Shi Zhao Mei: The Curse of the Fallen Dragon

The sunrise draped Miracheneous Academy in a golden veil, its light spilling over the carved marble and towering spires like molten silk. Yet, despite the day's serenity, Shi Zhao Mei stood still as a statue, her fingers gripping the ornate balcony railing.

Below her, the city of Abjannas stirred with life—merchants calling from the bustling markets, airships gliding above the rooftops like great metallic birds, students weaving through the academy's labyrinthine corridors, whispering of the chaos she and Aleeman had left behind.

Yet, she heard none of it.

Her thoughts were trapped in a cage of memory, in a kingdom that no longer belonged to her, in a name that no longer existed.

She had played with fate.

She had given power to a man who had none.

And now, she had bound herself to him.

A dangerous game.

A game that, if discovered, would end them both.

Her moment of reflection was, of course, short-lived.

Because peace was a luxury she was not afforded.

"You know, standing out here like a tragic painting won't change the past."

Shi Zhao Mei exhaled slowly, already recognising the voice before she turned.

Aleeman Hakiman.

The man who had single-handedly shattered her carefully crafted illusion of control.

The man who, at this very moment, was leaning against the balcony doorway with his arms crossed, staring at her like an unanswered riddle.

She tilted her head slightly, adjusting her spectacles. "Good morning, Commander Hakiman. To what do I owe the honour of your insightful observations?"

Aleeman snorted, stepping closer, his dark eyes sharp. "You."

She arched a brow. "Me?"

"Yes. You. The woman who conveniently happened to be standing behind me when I 'miraculously' gained magic." He studied her carefully, voice calm but edged with suspicion. "You played a dangerous game yesterday, Shi Zhao Mei."

Her lips curved into a smirk. "And you played along."

Aleeman exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you ever answer questions directly?"

Shi Zhao Mei tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Not if I can help it."

He sighed.

Then, after a beat—"Why did you do it?"

Shi Zhao Mei stilled, her fingers tightening slightly around the railing.

Why, indeed.

For a moment, the truth teetered on the edge of her tongue.

That she had interfered because his death would have been inevitable otherwise.

That she had chosen to give him magic because the world would never accept a leader without power.

That, despite everything—despite their unspoken war, despite their unknown history—she had seen something in him worth saving.

But she would never say that.

So instead, she smiled. "Because it was entertaining."

Aleeman's jaw tightened. "You risked exposing yourself for entertainment?"

She tilted her head. "I do enjoy a good spectacle."

His patience visibly thinned. "You are impossible."

Shi Zhao Mei laughed softly, adjusting her glasses. "And yet, here you are, speaking to me before breakfast. I must be quite the enigma."

Aleeman ran a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience.

Then—he stepped closer, his voice lowering.

"Listen to me, Zhao Mei. Whatever game you think you're playing, you need to stop."

Her smile didn't falter, but something in her gaze sharpened. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Because people are already watching us." His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried weight. "They are already questioning how I suddenly gained power. And if they realise you had a hand in it—"

He didn't need to finish.

They both knew what would happen.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, Shi Zhao Mei sighed dramatically. "How tragic. It seems you are bound to me, Commander."

Aleeman gritted his teeth. "I am not bound to you."

She tilted her head. "Aren't you?"

Aleeman exhaled, stepping back. "Forget it." He turned on his heel. "You are going to be the death of me."

Shi Zhao Mei smirked, watching him walk away. "I do try my best."

By the time they reached the cafeteria, the effects of their destruction had still not faded.

Students still whispered, still stole glances, still eyed Aleeman like he had suddenly become some divine warrior sent by fate.

Shi Zhao Mei, however, walked through the room completely unbothered, as if she hadn't nearly caused the academy to file for structural repairs.

Aleeman, on the other hand, was significantly less amused.

Finn Ming Ju-Go was the first to spot them, his grin bright and utterly shameless.

"Ah, the two people responsible for why our school now has natural air-conditioning!"

Wang Ji-Pang, sipping his tea, nodded solemnly. "Truly, they have gifted us with an architectural revolution."

Aleeman sighed deeply.

Hua-Jing, who had clearly been waiting for them, raised an eyebrow. "Brother. Have you come to explain yourself?"

Aleeman sat down, rubbing his temples. "I will explain nothing."

Shi Zhao Mei took a seat beside him, smirking as she reached for a cup of tea. "And yet, you sit beside me. How fascinating."

Finn snickered. "Oh, this is fantastic. I've never seen someone get under Aleeman's skin so quickly."

Shi Zhao Mei adjusted her spectacles. "It is a talent."

Hua-Jing, watching their exchange, smirked. "So, are you two going to continue pretending this is not the most entertaining rivalry I've ever witnessed?"

Aleeman glared at her. "There is no rivalry."

Shi Zhao Mei smiled, sipping her tea. "No. He is simply losing."

Finn nearly choked on his food.

Aleeman exhaled, looking towards the heavens as if questioning his life choices. "I should have let them exile me."

Shi Zhao Mei patted his shoulder. "Too late, Commander. You're stuck with me."

Aleeman turned to her, voice flat. "And yet, I feel as if I am the one who should be exiling you."

She laughed softly, taking another sip of tea.

Hua-Jing leaned back, smirking. "I think I like her."

Finn grinned. "Oh, I love her."

Aleeman closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and muttered under his breath.

"This is my nightmare."

Despite the laughter and banter, Aleeman exhaled deeply, his gaze settling on Shi Zhao Mei, who was gracefully sipping her tea as though she hadn't completely upended his world.

For a long moment, he remained silent.

Then, with measured control, he spoke.

"Thank you."

Shi Zhao Mei paused mid-sip.

Slowly, she lowered her cup, tilting her head slightly. "For what, exactly?"

Aleeman's jaw tightened, as if the words tasted foreign on his tongue.

"For saving my life."

She blinked, her expression unreadable, before a small, amused smirk curved her lips. "Ah. So you do acknowledge my brilliance."

Aleeman rolled his eyes. "Don't push it."

Shi Zhao Mei chuckled, setting her teacup down with an elegant clink. "A wise man once said that a good deed should never go unrewarded. Perhaps I should start listing my demands."

Aleeman leaned back, exhaling. "I regret this already."

