Shadows in the Moonlight, Whispers in the Void

The moon hung high over Miracheneous Academy, its pale glow spilling through the arched windows of the boys' dormitory, casting long, wavering shadows across the stone walls.

Inside a dimly lit room, the scent of wet steel and oil lingered in the air.

Aleeman Hakiman sat on the edge of his wooden bed, his gaze sharp, his hands steady as he cleaned his saber.

The blade gleamed under the soft lantern light, its edge kissed by water and honed by the rough friction of whetstone.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

The rhythm was methodical, almost meditative, as if the act of sharpening steel grounded him in a world that was ever-changing.

Then—

A knock.

Firm, insistent.

Then, a voice.

"Brother! Open up!"

Aleeman paused, his fingers still gripping the hilt of his saber.

It was Hua-Jing.

Without missing a beat, he called out—

"Come in."

The door swung open, and Hua-Jing stepped inside, her expression unusually tense.

Behind her, Mei-Xi-Li and Mika Yamana lingered near the doorway, their brows furrowed.

Aleeman set his saber down, wiping his damp hands against a cloth.

"What is it?" His tone was neutral, but his eyes had already narrowed, sensing something was wrong.

Hua-Jing exhaled, her fingers twitching slightly.

"Shi Zhao Mei is nowhere to be found."

Aleeman's entire posture shifted.

His muscles tensed, his jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, the air in the room felt colder.

"Gone?" His voice was edged with something unreadable. "When?"

"Sometime this evening. Elizabeth went to call her for supper, but her room was empty. No note, no sign of where she went—just an open window."

Aleeman exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.

"Did she tell anyone she was leaving?"

Hua-Jing shook her head. "Nothing. It's like she vanished into thin air."

Aleeman's fingers curled into fists, his mind already running through possibilities.

Shi Zhao Mei was many things, but careless was not one of them.

If she had left without a word, it meant one of two things—she was running toward something… or away from something.

And either way, it was bad.

The room fell into a tense silence, uncertainty pressing against them like a suffocating fog.

Then—

A slow, mocking clap.

Aleeman's eyes flickered toward the doorway, his face darkening.

There, leaning against the frame with his usual air of arrogance, stood John Wei-Tang.

His arms crossed, his lips curved into a smirk that oozed condescension.

"Well, well, well," John drawled. "It seems our mysterious little flower has wilted overnight."

Aleeman's expression remained unreadable, but the room itself felt heavier.

"John," he said, voice dangerously low, "I do not have the patience for you tonight."

John tilted his head. "Oh? What's wrong, Commander?" His tone dripped with mock sympathy. "Worried about your little pet running away?"

Hua-Jing's eyes flashed with irritation. "Enough, John. We're not in the mood for your nonsense."

John grinned, clearly unfazed.

"I'm just saying," he shrugged. "People who disappear in the night usually have something to hide. Maybe she was never who she claimed to be."

Aleeman's jaw twitched.

For a fleeting second, his hand hovered near the hilt of his saber.

But then, with an exhale through his nose, he stood.

"John."

John arched a brow.

Aleeman stepped forward until they were mere inches apart, his voice dropping to something cold.

"Walk away."

John's smirk faltered, just slightly.

Something in Aleeman's eyes—something unreadable, something dangerous—made even him hesitate.

Then, with a mock sigh, he raised his hands.

"Fine, fine. Keep your secrets."

With one last sneering glance, John turned on his heel, walking away with a slow, unhurried pace.

The moment he left, the air grew lighter.

Mei-Xi-Li rolled her eyes. "That boy needs to be slapped into another century."

Mika chuckled. "Maybe we should let Shi Zhao Mei do it when she returns."

Aleeman, however, remained silent.

His gaze flickered toward the window, where the cold night wind slipped through the cracks.

Shi Zhao Mei was gone.

And something in his gut told him…

She wasn't coming back easily.

The flickering lantern light cast restless shadows across the stone walls, their distorted figures stretching like ghosts along the floor.

Aleeman sat at the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers woven together in contemplation.

His mind was a battlefield, replaying the moment when he first met Shi Zhao Mei—or rather, when he found her.

The sound of footsteps pounding against the dirt, the desperate rustling of branches as she fled, the sharp, urgent breath of a hunted soul.

She had been running, chased by her own people—by the Ji-Gong soldiers.

And yet, she had never spoken of it.

Never explained why.

Never revealed what crime had led her to be pursued like prey beneath the fangs of wolves.

Aleeman's fingers tightened around his knees, his jaw clenched.

Why had she hidden the truth?

Why did he feel a lingering weight in his chest at the thought of her alone in the dark?

His gut twisted, a feeling he had learned long ago never to ignore.

Something was wrong.

And he would not sit idly by.

He exhaled sharply and rose to his feet.

Turning swiftly, he grabbed his leather vambraces from the table, strapping them onto his forearms with practiced efficiency.

Then, his voice cut through the room like a blade.

"Finn. Wang Ji-Pang."

The two, still lingering near the doorway, straightened instinctively.

"Gather the others. Fetch the horses."

Finn's eyebrows lifted. "Now?"

Aleeman's gaze was resolute. "Now."

Wang Ji-Pang tilted his head. "Where are we going?"

Aleeman fastened the last strap of his gear before gripping his saber, sliding it smoothly into its sheath.

His next words were sharp, unwavering.

"To the Eastern region."

Finn's face twisted in surprise. "Wait, are we going after Shi Zhao Mei?"

Aleeman did not hesitate. "Yes."

Hua-Jing, who had been standing near the window, folded her arms and gave her brother a pointed look.

"And you're not telling Headmaster Falani, are you?"

Aleeman turned to her, his expression unreadable.

"No."

Hua-Jing sighed dramatically, throwing her hands into the air.

"Oh, of course not! Why would we ever do something as logical as informing the man who actually runs this place?"

Mei-Xi-Li smirked. "Because it's Aleeman. If there's a way to do things recklessly, he'll find it."

Aleeman gave her a side glance but chose to ignore the comment.

