Just Like Old Times

He turned his back on them.

"That's all you understand."

His words hung in the air like a knife—cold, final.

Yet the two nobles remained kneeling, heads bowed low. Hoping. Trembling.

Feng Yun paused, then laughed—a sound so casual it made the silence even more unbearable.

"Hahaha… still bowing?" He turned back to them. "Do you think I forgive you? Or are you just offering your necks for the blade?"

They flinched.

Then—he hugged them.

Briefly. Casually. Like old friends.

Van and the general stiffened. Their bodies froze, as if the gesture itself were a trap.

"Th-thank you… for forgiving us both…" Van whispered.

Feng Yun smiled and placed a firm hand on each of their shoulders.

"So," he said, almost playfully, "you're free now, right? Why don't we celebrate? Just like the old days. No thrones. No betrayal. Just drinks and stories—friends, not a king and his nobles."

Van hesitated. "I… I'm sorry, but Your Majesty, I must return to Duke—"

The moment the word left his lips, Feng Yun's eyes snapped toward him.

The warmth vanished.

"You refuse me?" His voice was quiet—deadly quiet.

A ripple of killing intent filled the space.

"I offer my hand. And you slap it?"

Van's knees gave out. He collapsed.

"Forgive me, my lord!" he cried, forehead scraping the ground. "My words—my intent—please! I meant no disrespect!"

The general followed suit. "My lord, he's a fool. A madman, even! Don't take his words seriously. Let us go now—before the moon rises."

Feng Yun's expression softened.

Slightly.

He stepped past them. "Go ahead then. I'll catch up."

They dared not argue. They rose and scurried off—half-bowing, half-running—like beaten dogs given a leash.

Feng Yun turned toward his son, Yichen, who had been watching silently from the edge of the platform.

He leaned down and whispered into his ear, too softly for any to hear.

Yichen's eyes widened. He nodded without a word.

Then, Feng Yun vanished from sight.

And arrived at the old tavern.

It was a forgotten place. Dusty. Empty. Once a hideout for drunken laughs and bad decisions.

Van and the general sat at the table, nervously sipping wine.

The warmth had left the room. Their cups clinked in silence.

"I-Is he coming?" Van muttered.

The general didn't answer. His hands trembled as he brought the cup to his lips.

Van glanced sideways and whispered, "Do you think he'll poison our food?"

The general didn't answer. His lips were tight. But his silence spoke louder than words.

His thoughts, however, were louder still.

He wouldn't dare… would he? Killing us now would shake the nobles. Our two houses still hold sixty percent of the kingdom's wealth and influence. Doing so would make his reign unstable… unless… he wants to rule through fear.

But he can punish us. A hundred lashes, exile… he wouldn't be breaking tradition that way. Just flexing power.

The door creaked.

Both men stiffened.

Feng Yun stepped into the tavern, his figure framed by the silver wash of moonlight. Shadows stretched behind him like cloaks of silent authority.

He smiled.

Not warmly. Not kindly.

A smile sharpened by amusement… and perhaps, inevitability.

The two nobles—General Hao and Minister Van—stood at once, bowing low.

"Your Majesty."

Feng Yun's gaze flicked from their bowed heads to the wine-stained table, and then back to them.

"You started drinking before me?" he asked, tone light—almost playful. "So eager, are we?"

The smile never left his face.

But theirs faded immediately.

Their eyes widened as realization hit them like a blade to the chest.

They had drunk before the king.

A grave offense.

Panic surged into their movements. They sprang to their feet, knocking over their cups in their haste. Dark wine spilled across the table like blood from a slit throat.

"Forgive us, my lord!" Van stammered, eyes trembling. "We forgot ourselves. We didn't mean any disrespect—truly!"

"We don't know how we're making so many mistakes in a row," the general added, nearly tripping over his own tongue. "Please, show mercy!"

Feng Yun stood.

They froze.

But instead of lashing out, he slowly walked past them and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. The gesture was gentle, almost reassuring.

"Don't panic," he said, his voice smooth as polished jade. "Didn't I tell you already?"

His crimson eyes gleamed under the lanternlight.

"Tonight, I'm not a king. Think of me… as a friend."

The crushing pressure in the room seemed to lift at once.

Both nobles let out breathless sighs of relief, nodding quickly.

"Y-yes. Of course," Van said, forcing a shaky smile.

The general chuckled nervously. "Friends, then. Just like before."

Feng Yun returned to his seat, leaned back lazily, and crossed one leg over the other. He tapped the wooden table with a single finger, rhythmic and slow.

"Good," he said softly.

"But tell me…"

His eyes drifted to the spilled wine on the floor, its crimson hue soaking into the wooden boards like blood on battlefield soil.

"…How's the taste?"

They blinked, confused.

"Good," Van said with hesitation. "It was… smooth, your Majesty—uh, I mean—"

"Don't correct yourself," Feng Yun said, grinning. "Tonight, I'm a friend. Remember?"

He waved his hand, and a servant quickly entered with more wine and dishes. They drank again, this time together, and laughed about politics, generals, and gossip within the court.

Yet every laugh from Feng Yun felt too measured, too controlled. Every glance too deliberate.

And still, the nobles drank.

The two nobles gave forced smiles and murmured their approval, though unease lingered in their eyes.

Feng Yun ordered more wine and food, and for a while, they drank and laughed together, exchanging hollow words about court politics, alliances, and taxes. But beneath the laughter, tension simmered like poison in the cup.

As the moon reached its peak, the tavern lights dimmed. Feng Yun stood, his movements swaying, voice slurred with apparent drunkenness.

"W-what are you both gonna do now?" he mumbled. "Home?"

The general and Minister Van clumsily stood up, their legs wobbling. They nodded in agreement, lips forming words they couldn't speak.

Then they collapsed—hard—onto the floor.

The laughter that followed wasn't the awkward chuckle of drunken joy. It was sharp, cold, and cruel.

Feng Yun looked down at their twitching bodies and laughed again, swaying as he wiped nonexistent dust from his shoulder.

"Manager?" he called lazily. "Come out."

From the shadows, two men in black robes stepped forward and bowed.

"We greet the King."

But Feng Yun raised his hand, silencing them.

"You poisoned their wine, just as I ordered," he said, his voice suddenly clear. No longer drunk—only deadly. "Good. Now clean their bodies. Cut them into small pieces and feed them to your dogs."

A pause.

"If they're not hungry... I'll feed you to your dogs."

The two assassins flinched but nodded without protest. This was the cost of serving Feng Yun. Everyone knew the rewards were great—but so were the horrors.

Feng Yun turned toward the door, muttering under his breath.

"Come to the palace early tomorrow. I'll personally deliver your rewards."

With slow, heavy steps, he exited the tavern, feigning the stagger of a drunk man. But outside, under the pale moonlight and whispering winds, his expression sharpened.

He straightened his posture and calmly brushed specks of wine from his robes.

The night air was cold.

But his voice was colder.

"They must've thought I'd poison their food when I arrived. But I gave the order before the tournament even began. Told the manager when to act, down to the hour."

He glanced back at the tavern, then ahead toward the darkened road.

"This... is what happens when someone betrays the likes of me."

Back at the palace, Yichen stood in front of a mirror, whispering to himself:

"So this is what it means to be king."

His eyes glinted—not with fear. But with hunger.