Unfortunately, before Shi Zhao Mei could further cement her victory, an unwanted presence made itself known.

A slow, mocking clap echoed through the cafeteria.

Aleeman didn't need to turn to know who it was.

"How touching."

John Wei-Tang, flanked by his usual group of self-important lackeys, stood just a few feet away, his arms crossed, a smug grin stretching across his face.

His closest friend, Celeste Marlowe, stood beside him, her arms also crossed but her expression one of quiet amusement.

John's eyes gleamed with malice as he took a step forward. "So, the great Commander Hakiman admits he has no magic and had to be saved by a girl. How tragic."

Aleeman remained silent.

John's grin widened. "You do realise what this means, don't you?"

Hua-Jing, now clearly irritated, arched a brow. "That he has better friends than you?"

John ignored her. "That means you cheated. You faked your power. And you know what happens to students without magic."

Finn Ming Ju-Go sighed dramatically, leaning on Wang Ji-Pang. "Ah, here we go. The great enforcer of academy rules."

John's lackeys chuckled. "The rule is clear. No magic, no place in this academy."

Aleeman still said nothing.

Because he had already spoken with Headmaster Falani.

Because he already knew what had to be done.

John grinned like a predator sensing weakness. "You're finished. Vice Principal Aiguo Wei-Tang—my father—can expel you anytime he wishes. I think I'll go talk to him now."

Aleeman finally tilted his head, meeting John's gaze.

Then, with calm finality, he said—

"Do it."

John blinked. "What?"

Aleeman's expression remained unreadable. "Go. Tell him. Tell your father everything. I'm sure he'll be pleased to know that I have already spoken to Headmaster Falani."

John's grin faltered. "You're bluffing."

Aleeman leaned forward slightly. "Am I?"

John's fingers twitched.

For a moment, it seemed like he would turn and walk away.

But then, perhaps out of sheer frustration, perhaps out of some festering grudge—he lunged.

John swung first, his fist cutting through the air with intent.

Aleeman sidestepped effortlessly, grabbing John's wrist and twisting it slightly, forcing him off-balance.

John snarled, wrenching free, before throwing another punch.

This time, Aleeman didn't dodge.

Instead, he caught John's arm mid-motion, his grip tightening like iron.

A flicker of realisation flashed across John's face, but before he could react—

Aleeman moved.

With precision, he pulled John forward, twisting his arm behind his back before sweeping his legs from beneath him.

John crashed onto the floor, gasping as pain exploded through his body.

The cafeteria erupted into chaos.

John's lackeys surged forward, but Finn and Wang Ji-Pang stepped in immediately, blocking their path.

Shi Zhao Mei, however, simply sipped her tea, watching with great interest.

John groaned, trying to rise, but Aleeman placed a firm boot on his back, pinning him down.

His voice, low and unwavering, cut through the murmurs of the crowd.

"You mistake my silence for weakness. That is your first mistake."

John gritted his teeth, humiliated. "Get off me, Hakiman!"

Aleeman tilted his head. "Your second mistake?" His grip on John's wrist tightened slightly. "Thinking you could threaten me."

Then—

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!"

The room fell silent.

A towering figure entered, dressed in regal robes of navy and gold, his presence suffocating.

Vice Principal Aiguo Wei-Tang.

His gaze swept the room, landing on his son pinned beneath Aleeman.

John, ever the opportunist, immediately cried out. "Father! He attacked me! He humiliated me in front of everyone!"

Aiguo's eyes narrowed, his expression darkening. "Is that so?"

He turned to Aleeman. "Explain yourself, Hakiman."

Aleeman, calmly removing his foot from John's back, straightened.

"Your son attempted to strike me first. I defended myself."

John snarled. "Lies! I was merely speaking the truth, and he—"

Aiguo raised a hand, silencing him. "It does not matter. Whether you attacked first or not, Hakiman, your place in this academy is fragile."

He stepped forward, his gaze cold. "I could have you expelled at this very moment."

Aleeman did not flinch.

"Then do it."

Aiguo stopped. "What?"

Aleeman's voice remained steady. "Expel me. Remove me from this academy, and see what happens."

Aiguo's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Are you threatening me?"

Aleeman took a single step forward.

"No. I am merely stating a fact."

Then, in one swift movement, Aleeman grabbed Aiguo's wrist and twisted it in a textbook Krav Maga manoeuvre, forcing the older man into a vulnerable position before releasing him just as quickly.

Gasps erupted throughout the cafeteria.

John's eyes widened in horror.

Aiguo took a step back, glaring at Aleeman, but there was something else in his eyes—something akin to caution.

Aleeman's expression remained unreadable.

"I am the Commander of Abjannas." His voice, though quiet, carried an undeniable weight. "Expel me, and you will answer to more than just this academy."

Aiguo stared at him, his jaw tightening.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out.

John scrambled after him, seething. "This isn't over, Hakiman!"

As the cafeteria slowly returned to normal, Finn grinned. "So… does this mean we get free food?"

Shi Zhao Mei, still sipping her tea, finally smiled.

"You truly are full of surprises, Aleeman."

The grand halls of Kumaruchaisan, once filled with the echoes of strategy and ambition, now lay cloaked in an unnatural silence.

The flickering torches lining the walls burned lower than usual, their flames dim, weakened, as though they, too, grieved the loss of their prince.

The vast marble corridors, usually alive with the sounds of plotting and command, felt hollow—haunted by the absence of a voice that would never speak again.

At the heart of the mourning palace, inside the dimly lit throne room, sat Tekfur Kekaumenos Jo-Ann.

The mighty warlord, the man whose laughter had once sent fear rippling through kingdoms, now sat as still as a corpse.

His throne, carved from obsidian and silver, loomed around him, but he did not sit like a ruler—he sat like a man who had lost something irreplaceable.

Before him, upon a stone dais draped in crimson, lay Yannis Jo-Ann, his second-born, his warrior-son—now reduced to nothing more than a still body wrapped in burial cloth.

Kekaumenos' fingers gripped the armrests of his throne so tightly that the leather creaked.

His eyes, dark as the abyss, stared at his son's lifeless form.

He had seen countless deaths.

He had slaughtered countless enemies.

But this?

This was something else.

This was his blood—his own flesh—torn from him by the hands of another.

By the hands of a boy—a mere wretched youth who had no place in the world of kings and warlords.

