new to me, but it will be… complicated."

Meicong snorts, the sound halfway between humor and scorn. "Ridiculous. Why not limp into the new Khan's camp, whimper something about my so-called betrayal, and let them heal you? These barbarians adore collecting strays—especially if you feed them the right sob story. You might even earn their pity."

For a moment, Kuan stares at her, surprise flickering across his face. Then he bursts into laughter, a rueful sound echoing over the night air. "Gods, you're right," he says, almost breathless. "I never considered that. My pride, perhaps, refused me the thought of begging the Khan's compassion. But I suppose swallowing a bit of pride is better than bleeding out in some ditch."

Their laughter mingles—an odd, half-pained harmony of relief and tension. Around them, the Moukopl detachment continues its ominous march in the distance. Meicong shakes her head in exasperation and disbelief. "Alright, then," she says, steadying her dagger in her palm. "We have a deal, you mad bastard."

Kuan steels himself, lips pulling into a grim line. He undoes the front of his clothing just enough to reveal his abdomen. "Go on, then. Don't flinch. I can take it."

Meicong's lips twist with the faintest, ironic smile. "After all this, I would hope you can." She lifts her dagger, eyes flicking to meet his in a final, unspoken question.

He responds with a resolute nod.

The blade descends. A hiss escapes Kuan's lips as cold steel pierces his flesh, burying itself in his belly with a wet, sickening sound. The moonlight catches the crimson that seeps through his clothes, and his body convulses in agony. Still, he clenches his jaw, stifling any scream. Their gazes remain locked, feral resolve shining in each.

For a split second, Meicong's expression tightens, torn between triumph and a pang of remorse. Then she rips the blade free. Blood drips onto the grass beneath them, dark as ink in the moon's glow. Kuan staggers, knees buckling, pain ripping through him in vicious waves, but he holds onto consciousness, his breath ragged.

She stands over him, dagger slick with his blood, face set in stoic calm. "You'd better act fast," she murmurs.

Kuan forces a ghost of a grin even as agony contorts his features. "Don't worry. I'll manage."

Their pact sealed in blood; they exchange one final, wordless look. Then Meicong steps back, letting Kuan collapse to one knee. A quiet moan escapes him as she disappears in the shadow.