Welcome to Miracheneous Academy

Through the vast, unyielding expanse of nowhere lands, where the wind howled like a lamenting widow and the skies wept their grey sorrows upon the earth, two armies converged, their banners fluttering like the wings of great eagles poised for the fatal descent. On one side, a formidable host, draped in the resplendent regalia of their forebears, marched in perfect synchrony. Their garments, a testament to the glories of bygone empires, flowing robes reinforced with chainmail, turbans crowned with steel, and kaftans embroidered with celestial calligraphy, glinting under the pallid sun. At their fore, the banner of the crescent moon and star soared defiantly, as if challenging the heavens themselves.

From the opposing horizon, a force no less mighty surged forth, their steel-clad ranks bristling like an oncoming tempest. The knights of the six states—Kumaruchaisan, Arcanodole, Geoblin, Blogina, Faliton, Machekwon, and the dreaded Ji-Gong Clan—each bearing their own sigils of war, their armour kissed by the frost of the north, their blades eager for blood. Their march was not of unity, but of necessity, a confluence of kingdoms driven by fear, compelled to stand against the eastern tide.

Between these two impending storms, a lone rider emerged—a black horse astride a stallion black as midnight, its muscles rippling like a tempest beneath a veil of ink. The beast reared, hooves striking the air as if to challenge the very wind itself. Upon its back sat a young commander of the Abjannas, his presence a bridge between destiny and defiance. Clad in the armour of a Sultan, his battle attire bore the regalia of sovereignty—a flowing crimson cloak, a cuirass engraved with holy inscriptions, and upon his head, the very helm that had graced the kings of old. The Miğfer, an ornate battle helmet of imperial lineage, gleamed in the waning sun; adorned with a protective nasal guard, its golden embellishments wove intricate stories of conquest and divine decree. At its pinnacle, a plume of horsehair swayed, a stark contrast against the cold steel, signifying both rank and righteousness.

His eyes, dark as tempered iron, surveyed the impending clash with an unreadable gaze. But this was not where his tale had begun.

One month ago at the heart of Abhammuddin Obasi, where the very mountain peaks cradle the heavens, lies Jabal Al-Safir, a fortress of nature sculpted by time itself. The village nestles within its rugged embrace, a sanctuary where the rhythm of life pulses through the veins of its people, steadfast and unyielding. The scent of fresh earth and smouldering embers weaves through the air as artisans toil under the watchful gaze of the sun, its golden light spilling across the narrow, stone-paved alleys like the touch of an unseen deity. Women, veiled in silk and adorned with silver trinkets, carry baskets brimming with pomegranates and figs, their voices rising in harmonious barter. Warriors, clad in layered mail and broad turbans, sharpen their yataghans, their eyes ever watchful, for vigilance is the marrow of survival.

Yet amidst this symphony of daily life, the blacksmith's workhouse—a forge that has birthed weapons of legend—resounds with a music of its own. The anvil rings with the voice of iron, the breath of the furnace whispers with undying hunger, and at its heart, where the coal glows like molten amber, a young man of seventeen summers stands, his hands firm upon the handle of destiny.

His skin, deep brown and unblemished, glistens with the sweat of labour, his eyes, dark as obsidian, burn with a fire that no man can quench. His hands, though youthful, bear the calluses of toil, and now, in this sacred moment, they cradle a blade yet to be born, an unshaped promise of steel. Beside him, a giant of a man, broad-shouldered and carved from the sinew of war and work, Hamza Hossain, the master of the forge, watches with the stern patience of a sculptor awaiting the first strike of the chisel.

"Hah!" The old smith crosses his arms, his muscles like braided ropes beneath his tunic, his beard streaked with the wisdom of age. "Let's start, son!"

Aleeman Hakiman, son of the Bey, the youth with no supernatural gift but with a heart forged in the crucible of will, breathes deep. His fingers tighten around the hammer's hilt, and as he raises it high, he whispers the name of the Eternal.

"Ya Haqq!"

The hammer descends, striking iron with the voice of thunder. Sparks erupt, dancing like fireflies caught in a tempest. Hamza Hossain, a man of faith and fire, places his own mighty palm upon the anvil, his voice a bellow of reverence.

"Ya Rabbim!"

Again, they strike. And again. Each syllable of God's name resonates in the metal's soul, the blade trembling, quivering, almost as if bowing to the divine decree. The old smith watches in awe, his weathered face illuminated by the glow of burning coals.

"This is no ordinary steel, boy," Hamza murmurs, eyes never leaving the blade. "Even iron kneels before the truth of the Almighty."

Aleeman exhales, his breath uneven but his spirit unshaken. "Then let it be a blade that cuts only for justice."

Hamza chuckles, pride gleaming in his gaze. "Then may your hands learn to wield both blade and wisdom, Aleeman."

But before another strike could fall, the forge's threshold darkens. The rhythmic clatter of hooves and boots halts, and there, standing in full regalia, a contingent of imperial soldiers makes their presence known.

They are warriors of Orhan Hakiman, soldiers of Abhammuddin Obasi—clad in the splendour, their tunics of deep indigo embroidered with golden crescents, their lamellar armour fitted over crimson robes. Wide sashes cinch their waists, from which hang curved scimitars, glinting like crescent moons under the daylight. Their kulah helmets, adorned with a single eagle feather, give them the air of celestial guardians.

The head of the unit, his eyes sharp beneath his helm, steps forward. His voice, though respectful, carries the weight of command.

"Commander Aleeman Hakiman, the Bey summons you at once."

Silence swathes the forge. The young man's fingers flex around the hammer, his breath steady, yet his heart tightens within his chest. He meets the soldier's gaze, his expression unreadable, but within his eyes flickers an unspoken question—Why?

Hamza Hossain places a heavy hand upon his shoulder, his grip both a reassurance and a warning. "Go, lad," he mutters. "Your father calls, and duty must answer."

Aleeman nods once, placing the hammer aside. His fingers, still coated in soot and sweat, slide across his tunic as he wipes them clean. He spares one final glance at the trembling blade before following the soldiers into the waiting sun.

The great hall of Orhan Hakiman, Bey of Abhammuddin Obasi, is a sanctum of command and contemplation. Here, beneath a vaulted dome painted with constellations, where pillars of marble entwined with golden vines rise like silent sentinels, the ruler of this land sits upon a throne of carved walnut, its arms sculpted into the wings of an eagle.

Orhan Bey is a man whose presence commands both respect and reverence—a lion in human form. His beard, thick and peppered with silver, speaks of years spent balancing sword and scroll. His eyes, dark and fathomless as the night sea, pierce through lies and illusions alike. Clad in a robe of deep crimson, embroidered with the sigil of his house, he rests one calloused hand upon the hilt of his ceremonial yataghan, his fingers tapping idly against its jewel-encrusted pommel.

Aleeman enters, his step measured yet unbowed. He places his left hand upon his chest, bowing slightly in the custom of honour.

"Bey Baba! You called me."

Orhan Bey's gaze lingers upon him, unreadable as a mountain before a storm. Then, at last, he speaks.

"You are your father's son, Aleeman. Stubborn. Proud. Strong of will." He leans forward, fingers interlocked. "Yet you lack knowledge."

A flicker of defiance ignites within the young man's eyes. "I am capable, Baba. I have studied—"

"Then tell me," Orhan interrupts, his voice both test and challenge. "What is the greatest principle of war?"

Aleeman does not falter. "To know one's enemy before they know you. To strike where they least expect. To wield fear as both blade and shield."

Orhan nods, though his expression remains impassive. "And politics? Tell me, what is the pillar upon which an empire stands?"

Silence.

Aleeman's lips part, but no words come forth. The answer eludes him, slipping through his grasp like water through clenched fingers.

Orhan exhales, shaking his head. "Steel alone does not build empires, my son. Wisdom does. And you lack it." His gaze sharpens. "You will go to Miracheneous Academy, in Abjannas. You will learn not only the art of war but the art of governance. There, your sister, Hua-Jing, already studies. You will join her."

Aleeman stiffens, but no argument rises to his lips. He bows his head. "As you command, Bey Baba."

As he turns to leave, his father's voice halts him.

"Remember this, my son—knowledge is the whetstone upon which power is sharpened. A dull blade is nothing. A dull mind is worse."

And so, fate sets him upon the path he cannot yet foresee.

Beneath the gilded ceiling of the Ji-Gong Imperial Palace, where vermilion banners swayed like restless phantoms and dragon-carved pillars loomed over the chamber like silent sentinels, Emperor Weng Jin Shun sat upon his jade throne, his face carved from stone, his soul a storm trapped within mortal flesh. Before him, kneeling upon the polished marble, was Pan Zhihaou, the imperial priest-monk, his head smooth as polished ivory, his saffron robes swaying as he pressed his wrinkled palms together in solemn supplication.

The incense curled through the air like the whisper of forgotten spirits. The Emperor's voice, heavy as iron, shattered the silence.

"Tell me, Pan Zhihaou. What abomination has taken root within my house?"