Mika Yamana, however, watched him with narrowed eyes. "You're acting strange, Commander."

Aleeman exhaled, fastening the buckle of his belt before turning toward the door.

"I don't know why she left, but I intend to find out."

Hua-Jing stepped forward, blocking his path.

"And if she left by choice?"

Aleeman's jaw tightened, his expression shadowed.

"Then I'll hear it from her own lips."

His sister studied him for a moment before letting out an exaggerated sigh.

"Fine. But don't come running to me when Headmaster Falani is sharpening his staff to beat you with it."

Aleeman offered her a smirk, but his eyes were still dark with thought.

"I never run."

Finn clapped his hands together. "Alright, boys, you heard the man. Horses. Now."

Wang Ji-Pang grinned. "This is going to be fun."

Aleeman watched them disappear down the corridor, their footsteps fading into the night.

A storm was brewing.

And he intended to meet it head-on.

The imperial palace of Ji-Gong stood in eerie silence, its golden rooftops glistening under the pale moonlight.

Inside the grand chamber, Emperor Weng Jin Shun paced, his heavy robes swaying with each impatient step.

Beside the bed, Lady Mei Lian lay still, her fragile body wrapped in silken sheets, her breath slow but uneven.

At her side, Weng Jingfei gently dabbed her mother's forehead with a damp cloth, her delicate hands trembling slightly.

The room smelled of herbs and medicine, but beneath the scent lay something else—something cold, something foreboding.

Then—

A wind howled through the open window, carrying the scent of blooming petals from the imperial garden.

And with it—

A shadow loomed over the palace.

A deep, thunderous roar split the air, shaking the very foundations of the Ji-Gong clan.

Weng Jin Shun froze mid-step, his eyes snapping toward the window.

Weng Jingfei gasped, her gaze widening in horror.

Outside—a dark red dragon soared through the night sky, its wings casting a monstrous silhouette against the full moon.

The creature's eyes burned like molten gold, its presence commanding, its flight a terrifying omen.

As it swooped lower, its enormous body shimmered, morphing—scales melting into smooth porcelain skin, claws receding into delicate fingers, wings folding into a flowing crimson cloak.

And then—

Where the beast had once flown, a lone figure landed gracefully on the courtyard's stone path.

Shi Zhao Mei.

Once Prince Wei Yang Hong.

Now, a vision of elegance and danger, clad in black and red imperial silks, golden embroidery curling along the edges like flames consuming a fragile scroll.

Her long raven hair cascaded down her back, strands of it catching the wind like dark silk threads.

Her scarlet eyes shimmered beneath the flickering lanterns, taking in the sight before her.

And the Ji-Gong guards?

They did not attack.

They bowed.

A ripple of whispers spread among them, confusion mixed with reverence.

She had been exiled. Branded a disgrace.

And yet—here she stood.

Pan Zhihaou, standing near the palace gates, stepped forward, his face void of expression.

"Welcome home, Young… Ah, Lady Zhao Mei." His voice slithered, his lips curving into a controlled smile.

Shi Zhao Mei's gaze flickered toward him briefly before she stepped forward, her heeled boots clicking against the stone path.

She had expected hostility.

She had expected defiance.

But this?

This was far too easy.

The guards parted for her, allowing her to enter the palace.

And at the top of the golden steps, standing in the dim glow of the lanterns, was Emperor Weng Jin Shun himself.

His expression was unreadable at first, his eyes scanning her form as if he were seeing her for the first time.

Then, slowly, he smiled.

A smile of pleasure. Of victory.

"Your mother has been waiting for you." His voice was smooth, calculated. "Go to her."

Shi Zhao Mei held his gaze for a moment before stepping past him, the guards escorting her toward her mother's chambers.

And as she disappeared into the corridors, the emperor's lips curled further.

His plan was falling into place.

The thundering of hooves echoed through the empty plains, their pace swift, relentless, determined.

Beneath the moon's silver glow, Aleeman rode at the front, his gaze locked forward, his hands firm on the reins of his trusted horse.

The others followed close behind—Finn, Wang Ji-Pang, Mehmet Arslan, Tariq al-Khattab, Zayd ibn Malik, and Rüstem Bey—all galloping with a sense of urgency.

Mehmet rode closer, his voice barely heard over the wind.

"Bey, why are we heading to the Eastern Region? That land belongs to the Dragon Clan."

Aleeman kept his eyes ahead, his tone unwavering.

"Because that is where she has gone."

Wang Ji-Pang whistled. "And how exactly do you know that?"

Aleeman exhaled sharply.

"Because I know her."

The others exchanged glances but said nothing further.

Whatever secrets Shi Zhao Mei held, they were about to find out.

The grand war chamber of Kumaruchaisan pulsed with tension, the heavy scent of burning incense lingering in the air.

Lenotes stood before the massive map table, his fingers digging into the edges as Alphagut kneeled before him.

His face was red with fury, his jaw clenched so tightly it could shatter stone.

"Explain. Again." His voice was a whisper, yet it carried the weight of impending violence.

Alphagut swallowed hard.

"My prince… they ambushed us. We did not see them coming. It was—"

"It was Aleeman."

The name spat from Lenotes' mouth like venom.

A cruel chuckle echoed from the throne.

Tekfur Kekaumenos, draped in dark velvet, sat with his chin resting against his knuckles.

"Aleeman is clever. You underestimated him, my son."

Lenotes' eyes flickered with rage.

"That bastard."

Kekaumenos exhaled, leaning back into his chair.

"This war will not be won with brute force alone. Aleeman fights with strategy. If you want to crush him, you must think like him."

Lenotes' fingers curled into fists.

He would not allow this humiliation to stand.

Aleeman would pay.

The doors creaked open, revealing a dimly lit chamber scented with the delicate aroma of medicinal herbs.

Lady Mei Lian lay against the cushions, her frail frame barely moving.

Weng Jingfei glanced up as Shi Zhao Mei entered, her eyes widening.

Shi Zhao Mei raised a single finger to her lips.

