The marble floor of the imperial court was cold against Jin Mu-ryong's knees.
The chains bit into Mu-ryong's wrists with every step, their serrated edges gnawing at flesh already raw from three months in the Obsidian Maw. The poison coating the spikes wasn't meant to kill—just to make sure he felt everything.
Behind him, the armored guards formed an impenetrable wall, their spears angled to catch the sunlight and blind any who dared look too closely at the prisoner. Not that there were many onlookers. The Emperor had decreed this a closed trial, and the streets had been cleared of commoners. Only the silhouettes of nobles peeked from curtained balconies, their whispers slithering down like snakes:
"The last of the Frozen Mountain Sect..."
"...heard he killed thirty men before they subdued him..."
"...Emperor will make an example of him..."
The courtroom was a study in calculated intimidation:
The Ceiling: A domed mosaic of the Emperor's greatest victories, each tile positioned so the condemned would see them as they knelt.
The Floor: Polished black marble, chilled to force shivers from even the strongest warriors.
The Throne: Carved from the Heartwood of the First Phoenix, a relic Mu-ryong's ancestors had died protecting. Now it cradled the man who had ordered their slaughter.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound echoed through the hollowed-out grandeur of the Imperial Boulevard, where shadows stretched too long in the setting sun. Mu-ryong kept his head raised, ignoring the way his torn robes stuck to the whip-wounds on his back. Let the few bold onlookers peering from barred windows see. Let them remember the last disciple of the Frozen Mountain Sect walking unbowed to his own execution.
"A warrior's pride isn't in his stance, but in where he chooses to bleed." Grandmaster Han's voice rang clear as the day he'd said it, fifteen years ago, when a ten-year-old Mu-ryong had wept over a sprained wrist. The old man had pressed a handful of snow to the injury, his fingers calloused from decades of wielding the Frostvein Saber. "Here—cold seals the pain away. Remember this when the empire comes for you."
The memory faded as the courtroom doors loomed ahead—twenty feet of black iron etched with scenes of the Emperor's triumphs. The carving of the Massacre at Red River showed frozen mountain disciples falling beneath imperial blades. Mu-ryong's stomach twisted. He'd been six when that happened. Had watched from a hidden compartment in the library as—
"Kneel."
A guard's boot between his shoulders sent him crashing onto the chilled marble. The impact jolted through his knees, but he refused to groan. Instead, he focused on the smell—sandalwood incense undercut by something metallic. Blood, maybe. Old or new, he couldn't tell.
Above him, Emperor Liang lounged on the Phoenix Heartwood Throne, its arms carved into clutching talons. The goblet in his hand was fashioned from a skull Mu-ryong recognized: Grandmaster Han's.
"This is yours now." The grandmaster had pressed the Frostvein Saber into twelve-year-old Mu-ryong's hands after his first successful duel. The blade's edge gleamed with the same pale light as the old man's eyes. "It'll freeze the blood of any man who tries to break his oaths."
Mu-ryong's fingers twitched for a weapon long-since taken.
"Jin Mu-ryong." The Grand Inquisitor's voice boomed. "You stand accused of treason against the Dragon Throne. Poisoning the western garrisons. Selling secrets to the Shadow Sects. How do you plead?"
Mu-ryong spat a glob of blood onto the pristine floor.
"Innocent." The word tore from his throat like broken glass.
A murmur rippled through the assembled nobles. The Emperor sighed, swirling wine in a goblet fashioned from his grandmaster's skull.
"We have evidence."
A scroll unfurled—human parchment, its edges still puckered where skin had been stretched to dry. The handwriting was his. The words weren't.
"This details troop movements along the Frozen Peaks," said the Inquisitor. "Written in your hand."
"Forged," Mu-ryong spat.
"By whom?" The Emperor leaned forward, his crown's jade beads clinking. "Your sect was the last master of illusion arts. Who else could replicate your hand so perfectly?"
They made him watch the "confession" first.
A projection crystal flared to life, showing a doppelgänger with Mu-ryong's face admitting to every crime. The details were perfect—the cadence of his speech, the way he tucked his left thumb into his palm when lying, even the scar along his jaw from the Battle of Twin Rivers. "This art reveals truth by mimicking it. Never use it for deception."
"This is impossible," Mu-ryong whispered.
"Is it?" The Emperor leaned forward. "The Frozen Mountain Sect always did specialize in illusion arts, did they not?"
A trap.
A test.
Mu-ryong understood now. This trial wasn't about justice. It was about breaking the last heir of a sect that had dared defy the throne.
Now that same elder stood at the Emperor's side, clad in violet silk. His face was a mask, but his fingers—stained with ink Mu-ryong knew came from Frozen Mountain's sacred texts—trembled.
"And then," the Emperor murmured, "there's this."
A chest thudded before Mu-ryong. Inside lay crimson Shadow Sect robes, reeking of blood and smoke. Nestled in the folds—a jade hairpin, its plum blossoms chipped but unmistakable.
Mu-ryong's breath stopped.
Mother's gift.
"Wear this when you need reminding of who you are." His mother had pinned it into his hair the morning he left for Frozen Mountain, her hands smelling of medicinal herbs. The jade had been warm from her touch. "Plum blossoms thrive in winter, just like our family."
Elder Xue met his eyes at last—and smiled.
Something inside Mu-ryong cracked.
Not bone. Not spirit.
The last seal Grandmaster Han had etched into his dantian at birth.
The brand on his cheek burned black.
Then—
Light.
Not the gentle glow of dawn, but a golden inferno erupting from his blood. Sigils older than the empire spiraled through the air, their edges jagged enough to cut the shadows between heartbeats. The chains vaporized. The marble cracked. The Emperor's precious mosaics shattered, raining glass like dying stars.
Mu-ryong barely registered the screams as the light consumed him. His body fractured—not with pain, but with a terrible, yawning emptiness, as if his soul were being unmade and remade in the same instant.The last thing Mu-ryong saw was the Emperor's face—not smug, but terrified—before the light collapsed inward, and the world vanished.
Consciousness returned in fragments.
The stench of rotting parchment.
The weight of unfamiliar chains.
And a voice, whispering through the darkness:
"Ah. Another broken soul ascends."