Under the blazing midday sun, Ji-Gong Clan's capital stood like a jewel of antiquity wrapped in the embrace of modernity—a paradox woven from the golden threads of tradition and the shimmering steel of innovation.
The streets, paved with ancient stone, bore the weight of holographic lanterns, their calligraphic inscriptions flickering with digital incandescence. Towering crimson pagodas stood beside sleek neon skyscrapers, their curved roofs adorned with cyber-etched dragons that coiled between circuitry and mysticism. The air carried the mingled scents of incense, sizzling street food, and the distant hum of hovering rickshaws gliding past merchants clad in flowing silk robes interwoven with nanotech filaments.
Yet, beneath the splendor, whispers of blood and war slithered between the alleyways, carried by tongues well-versed in both treachery and fate.
Outside The Cobalt Phoenix Tavern, a lone man sat on the carved wooden steps, his back leaning lazily against a holographic dragon insignia that pulsed with an ethereal glow. His disheveled ink-black hair framed a face that carried the weary smirk of a man who had seen death and laughed in its face. Beneath the drowsy gleam of his narrow, sharp amber eyes, shadows of secrets coiled like unseen vipers.
Bai Hànfeng—The Phantom of Ji-Gong, a man whose name was uttered only in hushed tones by those who still wished to see another sunrise.
Dressed in a dark indigo robe, stitched with scarlet embroidery resembling ghostly flames, he sat with his legs lazily stretched, one hand twirling a stealth dagger between his fingers, the other cradling a ceramic flask of rice wine—the liquid within shimmering under the daylight like liquid gold.
Beside him, his fellow Ji-Gong assassins laughed boisterously, their words slurred from too much wine but edged with dangerous amusement.
"Tch, what a joke. The great Emperor sent a shadow to eliminate the fallen prince, and yet the only thing that returned was his severed head."
Another man snorted, gulping down his wine. "Serves him right. No assassin should take on a mission blind. The wolf of Abjannas is no ordinary prey."
A third grinned drunkenly, tapping his empty flask against the wooden step. "Ahh, but tell me—do we still call the prince a 'he' when he's now a she? Have you seen her? That gemstone-bellied woman? A tragedy, truly… to lose one's kingdom and be cursed into a beauty that turns even enemies into fools."
At this, Bai Hànfeng exhaled a quiet chuckle, raising his flask slightly as though to toast the irony. "The world enjoys cruel jokes." He took a long, slow sip before adding, "Though I'd pay handsomely to see the look on His Majesty's face when he heard his own child earned such a name."
His laughter, however, was cut short.
"Hey, Bai Hànfeng—how much longer do you plan to drown yourself in wine?"
The voice—cool and edged like steel tempered in moonlight—made the group still for a fraction of a second before turning their heads.
General Xuè Lián.
She stood at the entrance of the tavern, her blood-red cloak billowing slightly in the wind, contrasting against the pristine white and gold of her battle attire. Her Twin Crimson Blades – Xuefang & Luoyan rested against her hip, their lacquered scabbards humming with restrained lethality.
The assassins exchanged wary glances—for where Bai Hànfeng was a ghost, Xuè Lián was a storm, and both were equally deadly.
Bai Hànfeng smirked, tilting his head lazily to glance at her. "Ah, General. You wound me. A man can't even enjoy his drink in peace?"
Xuè Lián folded her arms, her piercing onyx eyes unwavering. "A man can enjoy his drink. A commander of Ji-Gong's elite assassins? Not when duty calls."
The other assassins quickly excused themselves, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Bai Hànfeng gave a slow exhale, amused, before pushing himself to his feet.
"Shall we walk, then?" He tossed the near-empty flask aside, straightening his posture with the effortless grace of a predator at rest.
She nodded once, and they moved through the bustling streets, their steps synchronised—one of discipline, the other of mischief restrained beneath calculated ease.
For a moment, neither spoke, until Xuè Lián finally broke the silence.
"The Emperor will not stop."
Bai Hànfeng tilted his head, golden eyes gleaming with intrigue. "The wolf vexes him, does he?"
She clenched her jaw. "Not just the wolf." She hesitated. "It's Wei Yang Hong… No, Shi Zhao Mei. He—she—" Xuè Lián exhaled sharply, fists tightening. "The Emperor will not hesitate to kill his own blood."
Bai Hànfeng was silent for a moment before he let out a quiet chuckle.
"Fathers do love their heirless thrones more than their heirs."
Xuè Lián shot him a glare, but he merely shrugged.
"And what do you expect of me, General? Shall I slit the Emperor's throat in his sleep? Or perhaps you'd rather me hand you his head on a platter?" His tone was playful, but beneath it lay an unspoken understanding of the weight behind her words.
She turned her head away, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I want to know your thoughts."
Bai Hànfeng sighed, rubbing his temple. "My thoughts?" He scoffed lightly. "My thoughts are that the wolf of Abjannas is a problem that Ji-Gong will soon regret underestimating."
Xuè Lián frowned. "You speak as though you admire him."
Bai Hànfeng chuckled, shaking his head. "Admiration? No. But respect, perhaps. Any man who can infiltrate the Imperial Palace, humiliate our ministers, escape, and then leave a message of war?"
He glanced at her with a devilish smirk.