"Shhh."

Weng Jingfei nodded, stepping aside.

Then—their eyes met.

Lady Mei Lian's gaze fluttered open, her breath catching.

For a moment, she simply stared.

And then, her trembling hand reached forward.

Shi Zhao Mei's lip quivered as she moved closer, sinking onto the bed, her hand slipping into her mother's grasp.

Tears silently traced down her cheek.

Her mother pulled her closer, her voice barely above a whisper.

"My son…" she paused, then smiled softly. "No… my daughter."

Shi Zhao Mei let out a small, breathless laugh, pressing her forehead against her mother's.

Weng Jingfei smiled softly before stepping out, leaving them alone.

A long silence stretched before Lady Mei Lian whispered.

"Your father wants you dead."

Shi Zhao Mei's body went still.

Her heart pounded, her breath stilled, her fingers curling into fists.

"Why?"

Lady Mei Lian brushed her fingers against Shi Zhao Mei's cheek.

"Monk Pan Zhihaou says… if you are not killed, the curse will consume the Ji-Gong clan."

Shi Zhao Mei's lips curled into a sneer.

"That hag."

Lady Mei Lian chuckled weakly before asking.

"Who saved you?"

Shi Zhao Mei hesitated, then smirked slightly.

"A reckless, stubborn brute."

Lady Mei Lian smiled.

"I hope he stays by your side." Shi Zhao Mei chuckle find hilarious what her mom said

Then, she whispered the truth about Abhammuddin Obasi.

And as Shi Zhao Mei listened, her eyes darkened.

Her father had gone too far.

Now—he would face the consequences.

The Ji-Gong imperial gates loomed high under the shroud of night, their golden dragons coiled around the archway, their eyes gleaming in the lantern glow like sentinels of old.

The fortified walls stood unyielding, a perfect fusion of ancient tradition and modern ingenuity—stone bastions reinforced with sleek steel plating, surveillance drones hovering in calculated synchrony, scanning every movement like hawks in the night.

Beyond the gates, red lanterns lined the grand boulevards, their glow painting the streets in hues of crimson and amber, a city caught between the whispers of its past and the relentless march of progress.

But at the entrance—a test of deception unfolded.

A large caravan, pulled by two sturdy black horses, approached the imperial checkpoint, its wooden wheels grinding against the stone pavement.

The imperial guards, clad in ornate black and gold uniforms, their halberds gleaming under the moonlight, stepped forward with calculated precision.

One of them, a burly man with a scar tracing down his cheek, raised a gauntleted hand.

"Halt! State your name and purpose."

A figure emerged from the driver's seat, draped in a dusty cloak, his hands lazily gripping the reins.

His face, partially concealed beneath the wide-brimmed hat of a merchant, bore an expression of nonchalance.

Mehmet Arslan.

Or, for tonight—Mehmet the Machekwonian trader.

He offered a lopsided grin, adjusting the hat on his head as he leaned slightly forward.

"Ah, my fine gentlemen!" His accent shifted effortlessly, taking on the lilting drawl of a seasoned trader. "I am but a humble merchant from Machekwon, bearing gifts of the land! Fresh oils, the finest rice, exotic spices—oh, and fruits so sweet, your Emperor himself may weep upon tasting them!"

The guard's eyes narrowed.

"Machekwon?" He exchanged glances with the other guards. "Show us your goods."

Mehmet clucked his tongue.

"Ah, but of course!" He gestured dramatically, stepping down from the caravan as the guards moved forward, lifting the wooden lids of the barrels and sacks.

Inside—perfectly stacked fruits, golden grains, and glistening bottles of oil.

Nothing suspicious.

Just trade.

A silent exchange of glances passed between the guards.

Then—the lead guard exhaled.

"Seems in order. Open the gates!"

With a loud metallic groan, the massive imperial gates parted, revealing the luminous sprawl of the Ji-Gong capital.

As the caravan rolled in, the guards stepped aside, their curiosity dismissed.

And as Mehmet settled back into his seat, he murmured under his breath.

"Fools."

For beneath the sacks of grain, hidden among the barrels—lay warriors.

Aleeman and his men, veiled in shadow, waiting for their moment.

The Ji-Gong capital was a breathtaking paradox—an empire straddling the delicate line between past and future.

Towering pagodas stood alongside sleek, reflective skyscrapers, their jade rooftops adorned with golden dragons that shimmered beneath the digital billboards projecting holographic messages in old calligraphy.

The streets bustled with life, even at night.

Street vendors hawked steaming baskets of dumplings, their stalls lined with ornate red tassels and neon-lit signs.

The scent of roasted duck and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the faint electric hum of high-speed maglev rickshaws that zipped past on polished stone roads.

Elegant courtesans in embroidered silk robes glided along the wooden bridges, their laughter like wind chimes on a spring morning.

Martial artists trained in public courtyards, their robes billowing as they executed flawless forms, the sound of their synchronized movements sharp as a blade slicing through air.

Monks, draped in saffron robes with cybernetic enhancements on their wrists, walked in silent meditation, their hands clasped in devotion beneath the glow of floating lanterns.

It was a city where tradition breathed alongside technology.

But beneath the vibrant display of culture and progress—lay something more sinister.

A tension.

A knowing.

For tonight, something unseen had slipped past their gates.

And soon, the dragon's den would know the fire it had invited within.

The grand warehouses of the Ji-Gong Clan stood like silent sentinels in the heart of the capital, their wooden beams reinforced with sheets of dark steel, their rooftops curved like dragon's wings against the night sky.

The caravan, now settled within the dimly lit storage facility, stood among stacks of grain sacks, barrels of rice wine, and crates filled with spices and silks. The scent of aged wood and damp earth lingered, mingling with the faint aroma of sesame oil leaking from the barrels nearby.

A sharp creak of wood echoed in the silence as Mehmet Arslan pried open the lid of an oil barrel.

From within, figures emerged like spectres from a forgotten legend.

Aleeman Hakiman.

Finn.

Wang Ji-Pang.