The monk, his face lined with the burdens of wisdom, exhaled long and slow, his eyes shut as if listening to the murmurs of the divine.

"Your Majesty, the curse of the Goddess Yuán Nǚ Wáng is no mere jest of the heavens. It is retribution incarnate. Your son—no, your daughter now—Wei Yang Hong, has transgressed the sacred balance. Lust has devoured his soul, and so, the gods have reshaped his form. If a trial of suffering is not imposed, the wrath of the divine will not cease; it will consume not just your house, but the Ji-Gong Clan itself."

Weng Jin Shun's hands clenched upon the armrests of his throne. His fingers, once steady as mountains, now trembled like leaves caught in an unseen wind. The great Emperor, who had conquered rivals, vanquished traitors, and built an empire upon the backs of warriors, now found himself shackled by the will of the heavens.

"What must be done?" he demanded, though he already feared the answer.

The monk's eyes, black as the abyss, bore into his own. "She must die."

A silence followed, vast and suffocating. Death? His own blood? His own son—daughter—whatever damned form Wei Yang Hong had taken? The thought was an unholy blade twisting within his gut. But worse still was the alternative—to defy the gods, to invite calamity, to see the Weng Clan crumble into ruin.

For the first time in his reign, Emperor Weng Jin Shun hesitated.

Then, with a breath as heavy as the weight upon his shoulders, he rose.

"Guards."

The golden-clad warriors flanking the chamber straightened to attention.

"Take her to the execution grounds."

The command sent ripples through the room like a boulder cast into a still lake. The guards hesitated for but a fraction of a heartbeat—long enough for doubt to be tasted, but not long enough for mercy to be granted.

With a sharp salute, they turned and marched towards the dungeon, their iron boots striking the floor like the echoes of fate itself.

Deep within the bowels of the Weng dungeons, where the air was thick with dampness and despair, where rusted chains clattered like the whispers of the forgotten, Shi Zhao Mei—formerly Wei Yang Hong, formerly the most debauched man in the clan—now sat in a cell, contemplating both fate and her own idiocy.

She had spent the better part of the past hour trying to escape like some legendary hero, only to fail spectacularly at every turn.

First, she attempted the classic hairpin lockpick trick—except she had no hairpin, because she had been locked away wearing nothing but a thin silk robe.

Then, she tried the raw strength approach, throwing her entire body weight against the bars—only to be met with an unforgiving electrified forcefield that sent her flying backwards, her limbs flailing like a drunken crane in mid-air.

"Ow—!!" she groaned, rubbing her now considerably bruised derrière.

Not to be deterred, she tried digging through the stone walls with her bare hands—an attempt so laughably ineffective that even the rats watching from the corner looked embarrassed on her behalf.

Finally, she simply collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving floor, panting as sweat dampened her exquisitely transformed body.

And that was when the true tragedy struck.

Her stomach growled. Loudly.

Like a caged tiger roaring for meat.

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes widened. She hadn't eaten since the feast. In her past life—her past male life—she could devour an entire roasted duck with ease, followed by a dozen dumplings and still have room for a full bottle of wine.

Now? Now she was locked in a cell, starving, and—her eyes glanced down—half-naked, wearing nothing but a flimsy robe that barely covered her toned midriff.

She pressed a delicate hand against her exposed stomach, her nails tracing over the smooth skin where once muscle had been harder, sharper. A strange warmth bloomed in her chest.

"… I look good," she whispered to herself, eyes lingering on the mirror-like reflection in a puddle.

Then, as if struck by divine epiphany—"Wait, what am I thinking?! I need to escape!"

And then, like lightning cutting through a midnight storm, it came to her.

The Blood Dragon.

A power long buried within her lineage, a power untouched in her former life of indulgence. But now? Now, she had no choice.

She took a deep breath. Her pulse steadied. The air in the room grew thick—not with fear, but with something primal.

Then, from within her very veins, a crimson glow ignited.

The moment Shi Zhao Mei's power awakened, the entire dungeon trembled. Veins of pure scarlet energy spread across her arms like the roots of an ancient tree. Her breath became fire, her body light as a feather yet strong as tempered steel.

Then—the explosion came.

With a scream that shattered the silence, the walls erupted in a burst of crimson light. The iron bars bent like withered reeds, the forcefield collapsed, and the dungeon's ceiling groaned under the shockwave.

The guards stationed outside barely had time to react before a silhouette burst through the rubble—a vision in black and red, hair flowing like the banners of a conquering army, eyes ablaze like twin suns.

Shi Zhao Mei had escaped.

Above, in the palace courtyards where preparations for the execution were underway, the ground trembled beneath the feet of the assembled warriors.

A guard, breathless and pale, rushed to the Emperor, his words a frantic mess.

"The prisoner—she—she has escaped!"

Emperor Weng Jin Shun's hands tightened into fists, the veins along his temple pulsing with rage. His worst fear had come to pass.

From the shadows of the temple hall, Pan Zhihaou's voice rang clear and ominous.

"The heavens have given her power. If she is not stopped, then the Ji-Gong Clan is doomed."

The execution bell, once prepared to mark the end of a life, now tolled with a different meaning—warning the empire that a storm had been unleashed.

And at the heart of that storm, Shi Zhao Mei smiled, fangs bared, her freedom tasted upon her tongue.

"Time to get out from the hell."

The sun hung like a great golden medallion over the towering peaks of Jabal Al-Safir, casting its amber glow over the sprawling encampment of Abhammuddin Obasi. Tents of woven silk and camel-hide stood firm against the mountain breeze, their banners fluttering like the wings of slumbering falcons. The scent of freshly baked flatbread and spiced lamb lingered in the air, mingling with the rich aroma of burning incense.

Amidst the rhythmic clatter of hooves and the murmurs of the tribe, Aleeman Hakiman tightened the last strap of his saddle, his expression a portrait of quiet determination.

He was no stranger to leaving home, yet this departure felt different. He had ventured into battlefields, but never into halls of wisdom. He had faced enemies with swords, but never with words.

And just as he fastened his scabbard to his belt, a voice—smug, teasing, and far too familiar—broke his reverie.

"And where, pray tell, does our fearless little brother think he is going?"

Aleeman didn't even need to turn around. He could already feel the obnoxious smirk radiating off his older brother, Samiyoshi Hakiman—the walking embodiment of arrogance and misplaced wisdom.

With a slow exhale, Aleeman turned to face him. Samiyoshi, dressed in an exquisitely embroidered navy kaftan, his curly brown hair tied loosely at the nape, leaned against a wooden post with the grace of a man who had never known urgency in his entire life.

Aleeman adjusted his turban, unimpressed. "I am leaving for Miracheneous Academy, brother. Not that it concerns you."

Samiyoshi scoffed, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. "Ah, so it has come to this. Our dear Aleeman, abandoning us for a world of ink and paper. What will the soldiers say? What will the camels say?"

Aleeman narrowed his eyes. "What will the camels say? Are you deranged?"

Samiyoshi shrugged. "They will weep, brother. Do you not hear them?"

At that precise moment, one of the nearby camels let out a spectacularly ill-timed groan, its long neck stretching out as if in genuine despair.

Aleeman stared blankly. "That was pure coincidence."

Samiyoshi wagged a finger. "No, no, my dear brother. The universe itself mourns your departure."

Aleeman groaned, rubbing his temples. "Are you here to torment me or bid me farewell?"

Samiyoshi sighed, stepping forward and placing a firm hand on Aleeman's shoulder. For once, the jest faded from his eyes, replaced by something unspoken, something deep-rooted in brotherhood and blood.

"Listen well, Aleeman." His voice, though still laced with mischief, bore a rare sincerity. "You go not just for yourself, but for our tribe. For knowledge is a weapon, and you—though stubborn as a mule—are a warrior. Wield it well."

Aleeman held his gaze, nodding once. "I will."

Samiyoshi grinned. "Good. Now, before you leave—do try not to disgrace the family name by tripping over your robes in front of the scholars."

Aleeman scoffed. "Get out of my sight before I reconsider this journey."

Samiyoshi laughed, stepping back as Aleeman mounted his horse.

As Aleeman steadied himself atop his horse, his eyes drifted to the grandest tent of the encampment, its entrance veiled in thick, embroidered drapery. And then, with the slow, measured grace of a lion surveying its land, Orhan Bey emerged.

The Bey of Abhammuddin Obasi stood tall, his broad shoulders draped in an immaculate crimson cloak, his salt-and-pepper beard framing a face carved by wisdom and war. His gaze, dark as the depths of the night sky, locked onto Aleeman's, unreadable yet knowing.

Without a word, Orhan extended his scarred hand, weathered by years of battle and leadership.

Aleeman dismounted swiftly, stepping forward, and with reverence, he bent to kiss the calloused hand of his father.

Orhan studied him, his expression inscrutable, before finally speaking.

"You leave as my son. You will return as my heir."

Aleeman's throat tightened. "I will not fail you, Bey Baba."