Aleeman Hakiman.

The name burned like acid upon his tongue.

The walls of the castle seemed to tighten around him, as if even the very stones wept in silent mourning.

And then, from the entrance of the hall, came the echo of approaching footsteps—firm, purposeful, unaware of the nightmare that awaited them.

Father!"

The voice, deep and brimming with youthful strength, rang through the hall like a battle drum.

From the great doors of the throne room, Lenotes Kekaumenos strode forth, his golden armour gleaming beneath the torchlight, his crimson cloak billowing behind him.

The eldest son, the heir of Kumaruchaisan, the blood of Tekfur Kekaumenos—had returned.

He had been away, securing alliances, preparing for their next conquest, unaware that the very foundations of his family had been shattered.

Lenotes paused at the sight of his father, his brows furrowing slightly.

Something felt wrong.

His father looked different.

This was not the man he had left behind—this was something broken, something grieving.

His sharp gaze swept the room, searching.

"Where is Yannis?" He asked, his tone still steady, still strong, still believing that his younger brother would appear any moment. "Where is he?"

Kekaumenos exhaled slowly, his voice deep, yet hollow.

"Yannis is dead."

Lenotes froze.

The words did not register at first.

He laughed, scoffing slightly. "Hah. Very amusing, Father. But enough of this. Where is he?"

Kekaumenos remained silent.

Lenotes' smirk faltered.

Then—his gaze fell upon the crimson-draped dais.

And suddenly, the world stopped.

No.

His body moved before his mind could catch up, his boots echoing against the cold stone as he crossed the space between him and the still form of his brother.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the burial cloth, slowly pulling it back—

And then, he saw.

The face beneath was pale, drained of the fire that once burned in his brother's eyes.

The blood that had once roared through his veins had long since stilled, the warmth that had once radiated from his skin was now replaced by the cold grip of death.

Yannis.

His brother.

Gone.

The sound that left Lenotes' throat was not a wail.

It was something deeper. Something raw. Something primal.

A choked breath, followed by a silence so heavy it felt like the walls would collapse beneath it.

Then—his body tensed.

His fingers curled into fists so tight they bled.

Slowly, with the grace of a man who had just been struck by the very gods themselves, he turned his gaze toward his father.

His voice, though low, carried the weight of an approaching storm.

"Who?"

Kekaumenos' dark eyes flickered.

"Aleeman Hakiman."

The name rang through the hall like a death knell.

Lenotes exhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring, his chest rising and falling with the fury that now coiled inside him like a viper.

The name etched itself into his soul, burning hotter than the fires of any forge.

His younger brother—his pride, his own blood—killed by some nameless commander of Abjannas?

Unforgivable.

Unthinkable.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice like a blade against stone, "Tell me exactly how it happened."

Kekaumenos stood slowly, his own fury simmering beneath his grief.

His voice, though controlled, dripped with venom.

"It happened in the Battle of Pansilar. Your brother, fierce and fearless, rode against him in single combat. But this Aleeman, this wretched youth, fought like no mere commander. He lured your brother into arrogance, disarmed him with deceit, and then—"

His fingers curled into fists.

"He drove his own blade through Yannis' chest."

Lenotes' breath hitched.

The image formed in his mind—his brother, proud and unyielding, falling beneath the sword of some unworthy scoundrel.

His hands shook, not with sorrow, but with rage.

He had not been there to save Yannis.

But he would be there to avenge him.

"Aleeman Hakiman." The name was spoken like a curse. "He will not see another sunrise."

Kekaumenos stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his son's shoulder.

"No, my son."

Lenotes glared. "You would stop me?"

A slow, dark smile crept onto Kekaumenos' lips.

"Not stop you. Prepare you."

Lenotes stilled.

Kekaumenos' voice lowered, sharp as a dagger.

"You will not fight him as a warrior. You will fight him as an executioner. We will burn Abjannas to the ground. We will cut off his allies. And when he stands alone—"

His grip tightened.

"You will kill him where he stands."

The flames of Kumaruchaisan burned low in their torches.

But in the hearts of Tekfur Kekaumenos and his son Lenotes, the fire of vengeance had only just begun.

In the beating heart of Abjannas, amidst the grandeur of steampunk imperialism and the whirring hum of futuristic warfare, stood the Janissaries' Guild—a citadel of strength, an impenetrable fortress where the past and the future coalesced into a singular force of unrivaled military prowess.

The air inside the Grand Hall was alive with the rhythmic clang of steel meeting steel, the hum of energy weapons charging, and the deep, resonant chants of warriors reciting the sacred war doctrines of their forebears.

Suspended above them, the Celestial Beacon pulsed, its glowing ether-core a heartbeat of war, sending waves of energy through the mechanized infrastructure, lighting up the halls with a spectral glow.

From the dueling arenas below, sparks flew as two warriors clashed atop shifting platforms, their movements calculated, their strikes precise.

In the holographic chambers, entire warfronts unfolded—massive ethereal projections of armies clashing, simulations of possible futures being played and altered with each decision.

And beneath it all, in the depths of the subterranean training grounds, warriors trained in simulated conditions that defied nature itself—gravity fluctuated, time stuttered, and the elements bent to artificial manipulation, forcing the Janissaries to master combat even in the most impossible conditions.

It was here, in this unparalleled machine of war, that the most formidable warriors of Abjannas honed their craft.

And at its helm, overseeing the gears of training and command, stood four men.

The pillars of the Janissaries.

Tariq al-Khattab, A giant of a man, his frame sculpted from battle itself. His black and gold armour, lined with pulsating arcane circuitry, bore marks of past wars, each scar a reminder of his victories. His emerald eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the training grounds below like a hawk seeking weakness.

Mehmet Arslan, Where others wielded swords, he wielded knowledge. A tactician, a philosopher, a man whose mind was a battlefield of strategy. Clad in robes interwoven with cybernetic plating, his left gauntlet housed a neural uplink, allowing him direct access to centuries of Janissary war records.

Zayd ibn Malik, Lean and dangerously fast, Zayd moved with the fluidity of a spectre. He had once disappeared into the ranks of enemy forces for months, only to return with the heads of their generals and no explanation. His twin blades rested at his side, humming with ethereal energy.