Tariq al-Khattab.

Zayd ibn Malik.

Rüstem Bey.

Like warriors birthed from the abyss, they rose from their concealed entrapments, their breaths silent, their movements sharper than a dagger's kiss.

The lantern light flickered upon their armour, catching the gleam of polished steel and the deep folds of their dark travelling cloaks.

Aleeman, standing at the front, unfurled a parchment, its edges worn but the markings upon it precise and deliberate.

A detailed map of the Ji-Gong Clan.

Zayd ibn Malik, leaning closer, arched a brow.

"Bey, where did you get this?"

Aleeman smirked, his fingers tracing the marked paths upon the parchment.

"Let's just say," he murmured, "not all men of Ji-Gong are loyal to their emperor."

Finn whistled lowly. "You bribed someone, didn't you?"

Aleeman tilted his head slightly. "Bribery is such an ugly word. I prefer… incentivised cooperation."

Tariq huffed. "A man of war and a man of words. Dangerous combination."

Aleeman's smirk did not fade as he tapped his finger against the map.

"We do not have time for jokes. Listen well."

The group leaned in, their expressions turning grim as Aleeman pointed at specific locations.

"The imperial palace is heavily guarded, but there are ways in. Most would try to breach the main gates—a foolish mistake. Instead, we move through the underground tunnels."

He dragged his finger along a series of lines beneath the palace's structure.

"There are multiple entrances—one outside the main gates, used by traders and merchants. Another two scattered among the clan's inner districts, and one within the temple quarter, often overlooked because it is considered sacred ground."

Wang Ji-Pang frowned slightly. "And you trust that these tunnels are still accessible?"

Aleeman glanced up, his eyes gleaming like embers beneath his hood.

"I trust that Ji-Gong has grown arrogant enough to forget the weaknesses of its own foundations."

Rüstem Bey chuckled, adjusting the grip on his scimitar. "Then let us remind them."

Mehmet folded his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips. "And what do we do if we encounter resistance?"

Aleeman's expression turned sharp, his voice like the edge of a blade.

"We move as shadows. Unseen. Unheard. But if they see us—"

He lifted his hand, fingers curling into a fist.

"They do not live long enough to raise the alarm."

The room fell into silence.

Each man exchanged a glance, unspoken words passing between them—an understanding, a promise.

Tonight, the Ji-Gong Clan would not sleep soundly.

And the emperor?

He would soon realise that the wolf had entered the dragon's den.

The moon hung low over the Ji-Gong imperial gardens, its pale glow spilling across the serene waters of the lotus lake, casting silver ripples that shimmered like liquid pearls.

The air carried the soft fragrance of night-blooming magnolias, their delicate petals swaying under the cool evening breeze. The intricate wooden lattice of the Yù Huā Tái (Jade Flower Terrace) framed the landscape, a place once built for tranquility and reflection, now weighed with silent turmoil.

Shi Zhao Mei sat alone.

But unlike the graceful, poised daughter of nobility she was expected to be, she lounged in a manner unfitting of any imperial lady—legs apart, elbow propped lazily against the carved railing, her once-refined posture abandoned.

Her raven-black hair spilled freely over her shoulders, catching the glow of the lanterns flickering in the distance.

Yet despite the ethereal beauty of the scene, her scarlet eyes remained clouded with unrest.

A sigh left her lips.

"This was a mistake."

She had returned without telling Aleeman.

And though she hated to admit it, a small part of her wondered what he would say if he knew.

Would he be furious? Would he mock her for acting recklessly?

Or worse—would he not care at all?

Her fingers tapped impatiently against the wooden terrace floor.

Then—

A voice cut through the quiet.

"You shouldn't be here."

Shi Zhao Mei's gaze flickered to the side, her expression unreadable.

From the shadows of the blossoming cherry trees, Weng Jingfei emerged, her silk robes rustling against the stone steps as she ascended.

The moonlight caught the soft angles of her face, highlighting the faint glisten of unshed tears in her narrowed eyes.

Shi Zhao Mei let out a mock sigh, tilting her head slightly.

"I see you still prefer sneaking around like a cat in the night, little sister."

Weng Jingfei's jaw clenched, ignoring the remark.

She took another step closer, her hands folding tightly into her sleeves, as if restraining herself.

Then, her voice dropped—cold, sharp.

"You shouldn't have come back."

Shi Zhao Mei raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

"And why is that? Are you worried for me?" She smirked. "Touching, really."

But Weng Jingfei was not in the mood for games.

Her fingers trembled with rage as she hissed—

"You have doomed us all."

Shi Zhao Mei's smile faltered.

"Excuse me?"

Weng Jingfei's eyes flashed with accusation.

"It is because of your sins that our mother is lying half-dead in that chamber!" She took a sharp breath. "Do you know what Father had to endure because of you? The humiliation? The wrath of the heavens?!"

Shi Zhao Mei's expression darkened.

"I did not ask to be cursed."

Weng Jingfei stepped closer, her voice a whisper of fury.

"But you did ask to be a disgrace."

A beat of silence.

Shi Zhao Mei's knuckles tightened against the wooden railing, her nails digging into the lacquered surface.

"Careful with your words, little sister."

Weng Jingfei laughed bitterly.

"Why? Will you strike me? Will you kill me, too?"

Shi Zhao Mei's eyes narrowed.

"What are you talking about?"

Weng Jingfei's voice broke slightly, but her gaze did not waver.

"My husband, Zhao Fengxin. He died because of you."

The accusation hung in the air like a dagger poised above Shi Zhao Mei's throat.

She stared at her sister, unblinking, for a long moment.

Then, her lips curled—not in amusement, but in disbelief.

"That is rich."

She stood, slowly, deliberately, her eyes piercing into her sister's like embers against ice.

"Your husband died because he chose to hunt me like a rabid dog. He died because he was an arrogant fool who thought he could end me."

Weng Jingfei's hands trembled at her sides.

"If you had just accepted your punishment like an honourable warrior—like a true son of the Weng bloodline—none of this would have happened!"