Orhan's hand gripped the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together in the old warrior's gesture of unspoken faith.

"Then go. Learn, grow, and return not as a boy, but as a man worthy of his bloodline."

As he stepped back, the tribe gathered, their eyes filled with pride and sorrow alike.

Women threw water upon the ground, a tradition as ancient as the sands, symbolising a smooth journey, as water finds no obstacles in its path.

And as Aleeman rose upon his steed, the wind carrying the blessings of his people, he did not look back.

For the path before him was long, and destiny waited for no man.

In the heart of Kumaruchaisan Castle, where the walls dripped with the blood of defiance and the very air hung heavy with the stench of fear, tyranny sat upon a gilded throne. A monolith of dystopian horror, the castle was no mere fortress—it was a machine of oppression, a monstrous entity that devoured freedom and exhaled despair.

Its spires, once symbols of grandeur, now loomed like serrated fangs, casting jagged shadows upon the wretched city below. Drones hovered like vultures, their red, unblinking eyes recording every breath, every whisper, every trembling movement. Towering screens displayed holographic proclamations of law, their messages hollow yet absolute:

OBEDIENCE IS PEACE. DISSENT IS DEATH. THE TEKFUR SEES ALL.

At the marketplace, where filth and fear mingled in equal measure, Yannis Jo-Ann, the son of Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann, prowled like a jackal amid scavengers. Clad in armour lined with silver inlays, his crimson cloak flowing like a tide of blood, he was the embodiment of inherited cruelty—a wolf birthed from a lineage of tyrants.

The air crackled with tension as a violent dispute erupted between a shopkeeper and a disgruntled customer. Accusations flared, voices rose, and in the chaotic fray, the customer—an unfortunate wretch with hunger carved into his bones—was shoved backward.

He stumbled. He fell. And his misfortune became his doom.

For he landed against Yannis.

A moment of silence, sharp and suffocating, wrapped itself around the marketplace. The customer, his face drained of colour, scrambled to his knees, trembling with terror.

But Yannis?

Irritation flashed in his eyes, colder than the steel at his hip.

With the practised ease of a man who had never known consequence, Yannis unsheathed his dagger—a sleek, obsidian blade, its edge as keen as his father's ambitions—and drove it into the man's stomach.

The first stab stole the man's breath.

The second robbed him of reason.

The third, fourth, and fifth ripped the life from his wretched body, until his blood painted the cobblestones in deep, cruel strokes of crimson.

The crowd held their collective breath, their terror so thick it threatened to choke them all.

A guard, his face a mask of neutrality—neither shocked nor disturbed, for such horrors were common here—stepped forward and bowed.

"My Lord Yannis, the Tekfur summons you."

Yannis flicked the blood from his blade with a casual grace, his expression unreadable.

"Okay, I'm coming…" he muttered, stepping over the fresh corpse as if it were no more than a puddle in his path.

Within the twisted grandeur of Kumaruchaisha Castle, where the walls themselves seemed to whisper the agony of the damned, Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann sat upon his throne of polished bone and gold.

A man of unholy presence, his very being exuded an aura of merciless control, his robes—a deep obsidian, embroidered with threads of pure silver—draped over his muscular frame. His raven-black hair, streaked with lines of cruel silver, cascaded down his back, and his eyes—two pits of abyssal darkness—held neither warmth nor remorse.

In his grasp, a crystal goblet swirled with thick, velvety wine, the deep red indistinguishable from the blood that had built his empire. At the centre of the chamber, an artificial intelligence interface projected holographic images of surveillance footage—every street, every home, every breath of the people recorded for his amusement and scrutiny.

He did not rule through love. He did not rule through honour.

He ruled through fear, precision, and calculated brutality.

As the massive iron doors groaned open, revealing Yannis striding into the chamber, Kekaumenos did not glance up.

Not immediately.

He took a slow sip of his wine, allowing the silence to fester, to grow pregnant with expectation.

Then, at last, his gaze flicked upward.

"My son."

The words, though spoken softly, were weighted like anvils, suffocating in their unspoken demands.

Yannis bowed slightly. "Father."

Kekaumenos' fingers tapped against the goblet, slow, methodical, deliberate.

"Tell me…" He leaned forward, his voice the edge of a blade slipping beneath the skin. "Did you kill someone today?"

A smirk tugged at the corner of Yannis' lips. "Of course. It is a day that ends in the letter 'Y'."

The Tekfur chuckled darkly, his amusement genuine yet devoid of warmth.

"Good. Then you are still my son."

He stood, his towering figure casting a long, oppressive shadow across the chamber. Stepping down from the throne, he placed a firm, calloused hand upon Yannis' shoulder, his grip like iron shackles.

"We have work to do."

Yannis tilted his head, intrigue glinting in his eyes. "Something grand, I assume?"

Kekaumenos smiled—a cruel, predatory thing.

"We are not meant to rule a single city, my son. We are meant to rule them all. The lands beyond Abjannas… beyond Halmosian… beyond the very limits of this world."

He turned toward the holographic projection, where the sprawling empire of Abjannas shimmered like a jewel waiting to be plucked.

"We will topple the academy. We will tear down the Miracheneous halls brick by brick. We will slaughter their scholars, enslave their warriors, and carve our name into the annals of history with fire and steel."

His grip tightened.

"And you, my son, will be the blade that cleaves their world apart."

Yannis felt his pulse quicken—not with fear, but with exhilaration.

For if his father was the architect of conquest, then he would be the hammer that built their new empire upon the bones of the old.

And it would be glorious.

The forest of Yuè Lóng Lín, an abyss of tangled shadows and whispering leaves, stretched for miles beneath the silver glow of the encroaching dusk. The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, and the towering trees, their ancient trunks knotted with secrets, stood like silent sentinels in the growing dark. Somewhere, an owl hooted—a ghostly wail swallowed by the sound of pursuit.

Shi Zhao Mei ran.

Her breath tore from her lungs like a caged beast, her vision blurred with exhaustion. Her once graceful limbs now trembled, not from fear, but from hunger gnawing at her like a relentless phantom. She had spent the last day fleeing, her body battered, her wounds burning, her once-immaculate attire now a tattered whisper of elegance clinging to her frame.

And still, they came.

Behind her, the Weng soldiers—relentless, tireless, machines of duty—pursued her with the precision of hunting hounds. Their lanterns flickered through the foliage, their armour clanked with an eerie rhythm, their voices cut through the night like the blades at their sides.

"Fan kai! (Spread out!)" shouted their commander, a towering figure clad in crimson and black, his voice as sharp as a struck gong.

They had found her trail—footprints pressed into the damp soil, the delicate imprint of a woman's flight carved into the earth.

But she could run no more.

Her knees wobbled, her stomach clenched in protest, her body betrayed her with each step. Desperation clawed at her senses. Without another thought, she threw herself into the thick underbrush, chest heaving, lips trembling, her fingers digging into the damp soil as she willed herself to vanish.

Meanwhile, upon the winding mountain path, Aleeman Hakiman rode forth, his steed a shadow against the setting sun.

The wind howled through the trees, whispering secrets of unseen perils. The road was treacherous, yet his grip upon the reins was firm, his senses honed like a falcon's gaze. Duty weighed upon his shoulders, but vigilance coursed through his veins.

And then—a sound.

A rustling. A footstep. Faint, yet distinct amidst the whispers of the wild.

Aleeman's hand instinctively reached for his bow, his fingers ghosting over the smooth wood, his eyes narrowing as he slowed his horse.

Was it a beast? A thief? Or something far worse?

He exhaled slowly, his warrior's instinct uncoiling like a poised serpent.

Shi Zhao Mei gritted her teeth, her entire body thrumming with the violent symphony of survival.

The imperial guards neared, their movements calculated, their weapons gleaming under the waning light.

She had no choice.

She lunged from the shadows.

In one swift, brutal movement, her slender fingers coiled around the nearest soldier's neck, twisting with a sickening snap. The body crumpled like a lifeless marionette before she seized his dao, the curved blade glinting like a crescent moon drenched in malice.

Another soldier turned, but too late—her blade slashed across his chest, splitting fabric and flesh, painting the forest floor in red.

She was no longer running. She was fighting.

And the beast of war within her had awakened.

Yet, as she sprinted forward, her breath ragged, her vision swaying, the world tilted—her strength faltering under the weight of her bruises, her hunger, her exhaustion.

She stopped, leaning against a tree, her fingers pressing into the bark as she struggled for air.

Then—a rustle.

She turned, only to find herself surrounded.

The Imperial Guards had closed in.

"I am the son of Weng Jin Shun! The rightful prince of the Ji-Gong Clan!" she roared, her voice both fierce and desperate, regal and ruined.

The guards hesitated—only for a moment.

Then, their commander stepped forward—Zhao Fengxian, a warrior of unshakable loyalty and ruthless conviction. His scarred visage betrayed no emotion, only cold duty and absolute resolve.

"You have nowhere left to run, disgrace."