Rüstem Bey, The shield of the Janissaries. Where Zayd was silent and swift, Rüstem was loud and immovable. His towering frame bore the weight of a colossal steel tower-shield, runed and unbreakable, a fortress in human form.

The four men stood within the War Room, the holographic display before them shifting as they reviewed recent battle formations, discussing tactics, preparing for any inevitable conflict.

And then—

The doors to the War Room slid open, hissing with hydraulic precision.

A soldier entered, his steps swift, urgent, the air around him thick with tension.

In his hands—a sealed scroll, marked with the sigil of Kumaruchaisan.

Tariq's gaze sharpened. "Speak."

The soldier bowed, extending the scroll. "A message, brought by one of our informants near Kumaruchaisan. It carries grave news."

Mehmet narrowed his eyes, stepping forward and taking the scroll.

He broke the wax seal, the delicate imprint of Kumaruchaisan's insignia fracturing under his fingers.

The men leaned in as Mehmet unfurled the parchment.

His sharp brown eyes scanned the contents, and for a long moment, he was silent.

Then, without a word, he passed the message to Tariq.

Zayd and Rüstem watched as Tariq read, his jaw tightening, his hand gripping the scroll with enough force to nearly tear it.

Finally, he exhaled sharply, his voice low, dark, seething.

"Lenotes has returned."

The room fell into a deep, suffocating silence.

Zayd's fingers tightened around his blades. "That means Kumaruchaisan will not rest."

Mehmet nodded gravely. "A grieving father is dangerous, but an elder son, one seeking vengeance?" He exhaled. "Lenotes will not let Yannis' death go unanswered."

Rüstem gritted his teeth. "So, he is coming for Aleeman."

Tariq's fists clenched.

"Not just for Aleeman. For all of Abjannas."

Mehmet closed the scroll, his face unreadable.

Then, after a long moment, he spoke.

"Send word to Miracheneous Academy."

Rüstem nodded once. "To Commander Aleeman?"

Mehmet glanced down at the message once more.

Then, his gaze lifted, sharp as a dagger.

"Yes."

Tariq's voice was grim, resolute.

"If war is coming, then Aleeman must be ready."

The soldier nodded, saluted, and turned swiftly, vanishing down the corridor.

As the doors sealed shut once more, the four men stood in silence, the weight of the future pressing against them.

Above them, the Celestial Beacon pulsed, as if sensing the storm to come.

For the Janissaries of Abjannas, there was only one certainty.

The time for peace was over.

And war—war was inevitable.

The warm morning light filtered through the grand stained-glass windows of Miracheneous Academy, casting hues of gold and sapphire across the vast lecture hall. The towering shelves of ancient tomes, the floating holographic texts, and the arcane-infused blackboards created a surreal blend of old-world academia and futuristic sophistication.

At the very centre of this hallowed chamber of learning, a peculiar figure stood upon the elevated podium, adjusting his spectacles and clearing his throat with the exaggerated importance of a man who believed his words shaped empires.

Professor Albus Pot.

A scholar of dubious brilliance and boundless enthusiasm, dressed in robes too grand for his frame, with a beard that constantly seemed to tangle in his notes.

And today, his voice boomed across the hall with an almost theatrical flair.

"Today's subject, my dear students, is the 'Chronicles of the Great Halmosian Schism – The Fractured Empires and the Dawn of Arcane Warfare.'"

At his words, several students visibly wilted in their seats, their souls seemingly leaving their bodies.

At the back, Finn Ming Ju-Go groaned dramatically, his head hitting the desk. "History is sooo boring."

Wang Ji-Pang, twirling a quill between his fingers, chuckled. "You say that, yet you never fail to score the lowest in every history exam."

Finn huffed. "I don't see how knowing about a bunch of dead emperors is going to help me survive a battlefield."

Shi Zhao Mei, sitting at the opposite end of Aleeman, adjusted her spectacles, giving Finn a sidelong glance. "It's called learning from the past. You might find it useful if you ever plan to stop running from your responsibilities."

Finn gasped in mock betrayal. "I am deeply wounded by your words, Lady Zhao Mei. But alas, I shall endure."

Aleeman, meanwhile, remained composed, resting his chin on his hand, appearing neither interested nor disinterested—just existing.

Professor Pot paced dramatically across the stage, his arms gesturing wildly.

"Now, tell me, class! Who was the warlord responsible for the Treaty of Thalassios, the document that ended the Second Halmosian Conflict?"

A silence stretched across the hall.

Then—Professor Pot's eyes landed on Shi Zhao Mei.

"Lady Zhao Mei! Perhaps you could enlighten us?"

Shi Zhao Mei's entire body went rigid.

Her mind, usually sharp, usually ten steps ahead of everyone else, went completely blank.

She had no idea.

The seconds ticked painfully.

She hesitated, opening her mouth—but nothing came out.

Professor Pot nodded expectantly, tapping his cane against the floor. "Come now, my dear! A lady of such refined intellect must surely—"

"It was Grand Warlord Atticus Delacroix, following his victory at the Siege of Orphanius."

Shi Zhao Mei blinked.

The answer had come from beside her.

Aleeman Hakiman, without even looking up from his notes, had answered.

Professor Pot beamed. "Correct! Five points to House Hakiman!"

A slow grin spread across Aleeman's face as he turned his head slightly towards Shi Zhao Mei.

"You're welcome."

Shi Zhao Mei narrowed her eyes, whispering under her breath.

"I will set your boots on fire one day."

Aleeman chuckled. "And I will be waiting with water."

Finn, watching their exchange, smirked and elbowed Wang Ji-Pang. "Oh, this is fun. I think they might murder each other."

Wang Ji-Pang sighed. "Or get married. Either way, it's entertaining."

Before Shi Zhao Mei could deliver a scathing retort, the doors of the lecture hall swung open with a mechanical hiss.

A young woman stepped in, her presence immediately commanding attention.

Alenka, an assistant of headmaster her boots clicking sharply against the polished floor.

She scanned the room before her eyes landed on Aleeman.

"Commander Hakiman, you are needed immediately. Tariq and the others are waiting."

The entire class turned to stare.

Aleeman exhaled, shutting his book with an air of resignation.

"Of course they are."

He stood, gathering his things as he strode out of the room, the whispers of the students trailing behind him.

Shi Zhao Mei watched him leave, her brow furrowed slightly.