Shi Zhao Mei let out a dry chuckle.

"Is that what you think?" She exhaled sharply. "Tell me, sister—do you actually believe the heavens struck me down for dishonour? Or was it because of Father's greed? Because of his endless thirst for control?"

Weng Jingfei stayed silent.

Shi Zhao Mei took a step closer, lowering her voice.

"You think I ruined this clan? No, Jingfei. It was doomed the moment our father decided to defy the will of the heavens."

Her eyes gleamed with something dangerous—something raw.

"And the sooner you realise that, the sooner you'll stop blaming me for your own misery."

Weng Jingfei's breath hitched.

For a moment, it looked as if she might slap her.

But instead—she took a step back, her expression twisting with pure contempt.

Then, in a voice cold as the winter winds, she whispered—

"I hope you die."

Shi Zhao Mei's smirk vanished.

She watched her sister disappear into the night, the bitterness of those words lingering like the aftertaste of poisoned wine.

A long, heavy silence followed.

And then—she exhaled, leaning back against the terrace railing, gazing up at the moon.

"Well, that was dramatic."

She ran a hand through her hair, the familiar exhaustion creeping in.

Then, without thinking, her mind drifted elsewhere.

To a certain stubborn, reckless commander with eyes like wildfire.

She let out a quiet laugh to herself.

"I wonder what Aleeman would say if he saw this mess."

And for the first time in a long while—she wished he were here.

The air inside the underground tunnel was thick with dampness, the scent of wet stone and aged earth clinging to the narrow passageway. The flickering torchlight cast long, eerie shadows against the moss-covered walls, the corridor stretching into the unknown like the throat of a great beast, waiting to swallow intruders whole.

Aleeman moved like a phantom, each step precise, each breath controlled.

He halted, his sharp eyes catching movement ahead.

A lone Ji-Gong soldier patrolled the narrow path, his armour a fusion of traditional and futuristic design—steel-plated robes of deep obsidian lined with golden embroidery, a segmented breastplate reinforced with silk-threaded padding, and a black leather belt holding a curved dao at his side. His face was concealed beneath a masked helm, only his sharp, watchful eyes visible beneath the dark visor.

But even the best guards could not see death coming from behind.

Aleeman moved.

Fast. Silent. Deadly.

In one swift motion, he wrapped his arm around the soldier's throat, his grip like a steel vice, and twisted.

A sharp crack echoed through the tunnel.

The guard's body went limp, his weapon clattering to the stone floor.

Aleeman dragged the corpse into the shadows, crouching beside it as he swiftly removed the soldier's uniform.

He exchanged his own cloak for the dark robes, fastened the segmented breastplate over his chest, and adjusted the black leather belt.

Then, with a final tug of the mask over his face, he became one of them.

A wolf now prowling among dragons.

While Aleeman infiltrated the imperial palace, his comrades blended seamlessly into the lifeblood of the Ji-Gong capital.

Disguised as merchants, travelers, and beggars, they moved through the labyrinthine streets, their eyes drinking in every detail, every conversation, every subtle shift in the atmosphere.

Mehmet Arslan, ever the smooth talker, had positioned himself at a bustling tea house, reclining against a wooden pillar as he sipped a cup of steaming jasmine tea, his ears tuned to the drunken chatter of off-duty imperial guards.

Tariq al-Khattab, dressed as a humble spice trader, stood near a market stall, his fingers idly tracing patterns in the fine grains of saffron while his gaze flickered toward the imperial palace gates.

Wang Ji-Pang, posing as a wandering storyteller, had gathered a small crowd near a public square, weaving an intricate tale that kept the locals entertained while his sharp eyes scanned for useful information.

Finn and Rüstem Bey, disguised as traveling blacksmiths, examined the quality of Ji-Gong weaponry in the forge district, exchanging pleasantries with local craftsmen while committing their military production to memory.

They were everywhere and nowhere at once, waiting for their commander's next move.

Aleeman moved through the grand hallways of the Ji-Gong palace, his borrowed boots echoing softly against the polished jade floors.

The palace was a marvel of opulence and authority—a seamless fusion of the old and the new.

Towering golden pillars lined the halls, their intricate carvings of celestial dragons twisting toward the vaulted ceiling, where glowing lanterns hovered like suspended stars, powered by unseen mechanisms.

The air carried the delicate scent of incense and sandalwood, a veil of false tranquility masking the tension that lurked beneath.

He passed other guards, nodding when necessary, his posture rigid, disciplined—just another nameless warrior among the emperor's vast army.

His goal?

Information.

He needed to uncover Emperor Weng Jin Shun's next move, his plans for revenge against Abjannas, and most importantly—the whereabouts of Shi Zhao Mei.

He approached a side corridor, slipping unnoticed past a group of high-ranking officers engaged in a heated discussion.

He slowed.

Listened.

One of them—a man clad in black and crimson ceremonial robes—spoke in a hushed, urgent tone.

"His Majesty will not tolerate another failure. The attack on Abhammuddin Obasi was only the beginning. He seeks to break them entirely, to burn Abjannas to the ground before the year's end."

Another voice—lower, cautious.

"But the alliance with Kumaruchaisan was a disaster. Their knights were slaughtered at Sefirah. We must tread carefully."

A third voice—sharper, mocking.

"Caution? Ha! The emperor has no interest in diplomacy. He believes the heavens demand blood, and he will spill oceans of it to appease them."

Aleeman's jaw clenched.

So it was true.

The Ji-Gong clan had no intention of stopping.

If the Abjannas did not strike first, their lands would soon be bathed in fire.

But then—the conversation shifted.

"And what of the cursed one?"

Aleeman's breath stilled.

The first voice lowered further.

"The emperor has lured her back."

The second man let out a chuckle. "Like a lamb returning to the slaughterhouse."

Aleeman's fingers curled into fists.

Shi Zhao Mei.

So this was it. A trap. A game of manipulation.

He exhaled slowly, controlling the surge of irritation crawling up his spine.