Shi Zhao Mei's jaw clenched, her grip tightening around her stolen blade.

And then—a whisper in the wind.

A silent predator, unseen, unheard—until the kill.

A single arrow sliced through the air, a phantom of death, and buried itself deep into the skull of a Weng soldier.

The world paused.

Eyes widened. Bodies tensed. Breath caught in throats.

From the shadows, Aleeman Hakiman emerged, bow in hand, his sword glistening at his side like a sliver of moonlight.

His voice rang out, steady as steel.

"Ya Haqq!"

And then—chaos erupted.

The Imperial soldiers surged forward.

Aleeman drew his sword, the weight of iron familiar, comforting, resolute.

One guard swung—Aleeman ducked. Another lunged—he sidestepped.

He moved like flowing water, effortless and unbroken, his blade a viper striking with lethal precision.

A soldier aimed for his ribs—Aleeman twisted, his blade severing the man's throat before the attack could land. Another charged, but met only the edge of his sword, a brutal arc carving through the night.

Meanwhile, Shi Zhao Mei fought fiercely, but the commander was stronger, faster, and merciless.

A slap—sharp and punishing—sent her sprawling onto the dirt.

Pain spiked through her skull, her vision spinning as Zhao Fengxian loomed over her, his blade raised for the finishing strike.

Then—a flash of silver.

A knife flew through the air, embedding itself deep into the commander's left chest.

Zhao Fengxian staggered.

And in that breath, Aleeman moved—swift as a shadow, final as death.

Without a single step wasted, without hesitation, without mercy—his sword slid across the commander's throat, severing life from flesh in one smooth, deadly motion.

The forest fell into silence.

Aleeman turned to Shi Zhao Mei, who was still on the ground, dazed, panting, her once-impeccable form reduced to a bruised spectre of elegance.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice steady, unreadable.

Shi Zhao Mei lifted her gaze, her expression unreadable. "I've been beaten, chased, starved, and slapped across the forest like a disobedient concubine. What do you think?"

Aleeman huffed. "So you can still talk. You'll live."

But then, his gaze flickered downward—to her attire revealing, draped around her like remnants of a shattered masquerade.

His jaw tensed. He turned his head aside, not daring to look directly at her.

Without a word, he unclasped his own heavy cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

"Wear this. You'll catch a cold."

Shi Zhao Mei blinked, stunned by the rare act of kindness amidst the carnage. Her fingers clutched the fabric, her expression softening—a crack in the wall of her defiance.

"Thank you."

And then—her stomach betrayed her.

A loud, monstrous growl echoed between them.

Shi Zhao Mei froze, mortified.

Aleeman paused, then let out a small, knowing chuckle.

"You're starving."

The night deepened, the stars watching like silent witnesses.

Aleeman turned towards the path ahead.

"Come with me. I'll find you food."

And with no better choice, no home to return to, Shi Zhao Mei followed.

The cave, carved by the ancient hands of time, loomed like the gaping maw of a slumbering beast. Its jagged walls bore the scars of centuries, its ceilings arched like the ribs of a forgotten titan. Stalactites hung like frozen daggers, their tips glistening with droplets that fell in rhythmic echoes, the only sound accompanying the crackle of fire and the whispering wind beyond. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, mingling with the smoky breath of burning wood.

Amidst this sanctuary of darkness, Shi Zhao Mei sat upon a smooth stone, her body draped in the heavy cloak that Aleeman had given her. The firelight danced upon her pale skin, casting shifting shadows across her delicate features. With a slow sigh, she extended her hands towards the flames, her fingers trembling slightly—whether from the cold or exhaustion, even she was unsure.

Then—a sound.

Her senses sharpened, her muscles coiling like a snake preparing to strike.

Footsteps. Measured. Unrushed. Intentional.

A silhouette appeared at the cave's entrance, the fire's glow flickering against the newcomer's broad frame. Aleeman Hakiman stepped inside, his dark eyes glinting with quiet resolve, and in his grip—a lifeless pigeon, its body skewered by a single arrow.

Shi Zhao Mei's brow lifted, a mixture of mild horror and begrudging respect flashing across her face.

"You… killed a pigeon?"

Aleeman exhaled as he set down his bow, inspecting his catch with the clinical efficiency of a seasoned hunter. "Would you rather starve?"

Shi Zhao Mei pursed her lips, glancing at her stomach—which, at that precise moment, let out a mournful growl that echoed through the cavern.

Aleeman smirked. "Thought so."

She huffed and folded her arms. "It just… seems unceremonious, is all. Pigeons are messengers of the gods."

Aleeman skewered the bird on a sharpened stick and positioned it over the fire. "Then consider this divine retribution. This one didn't deliver its message fast enough."

Shi Zhao Mei stared at him, lips parting slightly before shaking her head. "You are impossible."

Aleeman only shrugged, turning the roasting pigeon over the flames, the scent of crisping skin filling the air.

For a while, silence reigned, save for the crackling fire and the distant drip of water within the cave. But Shi Zhao Mei, ever restless, watched him intently, her curiosity gnawing at her like an itch that refused to be ignored.

"You're skilled with a bow," she remarked, tilting her head. "You must be an expert at archery."

Aleeman, without glancing up, simply said, "It is necessity, not expertise."

Shi Zhao Mei narrowed her eyes. "Humble, aren't you?"

Aleeman finally met her gaze, his expression unreadable. "And you? Why do the Imperial Guard hunt you like a rabid dog?"

Shi Zhao Mei stiffened.

She parted her lips to speak, the truth teetering at the edge of confession—but then, like a whisper in the wind, hesitation slithered into her thoughts.

If he knew… would he still help me?

She faltered. "It's complicated."

Aleeman arched a brow. "So is catching a pigeon in the dark. And yet, here we are."

She glared at him. "You are infuriating."

He only smirked, then reached into the flames.

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes widened as he pulled out a dagger, its iron blade glowing like molten fire, the heat rippling along its sharpened edge.

She instinctively recoiled, her entire body tensing. "What—what are you doing?"

Aleeman inspected the blade, then glanced at her, his voice calm, deliberate. "You have wounds. This will seal them."

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes widened with horror. "Are you out of your mind?! That's—th-that's barbaric!"

Aleeman exhaled through his nose. "It's survival. Infection will kill you faster than a blade."

She clutched the edges of her cloak, shaking her head furiously. "I'd rather take my chances."

Aleeman sighed, as though dealing with an insufferable child. "Do you trust me or not?"

Shi Zhao Mei hesitated. Her pride screamed no. But the dull, persistent throb of her bruises and the gash along her ribs reminded her otherwise.

With an exasperated groan, she muttered, "Fine. But if I die, I will haunt you."

Aleeman smirked. "Noted."

And then, before she could rethink her life choices, he pressed the searing blade against her wound.

The pain was instantaneous.

Shi Zhao Mei let out a sharp, strangled cry, her back arching, her nails digging into Aleeman's forearm as if she meant to break him.

Her breath came in sharp, gasping waves, her entire body trembling as fire coursed through her flesh, replacing agony with raw heat. Her fingers clenched around his solid, unyielding arm, her grip fierce as though he were the only anchor keeping her tethered to the mortal plane.

Aleeman remained unmoving, unwavering, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on his work.

And then—the tension changed.

For the first time, Shi Zhao Mei realised just how close they were.

Her cheek was mere inches from his, the glow of the fire reflecting in his dark, steady gaze. The warmth of his skin radiated through his tunic, the scent of earth and steel lingering in the air.

Her cheeks flushed.

The pain, once unbearable, now seemed secondary to the awkward proximity.

She swallowed hard. "You're—very close."

Aleeman, entirely unfazed, simply responded, "You're the one clinging to me."

Shi Zhao Mei immediately let go, snapping her hands back as if scalded. "I was in pain!"

Aleeman's lips twitched. "So you say."

She glared at him, her breath still uneven. "I despise you."

Aleeman wiped the dagger clean. "And yet, you are still alive."

Shi Zhao Mei groaned dramatically, pulling the cloak tighter around her as though it could shield her from further humiliation.

For a brief moment, all was silent once more.

And then—her stomach let out the most ungodly, earth-shaking growl.

Shi Zhao Mei froze.

Aleeman paused, then glanced at her.

A beat of silence.

Then, without warning—he laughed.

Not just a chuckle. A full, deep, shameless laugh.

Shi Zhao Mei's entire face ignited, her dignity shattering into a million pieces. "Stop laughing!"

Aleeman wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head. "You sound like a starving tiger."

Shi Zhao Mei scowled, pulling the cloak over her face. "I hope your pigeon is raw."

Aleeman, still smirking, tore a piece of the now perfectly cooked pigeon and held it out to her.

"Come. Eat."

Shi Zhao Mei peeked from behind the cloak, eyes narrowed, stomach still rebelling.

And with no other choice, she reached forward—defeated, humbled, and begrudgingly grateful.

As the fire crackled and the stars watched from above, a fugitive prince and a foreign warrior shared their first meal together—one of many to come.