Something was wrong.

And she intended to find out what.

The war room of the Janissaries' Guild hummed with a low mechanical resonance, its vast holographic map displaying real-time war updates.

Standing at the centre of the chamber were Tariq al-Khattab, Mehmet Arslan, Zayd ibn Malik, and Rüstem Bey—waiting.

As Aleeman entered, Tariq immediately stepped forward, holding out a sealed letter.

Aleeman took it, broke the wax seal, and began reading.

His expression remained unreadable—until it didn't.

His grip on the parchment tightened, his jaw clenching ever so slightly.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before speaking.

"Lenotes has returned."

A ripple of tension spread through the room.

Rüstem huffed. "As expected. A brother's vengeance is always inevitable."

Mehmet folded his arms. "He won't wait. He will strike first."

Aleeman's gaze darkened. "And it seems he already has. He's ordered an attack at the North-East Valley of Sefirah."

Tariq nodded grimly. "We need to move. If we don't intercept them, they'll massacre our people."

Aleeman looked up, his eyes cold, his voice steady.

"Then we stop them. We end this before it begins."

The great courtyard of Kumaruchaisan was filled with the thunder of marching boots, rows upon rows of knights standing in perfect formation.

At the front, standing upon the raised platform, was Lenotes Kekaumenos, his silver-plated armour gleaming beneath the morning sun.

His voice boomed across the courtyard, laced with unyielding fury.

"Our enemy walks in arrogance, believing they are untouchable. They are wrong. We shall strike first. We shall remind them who we are."

His gaze turned to his right, where a towering figure clad in obsidian-black armour stood.

Alphagut, his most trusted general.

Lenotes' eyes burned with cold resolve.

"Take the army to the North-East Valley of Sefirah. Destroy everything in your path. If you find them—"

A slow, dark smirk formed.

"Show them no mercy."

Alphagut nodded once. "As you command, my prince."

The banners of Kumaruchaisan were raised, the sound of war horns filling the air.

And beneath the towering fortress, the storm of vengeance began its march.

The sun ascended slowly, casting its first golden fingers over the vast, sprawling valley of Sefirah.

The terrain was a paradox—where nature flourished yet death lurked.

Dry leaves rustled against the morning breeze, swirling across the earth like forgotten whispers. Petals of wildflowers bloomed defiantly, their vibrant hues a stark contrast to the march of war approaching.

The earth, damp with the breath of the dawn, carried the weight of an inevitable battle.

And at the farthest ridge, where twisted bushes and towering pines stood like silent witnesses to the coming carnage, Aleeman Hakiman crouched among his comrades, his sword resting against his knee, his gaze sharp as the edge of a freshly honed blade.

His men were still. Waiting. Watching.

The Janissaries had hunted before, but today—they were the prey lying in wait.

A low whisper broke the silence.

"Are they close?" Zayd ibn Malik, ever the shadow among them, murmured near Aleeman's ear.

Aleeman kept his gaze ahead. "Not yet. But they will be."

Tariq al-Khattab emerged from the shadows, his steps noiseless, his presence commanding.

"They're here."

Aleeman nodded once. "Then we make them regret it."

The warriors gripped their weapons tighter, the anticipation settling into their bones like an old, familiar tune.

The hunt had begun.

From the distance, the rhythmic clang of steel boots against stone echoed through the valley.

Alphagut, draped in obsidian plate armour, his crimson cape billowing behind him, led the march.

Rows upon rows of knights followed, their movements precise, their metal shields reflecting the golden morning light.

He strode forward, his eyes scanning the landscape, sensing the weight of unseen eyes.

Something was wrong.

Then—

THWACK.

An arrow pierced through the helmet of a knight, embedding itself in his skull.

The man collapsed instantly, his body limp, the metallic echo of his fall ringing through the army.

Alphagut's eyes widened for only a breath before his instincts took over.

"COVER YOURSELVES!"

More arrows descended like a sudden monsoon, slicing through the air with lethal precision.

The knights raised their heavy metal shields, forming an iron fortress, but not before more men fell, their cries swallowed by the chaos.

From the distant brush, Aleeman lowered his bow, his expression unreadable.

Then, he unsheathed his sword.

"Move!"

The Janissaries surged from their hiding places, boots hitting the earth, blades unsheathing in a silver flash, their battle cry slicing through the valley.

Alphagut's lips curled into a smirk.

"So, they do not run like cowards after all."

He raised his sword. "CHARGE!"

The knights of Kumaruchaisan thundered forward, shields raised, blades hungry for blood.

And then—steel met steel.

The sound of swords clashing rang like a symphony of destruction, war cries melting into the screams of the dying.

Aleeman sidestepped a knight's reckless swing, pivoting on his heel before plunging his blade into the exposed gap of the enemy's chest plate.

Rüstem Bey barrelled through a cluster of knights, his massive shield smashing bodies aside like a battering ram.

Zayd ibn Malik weaved through the chaos, slicing through exposed throats, his twin blades a dance of death.

Tariq parried, twisted, and drove his dagger into a knight's ribs before turning to block another attack.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Aleeman saw it.

Alphagut—retreating.

A smirk on his lips.

He was leading them into something.

"Bastard's running!" Rüstem Bey growled, moving to chase him.

But three knights blocked his path.

A spear lunged toward him, but Rüstem caught it mid-air, snapping it in half with his sheer strength before bashing the knight's head with his shield.

Aleeman, seeing Alphagut escaping, gritted his teeth, moving to pursue—

Then—

A shadow.

A knight, unseen, raising his sword to strike at Aleeman from behind.

Aleeman turned, but he was too late.

Then—

FLAMES.

The knight erupted into fire, screaming as he collapsed, his body engulfed in crimson fury.

Aleeman's eyes widened.

And from the distance, standing atop a rock, her bow still raised, her fingers still smouldering with lingering embers, stood a woman clad in black and red, gold embroidery reflecting the fire's glow.

Shi Zhao Mei.

Her silken, raven-black hair whipped in the wind, her scarlet and gold outfit a dangerous fusion of elegance and menace.

The halter-style top, exposing a sliver of toned midriff, held by delicate golden fastenings, shimmered under the morning sun.

The asymmetrical black and red skirt, trimmed with intricate golden designs, accentuated the graceful lethality of her every movement.