He had expected treachery—but hearing it confirmed only set his blood ablaze.

He had no choice now.

He had to act.

He turned sharply, moving back down the corridor, his mind already strategizing.

He would find Shi Zhao Mei.

And he would tear down this empire brick by brick if it meant getting her out alive.

But first—

He had to signal his wolves.

The hunt had begun.

The chamber of Headmaster Falani was a sanctum of wisdom and power, an imposing space where ancient scrolls rested beside holographic projections, where quills and inkpots coexisted with data slates glowing with ethereal blue runes.

Dim golden light flickered from lanterns suspended in midair, their glow casting dancing shadows upon the towering bookshelves, each carved with celestial calligraphy.

At the heart of it all, Headmaster Falani sat behind an obsidian desk, his fingers tracing the spine of a weathered tome as he studied its contents.

The peace was short-lived.

A sharp knock.

Then—

"Enter."

The wooden doors creaked open, and in strode John Wei-Tang, his posture casual, yet his eyes glinted with thinly veiled malice.

Falani did not look up immediately, merely turning a page, his voice measured, effortless.

"This is not a classroom, John. If you are here, it must be for something of importance."

John smirked, bowing slightly, his tone dripping with false politeness.

"Indeed, Headmaster. I bring… troubling news."

Falani's gaze finally lifted, piercing and calculating.

"Go on."

John took his time, stepping forward, hands clasped behind his back as if he were delivering the most important revelation of the century.

"Aleeman has left the academy without permission."

Falani's expression remained unreadable.

John pressed on, his smirk widening.

"Along with Finn and Wang Ji-Pang. And do you know why?"

He tilted his head slightly, as if savouring the moment before delivering the final blow.

"He went to find Shi Zhao Mei."

The air shifted.

The room seemed to still, as if the very walls were listening.

Falani said nothing at first.

Then—a slow inhale, measured, controlled.

"And where did you come across such information?"

John shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

"Hua-Jing knows."

Falani's brows furrowed slightly.

"And why would he go after a mere student?"

John chuckled.

"Because she's not just a student, Headmaster. She's hiding something."

Falani's gaze darkened, his fingers pressing together beneath his chin.

"Interesting."

Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pressed a rune on his desk, summoning a soft chime in the air.

Within seconds, the doors opened, and Alenka—a composed, poised woman of strict discipline—stepped in.

Her long platinum hair was braided over her shoulder, her academy robes crisp, the insignia of her rank gleaming on her shoulder.

"You called, Headmaster?"

Falani nodded.

"Bring me Hua-Jing Hakiman. Immediately."

Alenka bowed slightly and left without a word.

John gave a satisfied smile.

"Then, if there is nothing more, I shall take my leave."

Falani nodded absently, already deep in thought.

John turned on his heel, and as he walked out, a wicked grin curled on his lips.

His plan was falling into place.

Hua-Jing was ushered into the study, her footsteps hesitant yet her expression composed.

She glanced at John's retreating figure as he passed her in the corridor, the smug look on his face instantly setting off alarm bells in her head.

As soon as she stepped in, the doors shut behind her with an ominous thud.

Falani's gaze settled upon her, unreadable, calculating.

For a moment, the silence stretched between them like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Then—his voice cut through it, sharp and exact.

"Where is your brother?"

Hua-Jing's lips parted slightly, but she quickly masked her hesitation.

"Why do you ask?"

Falani's eyes gleamed with something dangerously close to amusement.

"Do not test me, child. You and I both know that your brother does not vanish without reason. Where has he gone?"

Hua-Jing straightened her shoulders, choosing her words carefully.

"I do not keep track of Aleeman every second of the day, Headmaster. He could be—"

"Hua-Jing."

Falani's voice dropped just slightly, a mere whisper of authority.

Yet it was enough to send a ripple of unease down her spine.

She swallowed.

She was a brilliant liar when needed.

But Falani?

He was a master at pulling truth from shadows.

Her fingers twitched slightly at her sides.

Falani watched her, his head tilting just slightly, like a man reading an old script he had memorised long ago.

"Shall I make it easier for you?" He leaned back. "I already know he went to the Eastern Region."

Hua-Jing's pulse quickened.

She forced her expression to remain still.

But her silence?

It was enough.

Falani exhaled slowly.

Then, in a voice as smooth as silk, as sharp as steel, he murmured—

"The Dragon Clans."

Hua-Jing's heart sank.

Falani tapped his fingers against the desk, his gaze drifting to the flickering lanterns before he spoke again.

"You are intelligent, Hua-Jing. And I admire loyalty."

His eyes locked onto hers, piercing, unrelenting.

"But do not mistake my patience for blindness."

Hua-Jing forced herself to remain composed.

"What do you intend to do?"

Falani smiled slightly, his fingers steepling together.

"That depends entirely on what happens next."

The tension hung between them, thick as storm clouds before the downpour.

Hua-Jing had no idea what Aleeman was walking into.

But one thing was certain.

Headmaster Falani would not let this go unnoticed.

The Fragrant Moon Pavilion (香月阁) was a world apart from the brutal politics of the Ji-Gong imperial court. A paradise built for the Emperor's concubines and female attendants, where soft silk curtains swayed like whispers in the evening breeze, the scent of perfumed incense coiling through the air like unseen phantoms.

Moonlight spilled over the intricately tiled walkways, illuminating koi ponds where golden fish swam lazily beneath the reflection of the cherry blossoms.

Laughter drifted through the corridors, the soft murmurs of concubines gossiping and whispering secrets in hushed voices, unaware that, among them, a predator prowled unseen.

Aleeman Hakiman, disguised as one of the imperial guards, moved with careful precision.

His posture was stiff, controlled—a perfect imitation of a soldier on duty, yet his keen eyes flickered over every shadowed alcove, every passing figure.

He needed information.

And most importantly—he needed to find Shi Zhao Mei.

His boots clicked softly against the polished stone paths as he turned a corner, only to halt abruptly when a figure stepped in front of him.