Within the hallowed halls of the Weng Palace, where pillars of black jade reached towards a ceiling painted with golden dragons and crimson lotuses, Emperor Weng Jin Shun paced before his throne. His heavy silk robes, embroidered with golden serpents, rustled like whispering ghosts as he moved, his expression a tempest barely contained within mortal flesh. His jaw clenched, his hands folded behind his back, his fury a silent thundercloud, ready to break.

By the throne stood Pan Zhihaou, the imperial priest-monk, his saffron robes swaying lightly, his bald head reflecting the flickering glow of the palace lanterns. Beside him, Lady Mei Lian (美蓮), the Empress and mother of Weng Yang Hong, her eyes a storm of sorrow, her elegantly pinned raven hair trembling as she tried to appeal to the husband she barely recognised anymore.

"My Lord," Mei Lian stepped forward, her voice steady but laced with anguish. "You must think again before delivering this cruel judgement. You are sentencing your own blood to death—your son, our son."

Emperor Weng Jin Shun halted abruptly, his gaze a blade as he turned upon her.

"Do not speak to me of mercy," he growled, his voice thick with unrelenting ire. "Mercy will not spare us from the wrath of the heavens! You saw what befell him—what curse he brought upon himself! Do you think the Goddess Yuán Nǚ Wáng will stop at my son alone? No—if we do not act, if we do not cleanse this stain upon our house, the gods will send their fury upon the Ji-Gong Clan. We will all suffer his fate!"

Mei Lian's fingers trembled, her lips parting in silent protest. But before she could answer, Pan Zhihaou exhaled deeply, stepping forward.

"Your Majesty, the Empress is right to caution you," the monk said, his voice measured, like water smoothing the edges of a blade. "To execute your own son is no light decree. But your fears are not unfounded. The gods have given a sign, and we must not ignore it."

The Emperor's gaze darkened as he studied the monk, his patience fraying like a tapestry worn thin by time.

"Tell me, Pan Zhihaou—if not execution, then what? If we spare him, if we allow him to roam free with this curse, what then? Will the gods forgive, or will they strike us down as they did him?"

The monk's expression remained unreadable, his hands folding within the sleeves of his robes.

"There is no escape from divine wrath, Your Majesty. Only atonement."

Before another word could be spoken, the grand doors of the throne room creaked open, and a guard strode forward, his face pale as though touched by death itself.

"My Emperor… we…" He hesitated.

Weng Jin Shun's brows furrowed, his patience snapping like brittle glass.

"Speak! Did you bring my son or not?"

A deep, suffocating silence filled the room.

Then, with a voice trembling with dread, the guard answered:

"The soldiers we sent to capture the prince… they are all dead."

The world seemed to still. The flames in the lanterns flickered, as if recoiling from the weight of those words.

The Emperor's breath turned slow, heavy—a beast waiting to erupt.

"And Commander Zhao Fengxian?"

The guard swallowed, lowering his gaze.

"He… is dead, Your Majesty."

The words hung in the air like a funeral bell tolling over the palace.

Mei Lian gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her dark eyes glistening with horror.

With a single motion, Emperor Weng Jin Shun stormed from the throne room, his robe billowing behind him like the wings of a vengeful spectre.

The palace doors burst open, and the Emperor strode into the courtyard, where a sea of mourning faces gathered under the dim glow of lanterns. The people of the Ji-Gong Clan stood in quiet grief, their whispers hushed as the lifeless body of Commander Zhao Fengxian lay upon a stone altar, his once-mighty form now broken, his armour stained with the final remnants of battle.

A single woman stepped forward.

Draped in a flowing white robe, her face framed by long sheets of midnight-black hair, Zhao Fengxian's widow—Weng Jingfei (瓊菲), the younger sister of Weng Yang Hong—fell to her knees.

Her delicate hands trembled as she touched her husband's lifeless chest, her jaw tightening as waves of grief and fury crashed within her.

Then—she screamed.

A sound that was not just sorrow, but rage, anguish, vengeance woven into one.

She lifted her tear-streaked face to her father, her eyes blazing with wrath.

"Who did this?!" she demanded. "Who stole my husband from me?"

Emperor Weng Jin Shun turned to the guard, his expression carved from stone and fire. "Speak. Now."

The guard, his hands shaking, stepped forward and held up an arrow.

"We found this lodged in one of the fallen men. It is not of our clan."

The Emperor's eyes narrowed. "Then whose is it?"

The guard slowly turned the arrow in his hands, revealing the crescent moon and star insignia engraved at the shaft.

A breath of realisation passed over the court.

Emperor Weng Jin Shun's face hardened like iron in a forge.

"Abjannas."

Pan Zhihaou, peering over the Emperor's shoulder, let out a low murmur. "No, Your Majesty… this is the mark of Abhammuddin Obasi."

Silence, deep and venomous, settled over the gathered crowd.

Then, in a voice low and brimming with storm, Weng Jin Shun commanded:

"Prepare my guards. We leave for Abhammuddin at dawn."

A ripple of urgency passed through the soldiers, their armour clanking like the sound of war awakening from slumber.

But then—Mei Lian stepped forward.

"Husband, it is late. The night is thick, and our men need rest. If you ride now, you will be weary by the time you reach Abhammuddin. Go in the morning, with the strength of the rising sun behind you."

Pan Zhihaou inclined his head. "The Empress is wise, Your Majesty. Vengeance sought in haste is vengeance wasted. Take the night, gather your might, and at dawn, reclaim your honour."

The Emperor's teeth ground together. His fury was a fire barely caged, but he was a man of reason, if not patience.

Finally, he gave a sharp nod.

"At dawn, we ride."

And as the night settled its dark veil over the palace, a storm brewed within the halls of the Ji-Gong Clan—one that would soon sweep across the lands of Abhammuddin Obasi, carrying with it the wrath of an empire.

The first light of dawn spilled over the forest, its golden fingers stretching through the mouth of the cave, chasing away the shadows of the night. A crisp breeze whispered through the trees, stirring the embers of last night's fire, while birds sang with an enthusiasm that Shi Zhao Mei found entirely unnecessary at this hour.

A soft groan escaped her lips as she blinked herself awake, her body aching from the wounds and bruises she had earned during her spectacularly unfortunate escape. She sat up, stretching like a lazy cat, only to realise—

Aleeman was gone.

Her eyebrows shot up. Her heart stilled.

Had he left her? Had he decided that dragging along a former Ji-Gong prince-turned-woman was too much trouble? Had she been abandoned like a forgotten slipper in the middle of the road?!

She turned her head frantically, searching the cave as if expecting him to materialise out of thin air. Nothing.

Her stomach twisted. Not with sadness—certainly not. No, she was infuriated.

"That horse-faced, self-righteous—"

Before she could complete her grand monologue of insults, the sound of footsteps crunching against the forest floor made her freeze.

A shadow loomed at the cave entrance, a familiar tall figure stepping inside with the casual ease of a man who had definitely NOT abandoned her.

Aleeman Hakiman strolled in, holding a waterskin and what appeared to be fresh bread. His dark eyes flickered towards her, and his brows furrowed at her expression.

"Why do you look like you've just been betrayed?" he asked, tilting his head.

Shi Zhao Mei crossed her arms, huffing like an offended empress. "You vanished!"

Aleeman stared at her, blinking once. Then, with the straightest face imaginable, he lifted the bread in his hand.

"I went to find food. Did you think I ran away from you?"

Shi Zhao Mei shifted slightly, refusing to meet his gaze. "I—well—you didn't leave a note!"

Aleeman pinched the bridge of his nose. "A note. In the middle of a forest."

"Yes! That would have been polite!"

Aleeman sighed. "I am travelling with a madwoman."

Shi Zhao Mei pointed at him accusingly. "And I am travelling with an inconsiderate brute!"

Aleeman ignored her tantrum entirely, tossing her the bread. "Eat. We're leaving."

Shi Zhao Mei caught the bread with a huff, taking an aggressive bite. She chewed as if personally punishing it before her brain registered his words.

She stopped mid-chew. "…Leaving? Where?"

Aleeman folded his arms, his face the picture of nonchalance. "To Miracheneous Academy."

Shi Zhao Mei choked.

She coughed, spluttering crumbs onto her lap as she gawked at him.

"Academy?! You're taking me to a place full of scholars?!"

Aleeman raised a brow. "You'd rather I take you back to Ji-Gong to be executed?"

Shi Zhao Mei opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

She had no counterargument.

Aleeman smirked as he turned away, heading towards his horse.

Shi Zhao Mei watched as he approached the sleek, muscular steed, its deep brown coat gleaming under the morning sun. The creature snorted, shaking its mane with a certain dignified arrogance.

Aleeman patted its side. "Good boy, Şimşek."

Shi Zhao Mei blinked. "You named your horse Lightning?"

Aleeman glanced at her. "Yes."

Shi Zhao Mei stared at him. Stared at the horse. Stared back at him.