And her crimson eyes, gleaming like burning rubies, locked onto Aleeman.

She smiled.

"You're welcome."

Aleeman's brain stalled for exactly three seconds.

Then, the battle called them back.

She drew her dao, her movements fluid, and descended into the fray.

Knights charged.

She met them.

The air howled as she moved, her sword gliding through armour like silk.

Aleeman, blinking once, snapped back into the moment and charged forward.

And together, for the first time—they fought.

Their movements were unspoken, synchronised, blades dancing between metal and fire, war unfolding around them as if the universe had orchestrated their battle to be written in legend.

Aleeman parried a strike, twisting his blade to disarm his opponent, before ducking as Shi Zhao Mei flipped over him, slashing through two knights mid-air.

She landed beside him, a knowing smirk on her lips.

Aleeman exhaled, shaking his head. "I do not have time for this."

She twirled her dao, feigning innocence. "Oh? And yet, here you are, fighting beside me."

Aleeman gritted his teeth. "Fight now. Talk later."

"As you command, Commander."

And so, they fought.

Until the last knight fell.

Until the battle was over.

Until there was only silence.

Aleeman turned to her, exhaling sharply.

His gaze bore into her. "Why are you here? How did you know about this?"

Shi Zhao Mei casually inspected her nails. "Oh, I happened to overhear something rather interesting."

Aleeman's eyes narrowed. "You eavesdropped."

She smirked. "You make it sound so intrusive."

Aleeman, without hesitation, lifted a fist and lightly knocked it against her head.

She blinked, touching the spot, her expression scandalised. "What was that for?"

Aleeman crossed his arms. "For being reckless."

Shi Zhao Mei huffed. "I just saved your life, and this is the thanks I get?"

Rüstem chuckled. "Commander Bey, I think she likes you."

Aleeman closed his eyes, exhaling. "This is my nightmare."

Shi Zhao Mei grinned.

"Oh, Hakiman. It's only just begun."

The grand citadel of Faliton, once ruled by King Kosma Kuznetsov, now stood under the reign of his grieving yet unyielding widow, Queen Liskarm Jee.

The air inside the royal hall was heavy, not with sorrow, but with a vengeance so potent it clung to the walls like the ghost of her fallen kin.

Her throne, an imposing structure of polished obsidian and platinum, loomed high above the hall, sculpted into the shape of a two-headed eagle with ruby eyes, its wings stretching outward as if to envelop the entire court in its cold embrace.

Liskarm Jee sat upon it, her slender fingers drumming against the lion-shaped armrests, her back straight as a blade, her chin tilted slightly upward—a silent declaration that she had not been broken, merely reforged.

She was a vision of ruthless elegance, draped in a gown of deep burgundy, embroidered with silver filigree, her neckline plunging just enough to display the jade pendant that once belonged to Kosma.

Her silver-white hair cascaded in waves down her back, the colour of winter's first frost, yet her eyes—her cold, steel-grey eyes—burned hotter than any sun.

Then—

The heavy doors groaned open, and a soldier clad in navy and gold stepped forward, his expression grave.

"Your Majesty." He lowered his head in reverence. "A messenger has arrived."

Liskarm Jee's nails tapped once against the throne.

"Let him in."

Her voice was smooth—like silk laced with venom.

The soldier stepped aside, and in came a man garbed in travel-worn leathers, the dust of distant lands still clinging to his boots.

The messenger knelt immediately, pressing a fist to his chest.

"My Queen."

Liskarm Jee's gaze bore down on him, unblinking. "Speak."

The messenger swallowed thickly, straightening.

"I bring word from the frontlines. The Kumaruchaisan knights, led by Alphagut, were attacked at the North-East Valley of Sefirah."

The hall fell into silence.

Liskarm's fingers tightened slightly against the armrest.

"By whom?" Her voice remained steady, yet beneath it lurked the rumble of a coming storm.

The messenger exhaled. "By Aleeman Hakiman and his men."

A single, sharp crack split through the air.

Her nails had snapped against the throne's surface.

The very mention of his name was like the strike of a hammer against the anvil of her fury.

Aleeman Hakiman.

The boy who had slain her husband.

The boy who had spilled the royal blood of Faliton and left her throne draped in widow's black.

Her eyes darkened, her lips parting as though she would command immediate war—

But then, the messenger hesitated.

Liskarm Jee's gaze snapped back to him.

"What else?"

The messenger lowered his voice, as if the words themselves were blasphemous.

"He was not alone."

Liskarm Jee's eyebrows arched slightly.

"Elaborate."

The messenger exhaled through his nose, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"Among his warriors, there was another… A woman." He paused, as though hesitant to even describe her. "A young woman, clad in an Eastern imperial outfit—black and red, with golden embroidery. Raven-black hair, wielding a bow and a blade."

Liskarm Jee's grip on the throne loosened slightly.

Her mind raced, piecing together what she had just heard.

Eastern imperial outfit. Black and red. A warrior.

And then—

"She might be from the Dragon Clan, my Queen."

The words settled into the air like a curse.

For the first time since the messenger had begun speaking, Liskarm Jee moved.

Slowly, gracefully, she leaned forward, her elbow resting on the armrest, her fingers curling beneath her chin.

"A woman," she repeated, voice laced with intrigue.

The messenger nodded. "Yes, Majesty. She fought alongside him. And…"

He hesitated.

Liskarm's eyes gleamed with sharp amusement.

"And?"

The messenger licked his lips. "She was… formidable. A warrior of unnatural speed and precision. If she is indeed from the Dragon Clan, she is no ordinary fighter."

Liskarm Jee's lips curled, amusement giving way to something far darker.

She reclined into the throne, tapping a finger rhythmically against the lion's head carved into the armrest.

"A warrior from Ji-Gong, fighting alongside Aleeman?"

She tilted her head slightly, her silver hair cascading over her shoulder like liquid moonlight.

"Now, isn't that interesting?"

The messenger lowered his head once more. "Your orders, Majesty?"

Liskarm Jee's smirk vanished.

Her voice was cold as the winds of the northern steppes.

"Keep eyes on both of them."

The hall rippled with tension.

The soldiers flanking the room exchanged quick glances, their hands tightening on their hilts.

Liskarm Jee's expression was unreadable as she waved her hand.

"Leave me."