A young female servant, barely out of her teenage years, stood before him, her wide, curious eyes studying him intently.

Her robes were simple but well-kept, the sleeves slightly oversized for her delicate frame.

Aleeman straightened slightly, keeping his voice even.

"Is something the matter?"

The girl tilted her head, her expression both hesitant and intrigued.

"You do not belong here."

Aleeman's lips curled into a faint smirk beneath his mask.

"I am on patrol."

The girl narrowed her eyes slightly, stepping closer.

"Then why are you wandering near the women's quarters?"

Aleeman paused for a fraction of a second before adjusting his stance.

"I am looking for someone."

The servant's brows furrowed slightly.

"Who?"

Aleeman lowered his voice, keeping it just above a whisper.

"Shi Zhao Mei."

The girl's face scrunched in confusion.

"Shi Zhao Mei? I do not know of such a person."

Aleeman exhaled slowly, thinking fast.

"Perhaps I have the wrong name. She is a woman of striking beauty—tall, with raven-black hair, eyes the colour of blood at dusk, and a presence that commands attention even in silence."

The servant's expression flickered with sudden realisation.

"Oh!"

Aleeman leaned forward slightly, hopeful.

But the girl's next words made his entire body tense.

"You mean… Prince Wei Yang Hong!"

Aleeman stared.

"Prince?"

The servant nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes! Well… formerly. He—ah, she was once the pride of the Ji-Gong Clan! The Emperor's strongest son! But then…" she hesitated. "The curse of Yuán Nǚ Wáng (怨女王) befell him. And now, he is—" she bit her lip. "Well, she."

Aleeman's mind reeled.

He had heard rumours of the curse, but never had he thought…

Shi Zhao Mei—the very woman he had saved, the woman he had fought alongside, the woman he had bickered with, laughed with…

Had once been Prince Wei Yang Hong.

A sudden wave of understanding crashed through him.

Her evasiveness.

Her silence about her past.

The way she fought like a warrior who had spent their entire life on the battlefield.

His hand clenched at his side.

She hadn't just been a noble.

She had been the heir to an empire.

Before he could ask more, a sharp voice cut through the air.

"What are you doing?"

Both Aleeman and the young servant stiffened as a tall, imposing figure approached.

The head servant.

Dressed in fine imperial silks, her greying hair bound in an elaborate bun, she carried an aura of strict authority. Her hawk-like eyes scanned the scene, her expression one of immediate suspicion.

Aleeman bowed slightly, adopting the respectful posture of a guard.

The young servant quickly lowered her head, fidgeting nervously.

"I—I was just—"

Aleeman cut in smoothly.

"Nothing of concern, Head Servant. Just a brief inquiry."

The older woman's gaze lingered on him, her eyes sharp, calculating.

"I do not recall seeing you before."

Aleeman met her gaze without hesitation.

"I was recently assigned to the palace guard."

The head servant tilted her head, studying him closely.

For a moment, Aleeman felt the weight of her scrutiny.

Then—

"Hmph."

She narrowed her eyes slightly but did not press further.

"I do not have time for idle chatter. Get back to your post."

Aleeman nodded sharply.

"Of course."

With that, he turned and strode away, his heartbeat steady despite the rush of adrenaline in his veins.

Behind him, the head servant watched his retreating form, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Something is not right," she murmured to herself.

And as she turned back to the servant girl, she said coldly—

"If I find out you have been speaking to the wrong people, you will regret it."

The girl swallowed hard and nodded.

But in the depths of the palace, Aleeman's mind was already racing.

He had his answer.

Now, he needed to find her.

Before it was too late.

The halls of the Ji-Gong palace whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen.

Aleeman moved through its labyrinthine corridors like a shadow cut from the night itself, his steps precise, calculated—each movement blending into the ancient silence of the imperial stronghold.

The flickering lanterns cast their golden glow upon the lacquered woodwork, the polished jade tiles reflecting the ghostly shimmer of his passing form.

Then—footsteps.

His instincts flared like a blade drawn from its sheath.

Without hesitation, he tilted his chin downward, adjusting his stolen guard's mask, and pressed himself into the shadows of a towering pillar.

Two imperial officers strode past, their conversation hushed yet tense, their hands resting on the hilts of their ceremonial swords.

Aleeman's heart beat steadily, his body motionless as stone.

When the sound of their boots faded into the distance, he exhaled softly, stepping back into motion.

But he had no time to waste.

He had to find something—anything—that revealed Emperor Weng Jin Shun's true intent.

And, more importantly—he had to find Shi Zhao Mei.

Meanwhile, within the grand expanse of the Jade Blossom Chambers, Shi Zhao Mei lay sprawled unceremoniously on her bed, one arm flung over her face, the other tapping against her stomach in impatient frustration.

She was bored.

The silken canopy above her swayed gently with the evening breeze, the faint scent of magnolia clinging to the air.

But it was not the boredom that troubled her.

It was her mother's words.

"I hope he stays by your side."

Her heart gave an unwelcome pound.

She scowled.

Then scowled harder.

She was a prince—a warrior, a commander, the strongest fighter the Ji-Gong Clan had ever known!

And yet—

Why was she lying here thinking about a brute with more muscle than sense, whose idea of strategy was to charge at his enemies first and ask questions later?!

Her face heated up at the mere thought.

"Ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "Utterly ridiculous. Preposterous. Impossible. I am a man—a prince! I do not feel…"

Her fingers absently traced the embroidery on her robes.

"...these things."

Then—a sharp knock on the door.

Shi Zhao Mei bolted upright so fast she nearly fell off the bed.

She cleared her throat.

"Come in."

The doors glided open, and the moment Shi Zhao Mei saw who entered, her entire body stiffened.

Standing before her was a vision of strength and beauty—General Xuè Lián (雪莲), the renowned war heroine of the North-East frontier.

Clad in elegant battle robes of deep crimson, embroidered with golden threads of ancient dragon motifs, she carried herself with an aura of absolute command.