"…Not very creative, are you?"

Aleeman ignored her yet again, swiftly hopping onto the saddle with the grace of a man who had spent his entire life riding. He adjusted the reins, then turned to her.

"Well? Are you coming or not?"

Shi Zhao Mei placed a hand on her hip. "How far is this Academy?"

Aleeman tilted his head, thinking. "Roughly 300 meters."

Shi Zhao Mei's entire body froze.

"THREE HUNDRED METERS?!"

Aleeman nodded.

She gawked at him. "Then why are we taking a horse?!"

Aleeman smirked. "Because I have a horse. You, however, are welcome to walk."

Shi Zhao Mei gasped, scandalised. "You fiend! You'd let a delicate lady such as myself walk across rough terrain?!"

Aleeman arched his brow. "Delicate? You broke a man's neck last night."

Shi Zhao Mei huffed, stomping towards the horse. "I refuse to suffer such indignity. Move forward, brute, I'm riding with you."

Aleeman sighed but extended a hand. She took it, gracefully swinging herself onto the saddle behind him.

The moment she settled, Aleeman glanced over his shoulder.

"Hold on tightly."

Shi Zhao Mei rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, it's not as if—"

Before she could finish her sentence, Şimşek reared up on his hind legs.

Shi Zhao Mei let out an undignified shriek, her arms snapping around Aleeman's waist belt like a vice.

Aleeman stiffened. "…That was quick."

"Shut up and ride!" she screeched, burying her face against his back as the horse galloped forward.

The morning sun bathed the forest in golden light, the wind whistled past them, and the unlikeliest duo rode towards their uncertain future—one with absolute composure, the other regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.

The great courtyard of Weng Palace was a tempest of movement, a sea of royal imperial guards clad in obsidian and crimson, their gleaming lamellar armour reflecting the morning sun like shards of a shattered inferno. Banners embroidered with golden dragons fluttered furiously in the breeze, as if enraged on behalf of their sovereign.

And at the forefront of this impending storm, standing tall upon the marble steps of the palace, was Emperor Weng Jin Shun, his silken robes billowing behind him like the wings of an avenging spectre. His expression was thunder made flesh, his gaze carved from unrelenting steel, and his patience? Shattered beyond recognition.

He raised his right hand, adorned with rings of onyx and jade, his fingers tightening into a fist of royal fury.

"Men of Ji-Gong!" His voice boomed, a war drum against the silence.

The soldiers straightened, spears clanking in unison, their boots digging into the stone like roots bracing for a storm.

"Our name has been spat upon!" he thundered, pacing before his men like an orator preparing for the most vengeful opera in history. "Our honour has been trampled beneath the hooves of foreign filth! Our own blood—our own flesh—has been taken from us!"

The men murmured amongst themselves. To be fair, most of them were still unclear on why exactly they were heading to Abhammuddin, but if their Emperor wanted vengeance, then vengeance they would deliver!

"Abhammuddin dares to interfere with the affairs of Ji-Gong?" Weng Jin Shun threw his arms out, like a deity preparing to smite the heavens. "They dare to shelter my wayward son, who brought the wrath of the gods upon himself? They insult our lineage! They mock our power!"

The soldiers grunted in collective agreement.

"So tell me, my warriors of Ji-Gong—will we suffer this humiliation? Will we allow our enemies to sully our great name?!"

A resounding "NO, YOUR MAJESTY!" echoed through the courtyard.

Weng Jin Shun nodded approvingly, looking extremely satisfied with his own theatrics.

"Then we ride!" He spun on his heel, his robes dramatically flaring behind him as he strode towards his warhorse, which—as if sensing the gravity of the moment—let out the most perfectly timed neigh.

It was all very grand. Very inspiring. Very 'vengeful emperor about to rain hellfire upon his enemies.'

And with that, the army of Ji-Gong thundered out of the gates, their banners whipping through the wind, their horses galloping like messengers of ruin, and Weng Jin Shun? Looking very pleased with himself.

As the dust settled and the mighty army of Ji-Gong disappeared into the horizon, the palace courtyard fell into a strange silence—the kind that comes when all the dramatic people have finally left.

Lady Mei Lian, the Empress, stood at the palace steps, her delicate hands clasped together, her gaze wistful yet troubled as she watched her husband lead a vengeance-fuelled parade across the land.

The wind tousled her raven-black hair, her eyes shimmering with worry.

"Oh, my son… may the heavens guide you home."

Beside her, Pan Zhihaou, the imperial monk, stood with the posture of a man who had just watched a rather impressive theatre performance and was now calculating how best to profit from it.

He exhaled deeply, shaking his bald head with a dramatic sigh.

"Ah, Your Majesty," he intoned, folding his hands within his sleeves. "The tides of fate are indeed cruel. The Emperor's heart is heavy with duty, and yours is heavy with love. Such burdens weigh upon the soul."

Mei Lian side-eyed him. "Pan Zhihaou, do you always sound like you're reciting poetry, or is this just your natural way of speaking?"

The monk offered a wise, mysterious smile. "Why limit wisdom to mere words, my Empress, when one can make poetry of life itself?"

Mei Lian rolled her eyes.

Still, her gaze returned to the distant horizon, her heart aching with hope.

"My son… will he ever return?" she whispered.

Pan Zhihaou, being the absolute picture of 'comforting yet cryptic monk', sighed again. "The wheel of destiny turns as it must. But worry not, my Empress. The heavens often weave paths we do not yet understand."

Mei Lian nodded, sighing softly. "I pray you are right, Pan Zhihaou."

And with that, she turned and walked back into the palace, her footsteps soft, yet filled with silent prayers.

The moment Lady Mei Lian vanished through the palace doors, the soft, thoughtful expression on Pan Zhihaou's face instantly dissolved into something much more… sinister.

His lips curled, his fingers twitching slightly, his eyes narrowing like a cat who had just discovered an unattended plate of fish.

Ah, yes.

With the Emperor away, the pieces of his own grand design could finally fall into place.

He turned on his heel, his robes swirling around him, and with the slow, deliberate steps of a man who was absolutely up to no good, he strode towards the inner sanctum of the palace.

Yes… yes, indeed.

There was much to be done.

As the first light of dawn kissed the towering domes and minarets of Abjannas, the city awoke like a beast stirring from slumber, its veins pulsing with life and movement. The golden rooftops glistened under the sun's embrace, their ceramic tiles shimmering like a sea of precious stones. The air was a rich tapestry of scents—freshly baked bread from the souks, the sharp tang of exotic spices, and the distant hint of incense curling from the grand mosques.

In this metropolis, where the past danced hand-in-hand with the future, hovercrafts glided silently above bustling bazaars, their passengers dressed in flowing robes embedded with nano-fibers. Autonomous carts weaved through the narrow streets, carrying crates laden with fruits, textiles, and mechanical wonders—a perfect symphony of ancient craftsmanship and cutting-edge innovation.

At the heart of this mesmerising marvel, towering over the city like a silent guardian, lay the Miracheneous Academy, its white marble walls etched with calligraphy from scholars long gone. The academy's great halls pulsed with knowledge, its corridors humming with the echoes of lectures, debates, and—most importantly—gossip.

In one of the academy's futuristic dormitories, where smart glass windows adjusted to the morning light, a young girl was furiously braiding her hair while muttering under her breath.

Hua-Jing Hakiman, younger sister of Aleeman, was not a morning person.

Her fifteen-year-old self sat cross-legged upon her bed, her expression one of deep betrayal. The holographic clock flickered above her desk, reminding her that she was on the brink of being late. Again.

With a final dramatic sigh, she straightened her uniform—a sleek fusion of traditional silk robes with a modern high-tech belt that adjusted temperature and fit.

Moments later, she rushed down the hall, her boots clacking against the polished stone floors, when she spotted her usual group of chaos incarnates—Mei-Xi-Li, Finn Ming Ju-Go, Wang Ji-Pang, Elizabeth Feng, and Mika Yamana.

"Late again, Hua-Jing?" Mei-Xi-Li teased, her cyber-enhanced hair subtly shifting hues in the daylight.

"Mind your own business, Mei!" Hua-Jing groaned, adjusting her sleeves.

"She probably stayed up writing love letters to some mysterious boy," Finn smirked.

Hua-Jing glared. "You, sir, have the IQ of a boiled dumpling."

Finn placed a hand on his heart. "Thank you. I take great pride in my dumpling-esque wisdom."

As the group laughed and chatted, the academy's gates buzzed with murmurs.

Newcomers were arriving today.

Meanwhile, outside the towering gates of Abjannas, a lone horse galloped into the city, its hooves striking the stone-paved streets with unwavering confidence.

Riding upon the majestic beast was Aleeman Hakiman, his cloak billowing behind him like the banner of an approaching storm. Behind him, Shi Zhao Mei clung to him, peering around the city with wide, mesmerised eyes.

"Welcome to Abjannas," Aleeman murmured over his shoulder.

