A cold wind slithered through the streets of Chang'an, carrying whispers of blood and betrayal.
Zhao Min stood motionless in the courtyard of a secluded estate, his sword still humming from the force of its last strike. The assassin at his feet let out a final, ragged breath before the light faded from his eyes.
It was the third attempt on his life in less than two weeks.
Liang Hua emerged from the shadows, stepping over the fallen corpse with practiced ease. The dim lantern light flickered across her face, revealing neither fear nor shock—only calculation.
She knelt, fingers brushing over the black sigil stitched onto the assassin's sleeve. "A dragon wrapped around a broken sword." Her voice was low, sharp. "Not imperial. Not any known sect."
Zhao Min wiped his blade on the assassin's robes. "Someone doesn't want us looking too closely."
Liang Hua's gaze lifted to his, steady and unwavering. "Then we're getting close."
A gust of wind howled through the courtyard, lifting the tattered banners hanging from the pillars. Zhao Min's grip on his sword tightened.
A storm was coming.
A Warning in the Dark
Hours later, the streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional patrols. Zhao Min rode through the city with Liang Hua at his side, their cloaks drawn tightly against the biting wind.
They had just turned onto a deserted alleyway when a shadow peeled away from the darkness ahead. Zhao Min reined in his horse, muscles tensed.
The figure moved without urgency, stepping into the moonlight. His face was obscured by layers of cloth, but his posture held an eerie familiarity.
"Prince Zhao Min." The voice was hoarse, as if worn from years of whispers. "You do not yet see the full game being played, but the enemy is already within your walls."
Zhao Min's hand went to his sword. "Who are you?"
The figure chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "A shadow from a past you have forgotten. That is not what matters." He tilted his head slightly. "What matters is this—the throne wavers. And when it falls, the empire will burn."
Liang Hua's voice was calm, yet laced with quiet menace. "Who is behind this?"
The stranger took a slow step back, the moonlight slipping from his figure. "Ask yourself, General Liang—who profits most from the emperor's fall?"
Then, like a wisp of mist, he vanished into the night.
The Gathering at the Imperial Court
By dawn, the capital was stirring with unrest. The scent of incense curled through the corridors of the palace as nobles, generals, and ministers gathered in the Great Hall. The emperor's throne loomed above them, empty, while Grand Chancellor Wei stood in the center of the room, his silk robes pooling around him like a waiting viper.
Zhao Min entered, his expression unreadable. He could feel the weight of dozens of gazes shifting toward him.
"Your Highness," Chancellor Wei greeted smoothly. "Another night, another attempt on your life. And yet, still no culprit, no name—only whispers of war."
Zhao Min stepped forward, his voice cool but laced with steel. "Then perhaps you should ask yourself, Chancellor—who benefits from this chaos?"
A ripple of unease spread through the court. Some averted their eyes. Others shifted uncomfortably.
Chancellor Wei, however, only smiled.
He knows.
Zhao Min held his gaze. He knows, and yet he does not fear.
The storm was no longer approaching. It had already begun.