The messenger bowed and exited swiftly, disappearing behind the towering doors.

The hall was silent once more.

But inside her mind—war drums pounded.

Her steel-grey eyes flickered beneath the dim candlelight, burning with fury, with grief, with the unrelenting thirst for retribution.

Then, in the hushed solitude of her chamber, she murmured to herself—

"Aleeman Hakiman… I will tear up your chest and crush your heart."

Her fingernails dug into the throne's armrest.

Her lips parted in a whisper, a vow forged in the fires of her wrath.

"I swear it."

The grand tent of council stood at the heart of Abhammuddin Obasi, its mighty structure a testament to both tradition and power. The walls were adorned with woven banners of the crescent moon and star, the scent of burning oud lingering in the air, mingling with the murmurs of great men gathered beneath its roof.

Seated at the head of the long wooden table, Orhan Bey—leader of the Hakiman clan and guardian of their people—held the room's attention with nothing but his presence.

His broad shoulders carried the weight of empires, his sharp eyes mirrored the wisdom of a thousand battles. The aged lines on his face were not those of weariness, but of a warrior who had stared into the abyss and returned unshaken.

At his right sat Samiyoshi Hakiman, his eldest son, a man of sharp intellect and unwavering loyalty, the very image of his father in youth.

Across the table sat the other beys, leaders of the neighbouring clans—each a ruler of their own domain, yet all answering to Orhan's wisdom.

The discussion was one of war, survival, and the looming threats that cast shadows over their lands.

And then—

A voice interrupted the deliberation.

"Bey'im! A messenger requests entry!"

A guard, clad in chainmail and a red sash, bowed his head, awaiting permission.

Orhan Bey's gaze flickered with curiosity. "Let him in."

The tent parted, and in stepped a soldier, his brow damp with sweat, his posture rigid with urgency.

"My Bey," he said, placing a fist over his chest in salute, "urgent news from the North-East Valley of Sefirah."

A tense silence gripped the council.

The soldier took a deep breath. "The knights of Kumaruchaisan, under Alphagut's command, marched upon the valley."

Samiyoshi tensed.

The beys exchanged dark glances, expecting the worst.

Then, the soldier's lips curved into a subtle smirk. "But they were defeated."

Orhan Bey's brows lifted slightly, a rare flicker of gratitude crossing his face.

"Defeated?"

The soldier nodded firmly. "By Aleeman Hakiman and his men."

The room stirred.

Murmurs rose among the beys, whispers of admiration and disbelief swirling through the air like desert winds.

One of the beys, his beard silvered with age, chuckled heartily. "Your son, Orhan Bey, is carving his name into the annals of history."

Another grinned, clapping his hands. "The blood of the Hakiman runs true. A warrior born!"

Samiyoshi, seated beside his father, exhaled deeply, his chest swelling with pride.

"He fights as he was meant to."

Orhan Bey, however, remained quiet.

His expression, though unreadable, was not one of unrestrained joy.

The beys continued their praises, but the soldier hesitated.

"There is… one more matter, Bey'im."

Orhan's gaze hardened. "Speak."

The soldier shifted slightly, as if uncertain how to deliver the next words. "A letter arrived from Miracheneous Academy. From Headmaster Falani."

The room stilled.

Orhan Bey's fingers tightened ever so slightly against the carved armrest of his chair.

"And?"

The soldier inhaled. "Headmaster Falani claims that during a mage class, Aleeman Hakiman caused…" He swallowed. "A great hole in the wall."

A dead silence followed.

The beys exchanged wary glances.

Samiyoshi, however, leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable at first—before it cracked into a grin.

"That fool." His chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Even in a classroom, he wages war."

Some of the beys laughed, amused by the thought of Aleeman somehow turning a lesson into destruction.

But Orhan Bey?

He did not laugh.

He did not even smile.

He simply sat there, the weight of something far greater pressing upon his mind.

And slowly, he exhaled.

"No."

Samiyoshi's laughter faded slightly. "No?"

Orhan Bey's gaze darkened.

"My son has no magic."

The room grew still once more.

Samiyoshi's brows furrowed. "Father, if he created an explosion, it must mean—"

"He did not."

Orhan's voice was firm, absolute.

The beys fell into a thoughtful silence, now seeing what their leader saw.

And then, one by one, they began to take their leave, murmuring among themselves.

When the last of them had gone, only Orhan and Samiyoshi remained.

Samiyoshi, his face half-lit by the glow of the brazier, turned to his father.

"Why are you not pleased?"

Orhan Bey leaned back, his weathered fingers tracing the silver hilt of his dagger.

Then, in a voice low and weighted with something ancient, he spoke.

"Because if my son has truly gained magic, then it is not a blessing, but a curse."

Samiyoshi's brows knitted. "What do you mean?"

Orhan's eyes flickered with something deeper than concern—something bordering on fear.

"Son, those who are born with abilities are God-gifted." His voice grew softer, but not weaker. "But those who gain it?"

He met Samiyoshi's gaze, unwavering.

"They have no place in the Hereafter."

A chill ran down Samiyoshi's spine.

But still, he pressed. "Explain."

Orhan Bey closed his eyes for a moment, as though recalling a truth that had been long buried.

Then, he spoke.

"The universe of Halmosian, along with all other dimensions and parallel worlds, is governed by the unseen Almighty—the Creator of the heavens and the earth, the One who set forth the trials of mankind."

Samiyoshi listened intently.

"Among those trials, magic was one."

Orhan Bey's gaze was heavy, his words carrying the weight of scripture.

"It was written in Al-Han Muttaqin, the Book of the Righteous, that ir—magic—originated in ancient Babylon, where the Almighty sent two angels to test mankind."

Samiyoshi felt his throat tighten.

"These angels warned the people, saying, 'We are a test. Do not fall into disbelief by practising magic.' But men, blinded by greed, took the knowledge, and thus—Shaiyatin, the devils, twisted this knowledge into something far darker—witchcraft."

A shiver ran through Samiyoshi's body.

Orhan Bey's voice dropped lower. "Magic has always been a path of destruction, of separation. And those who seek it… those who take it without divine will… will have no place in the Hereafter."

The tent felt smaller.

The flames of the braziers flickered, casting ghostly shadows along the walls.

Samiyoshi exhaled, his knuckles whitening.