Shi Zhao Mei barely registered his words. Her eyes darted between the towering domes, the bustling souks, the grand citadel glimmering in the distance.

"This place is…" she blinked, unable to find the words.

"Impressive?"

Shi Zhao Mei exhaled. "It's like someone took the past and forced it to have an arranged marriage with the future."

Aleeman chuckled. "That's the spirit of Abjannas."

As they approached the Miracheneous Academy, the watchful eyes of students fell upon them.

Hua-Jing, who had just reached the gates, froze mid-step. Her eyes widened as if she had just seen a mythical beast.

"Brother?!"

Aleeman, still atop his horse, glanced down and smirked. "Surprised?"

Hua-Jing's friends, who had never seen the great commander of Abjannas in person, stood frozen, blinking like malfunctioning androids.

"That's your brother?" Elizabeth Feng whispered.

"Aleeman Hakiman? The war hero?" Wang Ji-Pang gasped.

"He's taller than I imagined." Mika Yamana muttered.

But as stunned as they were by Aleeman, their eyes soon drifted to the woman sitting behind him.

Shi Zhao Mei.

She was an ethereal vision draped in Aleeman's heavy cloak, her dark hair cascading down like midnight silk. Her face, sculpted with an almost celestial beauty, held an air of quiet intensity.

Students began whispering, staring, admiring.

Shi Zhao Mei noticed.

And then, in the softest, most mortified whisper, she muttered:

"Why are they staring at us?"

Aleeman, entirely unbothered, adjusted his gloves. "Ignore them."

"Impossible."

Mei-Xi-Li smirked. "So, Aleeman," she teased, "you finally found yourself a girl?"

Aleeman visibly stiffened.

"It's not like that."

Shi Zhao Mei, seeing an opportunity for mischief, elegantly nodded along. "Yes, yes. Not like that. We are simply… companions. Travellers. Completely unrelated to romance."

Mei-Xi-Li's smirk widened. "Right. Of course. Completely unrelated. Absolutely no romantic tension. At all."

Aleeman grumbled something under his breath and dismounted.

But just as he helped Shi Zhao Mei down, an unwelcome voice pierced the atmosphere.

"Well, well. If it isn't the mighty Commander of Abjannas lowering himself to study amongst mere scholars."

John Wei-Tang strode forward, flanked by his lackeys, Robert Jison and George Ringtone.

Aleeman exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples.

"Not this idiot."

Shi Zhao Mei turned to him, frowning. "You know him?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

John Wei-Tang sneered. "Tell me, Commander, have you finally realised that brawn alone cannot rule a state?"

Aleeman, utterly unbothered, turned to him with a small, polite smile—the type that hides daggers behind honeyed words.

"Tell me, John, have you finally realised that intelligence alone cannot win a war?"

John's smirk twitched.

"Go away, John." Aleeman said, his voice tired.

With a snarl of frustration, John turned on his heel and stalked away, his lackeys scrambling after him.

Shi Zhao Mei, who had been standing still, cleared her throat awkwardly.

"So… you're a commander."

Aleeman glanced at her. "That bothers you?"

Shi Zhao Mei fidgeted with the cloak, suddenly realising it had slipped slightly, exposing a hint of her stomach.

Aleeman's gaze flickered. He coughed, looking away.

Shi Zhao Mei smirked.

"You're staring!."

Aleeman huffed. "You're delusional."

Hua-Jing and her friends erupted into laughter.

The first day at Miracheneous Academy was off to an interesting start.

I had always believed my brother to be a man carved from the very essence of stoicism, a warrior who viewed emotions as nothing more than distractions, a man so immune to folly that even the finest jest would bounce off his steel-forged mind like an arrow deflecting off a fortress wall.

And yet—here he was.

Standing stiffly, his face barely concealing the internal crisis that was Shi Zhao Mei.

I almost wanted to etch this moment into a stone tablet, preserve it for the ages, so future generations could marvel at the day Aleeman Hakiman forgot how to function.

Shi Zhao Mei, draped in my brother's heavy cloak like some sort of mysterious fugitive princess, stood there smirking like a cat that had just found a canary and had no intention of sharing.

And my brother? Oh, dear, dignified, disciplined Aleeman?

He was suffering.

His jaw tightened, his eyes refused to meet hers, and I swear I saw a muscle twitch in his temple—which, for Aleeman, was the equivalent of a full-blown emotional breakdown.

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh again.

Shi Zhao Mei tilted her head, her mischievous smirk widening like an artist admiring their latest masterpiece.

"You're staring," she repeated, her voice dripping with amusement.

Aleeman, the paragon of discipline, the man who had once trained soldiers under the scorching desert sun without flinching, scoffed. Scoffed.

"You're delusional," he muttered, turning away so fast it was a miracle his neck didn't snap.

Now, had he simply ended it there, perhaps some dignity could have been salvaged.

But fate? Fate is cruel.

Shi Zhao Mei adjusted the cloak just slightly—and the movement caused a sliver of her toned midriff to peek through.

I had never seen my brother move so fast.

His entire head snapped to the side, his back going rigid, his hands curling into fists like a man desperately resisting the urge to fling himself into the nearest river.

It was beautiful.

And I? I, Hua-Jing Hakiman, younger sister of Aleeman, child of Abjannas, scholar of Miracheneous Academy, lover of mischief and observer of chaos—had just found my favourite new pastime.

I crossed my arms, shifting my weight onto one foot, smirking at Aleeman's suffering.

"So," I drawled, tilting my head, "brother, you never mentioned you were travelling with such… interesting company."

Aleeman, still staring determinedly at the sky like the answers to all his problems were written in the clouds, exhaled through his nose.

"She's a traveller," he said flatly.

"A friend," Shi Zhao Mei added, her smirk positively devilish.

Aleeman's left eye twitched.

"A temporary friend," he corrected, voice strained.

I narrowed my eyes. "Hmm. So not a fiancée, then?"

Aleeman nearly choked on his own existence.

Shi Zhao Mei, proving herself to be an absolute menace, gasped in mock surprise, pressing a delicate hand to her chest.

"Oh, my dear Aleeman," she cooed. "You never told them? I'm hurt."

Aleeman turned to her so fast his cloak nearly flew off his shoulders.

"What."

I had never seen my brother this distressed. I had never seen my brother anything but calm and composed.

But right now?

Right now, Aleeman Hakiman looked like a man contemplating the meaning of life and wondering where exactly he went wrong.

Our little performance, of course, had drawn the attention of the surrounding students.

Mei-Xi-Li, Finn, Wang Ji-Pang, and the rest of our little gang were watching with expressions ranging from delight to second-hand embarrassment.

Finn, ever the instigator, leaned in.

"So… wedding invitations?"

Aleeman turned his gaze to the sky, his soul visibly leaving his body.

Shi Zhao Mei giggled. Yes. Giggled.

I had never heard someone so delighted at someone else's suffering.

At this point, Aleeman's ears were practically radiating heat.

I decided to be merciful.

(Only a little.)

"Alright, alright, enough teasing," I said, grinning like the wicked little sister I was.

Aleeman glanced at me, expression wary, as if I were about to throw him off a cliff.

I rolled my eyes. "We should get you two settled in. If you're staying here, you'll need rooms, supplies, and maybe a little help learning how not to collapse under the sheer weight of embarrassment."

Shi Zhao Mei beamed. "Oh, I like her."

Aleeman groaned, running a hand down his face. "Why am I here?"

I patted his arm. "To suffer."

Aleeman sighed the sigh of a man who deeply regretted all his life choices.

I smiled.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

The Miracheneous Academy stood like a sentinel of wisdom, its colossal silver and marble towers spiralling towards the heavens, adorned with intricate geometric patterns that shimmered under the midday sun. The air was thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and something distinctly metallic—perhaps a fusion of alchemy and machinery at work.

The gates hissed open, folding away like interlocking puzzle pieces, revealing the vast courtyards teeming with scholars, warriors, and philosophers alike. Some were engrossed in discussions about arcane theory, others sparred with energy-forged weapons, while a group of alchemists stood around a steaming cauldron, which, by the look of horror on their faces, was either about to explode or sprout tentacles.

I had expected a boring, ancient institution filled with robed men who smelled like expired scrolls.

Instead, I had just stepped into a fusion of a temple, a battlefield, and a mad scientist's workshop.

To my left, a group of students levitated enormous tomes using what I assumed to be magic or sheer willpower—until one book violently rebelled, broke free, and smacked an unsuspecting scholar in the face.

To my right, a professor, who had the posture of someone permanently disappointed in life, was attempting to explain an equation to a group of students—who, judging by their expressions of existential crisis, had already mentally ascended to another plane of suffering.

And straight ahead?

A duel.

A real, actual duel.

Two students hovered mid-air, their blades sparking with crackling energy, the very ground beneath them splitting apart as they clashed like titans locked in celestial combat.

My mouth slightly parted.

"This place is…" I trailed off, struggling to find a word that properly encapsulated the utter insanity before me.