Her obsidian hair was swept into a regal bun, with strands framing her sharp yet graceful features, her striking jade-green eyes piercing with the intensity of a tempest.

Shi Zhao Mei swallowed. Hard.

"Oh no."

General Xuè Lián stepped forward, her expression unreadable.

"Wei Yang Hong, you have returned."

Shi Zhao Mei felt her palms sweat.

The problem?

This was the woman Wei Yang Hong had once been hopelessly infatuated with.

The woman who had once been his ideal.

And now, standing before her, Shi Zhao Mei could feel her face turning redder than her own robes.

"This is a nightmare."

Xuè Lián raised a delicate brow.

"Are you unwell? You look flushed."

"NO." Shi Zhao Mei blurted out immediately, voice embarrassingly high-pitched.

Xuè Lián narrowed her eyes slightly.

Shi Zhao Mei cleared her throat, composing herself as best she could.

"I mean—of course not. I am perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Why wouldn't I be?! Oh, the heavens, strike me down!"

Xuè Lián studied her for a long moment before letting out a soft hum.

"You have changed."

Shi Zhao Mei froze.

"I… have?"

The general's gaze lingered upon her, thoughtful.

"There is something different about you. Your presence, your mannerisms… your aura."

Shi Zhao Mei nearly choked.

"Oh, if only you knew."

Desperate to divert the conversation, she forced a smirk.

"What can I say? Curses change a person."

Xuè Lián tilted her head. "Perhaps."

Then, with the grace of a tigress surveying its prey, she leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering.

"But tell me, Wei Yang Hong. What will you do now that you have returned?"

Shi Zhao Mei opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

And all that came out was—

"Uhh…"

"By the ancestors, this is a disaster."

Aleeman slipped into the grand courtroom, the towering doors sealing behind him with a low, foreboding hum.

The chamber was vast, its high ceiling adorned with golden serpentine dragons, their sapphire eyes glinting under the dim lanterns.

This was where the emperor made his declarations. Where war was planned. Where fates were sealed.

Aleeman moved swiftly, scanning the room, searching for anything—documents, maps, orders—that could reveal Weng Jin Shun's next move.

His gloved fingers sifted through scrolls, his sharp eyes flickering over strategic war plans.

Then—voices.

Footsteps echoed down the hall.

Aleeman's breath stilled.

He moved quickly, pressing himself behind one of the towering red pillars just as the doors creaked open.

Two figures entered.

Emperor Weng Jin Shun and Monk Pan Zhihaou.

Aleeman's eyes darkened as he listened.

"She has returned." The emperor's voice was low, calculated.

Pan Zhihaou nodded. "The gods will not forgive her existence. The longer she remains, the more we risk the wrath of heaven."

Weng Jin Shun exhaled slowly. "Then it must be done."

Pan Zhihaou's voice sharpened. "We will execute her, as it was foretold. Before she curses this clan any further."

Aleeman's muscles tensed. His fingers curled into fists.

They were planning to kill Shi Zhao Mei.

His heartbeat was steady, controlled—yet within him, a storm brewed.

He had to act.

And he had to act fast.

The walls of Principal Aiguo Wei-Tang's office loomed high, a sanctum of authority where judgment was passed like the swing of an executioner's blade.

The room itself was a portrait of discipline and precision—dark oak bookshelves lined with tomes of history and war strategy, scrolls encased in golden frames detailing the academy's unshaken laws. A grand window stretched behind his imposing obsidian desk, offering a hawk's-eye view of the sprawling campus, where students trained under the relentless morning sun.

But within these walls, within this very chamber—a storm brewed.

Aiguo Wei-Tang's hand slammed against the wooden desk, the impact sending a tremor through the room.

His normally calm, calculating expression twisted into one of sheer ire, his jaw tightening, his nostrils flaring.

"That arrogant whelp!" His voice was a deep snarl, his fingers pressing into the desk as if he could shatter it through sheer will. "He thinks himself above the laws of this academy? Above me?"

His son, John Wei-Tang, stood before him, arms folded, his smirk one of self-satisfaction.

"What did I tell you, Father?" John's voice dripped with mockery. "That fool believes being 'commander' grants him the right to act as he pleases. Running off to the Eastern Region like a hero in some grand tale, thinking he can chase after that girl without consequence."

Aiguo's gaze snapped toward his son, his sharp eyes narrowing.

"Shi Zhao Mei…" His voice was more thoughtful now, calculating, the gears in his mind turning. "Tell me, John—how do you know she is from Ji-Gong?"

John tilted his chin up slightly, as if basking in his father's attention.

"It is obvious. Her appearance alone betrays her origins—the pale skin, the sharp regal features, but most importantly…" he paused, then smirked, "her aesthetic."

Aiguo raised a brow.

John continued, his voice smooth, confident.

"She wears darkish red. Not just any red—the kind of deep, smouldering hue that the Ji-Gong Clan is infamous for. Their warriors, their nobility, their entire culture is wrapped in the colour of twilight and blood. Their silk is woven with gold and obsidian embroidery, and their warriors—" he chuckled, "always clad in blackened armour or crimson battle robes. She carries that essence, Father."

Aiguo's lips curled into a slow, approving smirk.

"Impressive."

John bowed slightly, feigning humility, though the pride in his eyes gleamed like sharpened steel.

Aiguo leaned back in his chair, interlacing his fingers, his smirk deepening into something far more sinister.

"So Aleeman has brought a Ji-Gong stray into our academy?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "The arrogance. The sheer recklessness."

John grinned. "What shall we do about it, Father?"

Aiguo tapped his fingers against the desk, his voice low, commanding.

"First, we shall send a message to the Eastern Region. If Aleeman believes he can play commander outside these walls, let us see how well he fares when real power moves against him."

John's eyes gleamed with anticipation.

"And Shi Zhao Mei?"

Aiguo let out a dark chuckle, his expression unreadable yet filled with intent.

"A girl from Ji-Gong, walking among us as if she belongs? No, my son. She does not belong."

His eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade glinting under the moonlight.

"Soon, she will learn."