And for the first time, he felt it—a deep, unsettling dread curling within his chest.

Orhan Bey turned his gaze to the heavens beyond the open tent flaps.

"If Aleeman has truly gained magic…" He inhaled sharply.

"Then he will face the consequences."

And Samiyoshi, despite all his pride in his younger brother, nodded slowly, his heart weighed with silent fear.

The vast golden halls of the Weng imperial palace lay shrouded in suffocating silence.

Behind the silken curtains of the royal chamber, amidst the flickering glow of lanterns, lay Lady Mei Lian—pale, fragile, a whisper of the regal beauty she once was.

The bed upon which she rested was woven from the rarest silks, its intricate gold embroidery reflecting the dim candlelight like molten sunlight upon a dying river.

But there was no warmth here.

Only the cold embrace of looming death.

Around her, three physicians, dressed in jade robes, worked tirelessly, their foreheads damp with sweat, their trembling hands mixing and crushing the last remnants of medicinal herbs.

Doctor Cheng Baolong, the most esteemed of them, stepped forward hesitantly, his face etched with worry.

At the foot of the royal bed, Emperor Weng Jin Shun sat, his fingers wrapped around his wife's smooth, delicate hand—tense, rigid, as if clinging to what little life remained in her.

His expression was unreadable, but beneath the mask of control, the veins in his neck throbbed, his patience hanging by a thread.

Finally, unable to tolerate the silence any longer, he snapped.

"Why is she not waking up?!"

Doctor Cheng flinched before lowering his head.

"Your Majesty…" his voice wavered, "we have tried every remedy at our disposal. The sacred ginseng, the lotus elixirs, the golden fungi… but the illness remains. The balance of her Qi is fading."

The emperor's jaw clenched.

"Then find more medicine!" he roared, his voice reverberating through the chambers like the cracking of thunder.

The doctors bowed deeper, trembling beneath the weight of his fury.

"The palace's supply… is exhausted, Your Majesty."

The words hung in the air like a death knell.

Emperor Weng Jin Shun's gaze darkened, his knuckles whitening as he gritted his teeth.

"Useless."

Then—

A faint rustling of robes.

A shadow slipped past the golden partitions, stepping into the chamber like a creeping omen.

Monk Pan Zhihaou.

His bald head gleamed under the lantern light, his prayer beads clinking softly as he leaned toward the emperor's ear.

"Your Majesty," his voice was a whisper of coiling silk. "Perhaps this affliction is more than mere illness. Perhaps… the heavens are watching, waiting for the sins of our blood to be corrected."

Emperor Weng Jin Shun's eyes flickered with something unreadable—rage, contemplation, desperation.

But before he could respond, a weak grip tightened around his hand.

His gaze snapped downward.

Lady Mei Lian, her breaths shallow, her skin porcelain-pale, was awake.

Her lips parted weakly.

"Yang Hong…"

The emperor froze.

Her voice was fragile, the mere utterance of the name shaking him to his core.

His once beloved son, now an exiled disgrace.

"I… want to see Yang Hong…" Lady Mei Lian's voice wavered, her fingers trembling against his.

The emperor's eyes flickered with barely contained fury, but his expression softened—for her sake.

"Shh," he murmured, "do not strain yourself. Rest, Mei Lian."

He turned his gaze toward his daughter, Weng Jingfei, standing near the entrance.

"Stay with your mother."

Weng Jingfei nodded obediently, moving toward Lady Mei Lian's side.

As the emperor rose, his face darkened once more.

The very name of his son left a foul taste in his mouth.

But perhaps…

Perhaps this was an opportunity.

His anger gave way to cruel calculation.

If he could lure Wei Yang Hong back to the palace under the pretense of Lady Mei Lian's illness…

He could execute him.

And with his death, the wrath of the gods upon their clan would be extinguished.

He turned to Pan Zhihaou, his voice a command wrapped in silk.

"Write a letter. Summon him."

Pan Zhihaou's lips curled into a knowing smirk as he bowed.

"As you will it, Your Majesty."

And thus, the trap was set.

Seated in the grand office of Headmaster Falani, Aleeman stood at attention, his report given in perfect detail.

Falani, draped in robes of celestial blue, fingers intertwined, listened in silence.

Then, after a long moment, a slow, knowing smirk curved his lips.

"So, you defeated the Kumaruchaisan knights, but their commander escaped?"

Aleeman nodded. "Yes. Alphagut fled before we could reach him."

Falani leaned forward, amusement flickering in his sharp eyes.

"Good. That was expected."

Aleeman's brow furrowed. "Expected?"

Falani's smirk deepened.

"We have a spy inside Kumaruchaisan."

A pause.

Aleeman's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

Falani lifted a hand. "Patience, Commander Hakiman. You will know when the time is right."

Aleeman exhaled sharply but did not push further.

Then—

Falani's smile turned mischievous.

"Oh, and before I forget—there has been a new… disturbance in my academy."

Aleeman already knew where this was going.

"Shi Zhao Mei."

Falani chuckled. "Yes. A new female student who conveniently appeared while you were away."

Aleeman's jaw clenched slightly.

"She also 'conveniently' appeared at Sefirah."

Falani's brows lifted. "Did she now?"

He leaned back, steepling his fingers.

"Keep an eye on her, Commander."

Aleeman hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

"Permission to leave?"

Falani waved a hand. "Granted."

As the sun dipped beyond the horizon, painting the sky in hues of violet and gold, Shi Zhao Mei sat on her balcony, her posture anything but ladylike.

She rested an arm against her knee, staring blankly at the sprawling city below.

Her mind was a storm of questions.

Why was she still here?

Why was she wasting time with a brute like Aleeman?

Why had her own father sought her death?

Then—

A raven descended, its wings slicing through the wind, landing gracefully upon the balcony rail.

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes narrowed.

Tied to its neck was a scroll.

With careful fingers, she untied it, unraveling the parchment.

The imperial seal of Weng Jin Shun gleamed under the dimming light.

Her breath caught as her eyes traced the words.

"Your mother, Lady Mei Lian, is gravely ill. She asks for you. Come home."

Her fingers curled around the letter, her heartbeat roaring in her ears.

She didn't even need time to think.

She had already decided.

She was going back.

And by the time Elizabeth entered to call her, the room was empty.

Shi Zhao Mei was gone.