Aleeman, ever unbothered, simply glanced at me. "Different from Ji-Gong, I assume?"

"Different?" I blinked. "This is like throwing a monk into a gambling den and telling him to pray for patience."

Finn chuckled, slapping Aleeman's back. "You sure know how to pick your guests, Commander."

Aleeman muttered something undoubtedly sarcastic under his breath.

And I had fought in wars.

Finn and the others walked beside me, their faces alight with amusement as they observed Shi Zhao Mei's reactions.

Meanwhile, Shi Zhao Mei?

She was absorbing everything like a cat thrown into a room full of mirrors—curious, slightly horrified, and incredibly entertained.

"This is a madhouse," she muttered, watching as a student in the distance flung a fireball at another—only for it to ricochet off a shield and set a tree ablaze.

"Welcome to Miracheneous," I sighed.

And just as I thought things couldn't possibly get worse—we met her.

Standing before the entrance of the main hall, arms crossed, an expression carved from the very essence of disapproval, was Professor Galadriel.

She was an enigma draped in authority, her emerald robe shimmering with embedded runes, its flowing fabric defying the wind as if the very elements bowed to her presence.

Her raven-black hair was coiled into a flawless bun, each strand seemingly frozen in place through sheer willpower. Her piercing violet eyes scanned the group like a hawk searching for weakness, and her lips were pursed in that particular way that suggested she had seen things.

Things she would rather forget.

Ah.

Aleeman Hakiman.

The commander of Abjannas, war-hardened, disciplined, a soldier of honour—and now, apparently, a student.

How utterly exhausting.

And beside him?

A woman clad in a heavy cloak, her posture exuding both nobility and mischief, her dark, calculating eyes absorbing everything like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

Galadriel's lips twitched. A momentary flicker of intrigue.

But only a moment.

"Aleeman Hakiman." Professor Galadriel's voice carried the weight of impending doom.

Aleeman bowed his head slightly—the closest thing he would ever offer to humility. "Professor Galadriel."

The professor exhaled slowly, as if debating whether she had the patience to continue this conversation.

Then her gaze swept over the cloaked figure beside him.

"And you are?" she asked, her tone carrying equal parts curiosity and suspicion.

Shi Zhao Mei tilted her head slightly, a slow smirk tugging at her lips.

"A traveller," she said smoothly. "Just passing through."

Galadriel's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Lies," she thought.

But for now, she let it be.

"Headmaster Falani wishes to see you, Hakiman," Galadriel finally said.

Aleeman barely reacted, merely nodding. "Understood."

Finn, ever the agent of chaos, leaned in. "Ooooh, the Headmaster wants to see you? You've barely arrived, and you're already in trouble?"

Aleeman exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.

Galadriel ignored the antics of the group and turned sharply on her heel.

"Come," she commanded. "And do try not to cause any structural damage on your way there."

And with that, she strode ahead, her robes billowing behind her like a storm.

Shi Zhao Mei leaned towards Aleeman.

"She likes you."

Aleeman shot her a look so dry it could have absorbed an ocean.

"Let's go."

And thus, with absolutely no idea of the impending catastrophe that awaited them, they followed Professor Galadriel towards the Headmaster's chambers—towards their fate, towards uncertainty, towards an adventure that had only just begun.

The sun hung high, a relentless eye in the heavens, casting its golden gaze upon the tranquil valley of Abhammuddin Obasi. Beneath its watchful presence, the tribe thrived—a living, breathing testament to the endurance of warriors and the wisdom of elders.

Women carried baskets woven with date leaves, their hands dusted with the scent of saffron and dried figs. Children, barefoot and blissful, raced between the tents, their laughter a melody carried by the desert winds. The blacksmith's hammer rang like a heartbeat against the anvil, and traders bartered under the shade of their stalls, exchanging silk for spices, steel for stories.

It was a day like any other. Until the first arrow fell.

A whistle tore through the air, sharp and cruel—a viper's hiss before the bite.

And then—impact.

The guard atop the wooden watchtower stiffened, his breath stolen mid-gasp, his hands reflexively clutching at the shaft of an arrow now buried deep within his throat. His knees buckled. His vision blurred. And with a lifeless stagger, he collapsed from the tower, hitting the ground below with a sickening thud.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

And then—chaos erupted.

The Weng army descended like a black tide, their crimson banners streaking through the sky like slashes of fresh blood. Dust swirled in their wake, their warhorses thundering across the valley, their blades gleaming like the fangs of an unholy beast.

Emperor Weng Jin Shun rode at the helm, his golden dragon-shaped mask concealing all but the merciless fire in his eyes. His red-and-black robes billowed behind him, an omen of destruction, his sword drawn—a blade that had silenced nations and carved empires.

"LEAVE NO SURVIVORS!"

His command struck the air like a divine decree, and the slaughter began.

The first wave of arrows rained down upon the village, piercing through skin and bone, shattering pots, igniting roofs, toppling market stalls. Women screamed. Children wailed. Fathers roared in defiance.

A Weng soldier tore a man from his home, his scimitar flashing like lightning cleaving the heavens before it tore through flesh, leaving a fatherless household in its wake.

Another grabbed a woman by her hair, dragging her through the dirt as she flailed and kicked, her cries swallowed by the chaos.

The smell of burning wood, bloodied sand, and charred flesh polluted the air.

But Abhammuddin Obasi was not a tribe that fell easily.

From the heart of the village, a battle cry rose like a phoenix from the ashes.

Samiyoshi Hakiman, heir of Abhammuddin, emerged first—sword in one hand, shield in the other, his golden turban shimmering with the insignia of his people. His face, usually adorned with a smirk, was now set in grim determination.

"TO ARMS!" he bellowed. "DEFEND YOUR HOMES! SEND THESE COWARDS BACK TO THEIR MOTHERS AS ASHES!"

From the tented alleys and fortified walls, warriors poured forth, armed with spears, yataghans, and bows.

The first clash was deafening.

Swords met scimitars, shields splintered against maces, arrows whistled, and bodies fell.

Samiyoshi dodged a downward strike, twisting his body with the ease of a seasoned warrior before driving his blade through his attacker's ribs. With a grunt, he yanked it free, kicking the body aside like discarded trash.

Amidst the carnage, Orhan Bey emerged, his armour gilded with the pride of generations, his expression one of iron-wrought fury.

He cut through enemy ranks like a falcon through a storm, his warhorse rearing as he raised his sword high.

"WENG JIN SHUN!" his voice rang through the chaos. "FACE ME!"

The Emperor grinned beneath his mask.

"So be it, Orhan Bey."

And the two titans clashed.

Swords sang against one another, sparks danced like dying stars, and the very ground quaked beneath the weight of their battle.

But even warriors fall to treachery.

As Orhan Bey swung his sword in a devastating arc, a Ji-Gong archer loosed an arrow—a dishonourable strike aimed at his exposed side.

The arrow buried deep.

Orhan staggered.

The moment of hesitation cost him.

With one swift motion, Weng Jin Shun disarmed him, knocking him onto his knees.

The Ji-Gong soldiers seized the moment, overwhelming the remaining warriors. One by one, they fell, captured, bound in chains.

The massacre turned to conquest.

Weng Jin Shun, standing amidst the ruins of Abhammuddin, surveyed the prisoners.

"Where is my son?" he demanded.

Orhan Bey, breathing heavily, glared at him through the pain.

"He was never here."

Weng Jin Shun narrowed his eyes. He pulled something from his robes—the arrow that had been found in his fallen men.

The crescent moon and star of Abhammuddin Obasi gleamed upon its shaft.

"Explain this, then," the Emperor snarled.

Orhan Bey gritted his teeth. "That is not our doing."

But Weng Jin Shun was not a man who listened.

He raised a hand.

"Burn it. Burn it all."

The soldiers obeyed.

And the screams of Abhammuddin Obasi carried into the wind.

Far from the burning village, amidst the snow-capped mountains of the Shi-Wudu Clan, the grand palace stood untouched by the flames of war.

But peace never lasts.

Within the great hall, Emperor Shi Jon Ying sat upon his throne, his brooding gaze fixed upon the messenger who had just entered—his face as pale as death itself.

The hall fell silent.

The words came.

And Shi Jon Ying's grip tightened around the armrest of his throne.

"They did what?"

The messenger swallowed. "The Ji-Gong Clan has committed a massacre upon Abhammuddin Obasi. Innocents slain. Houses burned. The tribe taken hostage."

The silence before the storm.

Then, the storm came.

Shi Jon Ying stood abruptly, his deep-blue robes rippling like crashing waves.

"Prepare the army."

From beside him, his wife, Empress Han Meilin (韩美琳), rose gracefully, yet her expression held no softness—only the cold fury of a woman who had seen war before.

"Husband," she warned. "Think before you act. Ji-Gong is powerful."

Shi Jon Ying turned to her, his ocean-dark eyes ablaze.

"And so am I."

The horns of war sounded in the mountains.

And the Shi-Wudu Clan rode for justice.