"That is a man worth paying attention to."
Xuè Lián felt a strange unease settle in her gut. She had always seen Aleeman as an adversary, but was it possible he was… something more?
Bai Hànfeng continued, "And as for the fallen prince—now princess?" He sighed dramatically, stretching his arms. "Well, if the Emperor wants her dead so badly, she must be worth saving."
Xuè Lián came to a halt, staring at him.
Bai Hànfeng grinned, his fangs barely visible beneath his sly expression.
"So, General… shall we see how this story unfolds?"
She exhaled slowly, knowing that she had just awoken a spectre who only followed his own rules.
The winds of war were shifting. And the Phantom of Ji-Gong had just taken interest in the game.
Within the depths of the Imperial Command Hall, where marble columns bore golden calligraphy that whispered stories of war and triumph, General Xuè Lián stood beside Commander Bai Hànfeng, both figures cloaked in unreadable expressions.
The air in the chamber was thick with silence, the kind that precedes storms.
Then came a hurried knock.
"Enter." Xuè Lián's voice cut through the quiet like the edge of a newly sharpened dao.
The doors swung open, revealing a young scout clad in a Ji-Gong hunter's garb, his tunic dusted with dirt and leaves. His chest rose and fell with exertion, beads of sweat glistening upon his brow, as he saluted in haste.
His name was Zhào Yunsheng—one of the most agile trackers among the Ji-Gong elite.
"General," he panted, "Commander. I bring urgent news."
Xuè Lián narrowed her eyes, stepping forward. "Speak."
Zhào Yunsheng took a deep breath, steadying himself before launching into his tale.
"I had gone hunting in Katilan Forest at dawn," he began, his voice lined with urgency. "The air was thick with mist, and the ground was littered with brittle leaves. I was tracking a stag when I heard it—"
His brows furrowed as he recounted the moment.
"The sound of boots. Not one pair, but many. A rhythmic clash—metal greaves grinding against dry earth, disciplined and heavy. It was an army's march."
Bai Hànfeng, who had been leisurely twirling a stealth dagger between his fingers, ceased his movement. "An army?"
Zhào Yunsheng nodded swiftly. "Yes, but not Ji-Gong's."
Xuè Lián folded her arms, the gleam in her eyes sharpening. "Then whose?"
The scout swallowed, then continued.
"I followed them, keeping to the shadows."
"Risky," Bai Hànfeng noted, the corner of his lips quirking slightly. "Brave, but foolish. Continue."
Zhào Yunsheng exhaled. "The soldiers were of Faliton. Their banners were furled, but their armor bore Queen Liskarm Jee's insignia. At their lead was none other than her daughter—Princess Velimira Kuznetsov, accompanied by her knight, Kaelith Voskana."
The weight of his words hung in the air like the moment before a guillotine fell.
Xuè Lián's brows furrowed deeply, her mind weaving through possibilities.
"Faliton forces… in Katilan Forest? That close to Ji-Gong's borders?"
"And not just on a casual stroll, I assume?" Bai Hànfeng added, his voice edged with amusement.
Zhào Yunsheng shook his head firmly. "They were heading toward an abandoned home deep within the forest—one I had never seen before. It was heavily guarded. I could not get close without exposing myself."
Xuè Lián tapped her fingers against her crossed arms, her mind racing.
"Did you hear their conversation?"
Zhào Yunsheng grimaced, shaking his head. "No. The knights were positioned too strategically—I could see their movements, but I couldn't hear what was spoken inside."
Bai Hànfeng let out a dramatic sigh, scratching the back of his head. "What a shame. I was hoping for a scandalous secret."
Xuè Lián shot him a look before returning her gaze to the scout.
"But you're certain they met someone there?"
Zhào Yunsheng nodded. "Yes, General. The way they entered—it was no routine inspection or brief stop. They sought someone. Someone important."
Bai Hànfeng hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "An abandoned home, soldiers of Faliton, a knight, a princess… and a clandestine meeting. How very intriguing."
Xuè Lián's lips pressed into a thin line. "And dangerous."
A silence stretched between them before Xuè Lián finally spoke, her voice measured and calculating.
"Whatever business Faliton has in Katilan Forest, it's tied to our Emperor. That much is certain."
Bai Hànfeng smirked, tilting his head. "Or perhaps more specifically—tied to the wolf of Abjannas… and the Gemstone Bellied Troublemaker former prince Wei Yang Hong."
Xuè Lián's fingers twitched against her hilt.
She knew Emperor Weng Jin Shun sought his fallen child's execution. But if Faliton was also moving in secrecy, then the conflict was no longer just a father hunting his cursed son-turned-daughter—this was a political game being played from multiple angles.
And the board was about to be bathed in blood.
Zhào Yunsheng, shifting on his feet, finally dared to ask, "General… Commander… what should we do?"
Xuè Lián lifted her gaze, her onyx eyes glinting like the edge of her blades.
"We find out who was inside that house."
Bai Hànfeng's grin widened, his amber eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh? Are we going to pay our little forest a visit?"
Xuè Lián nodded once, sharply. "Yes."
Bai Hànfeng stretched lazily, the leather of his gloves creaking as he flexed his fingers. "Ah, how exciting. The Phantom and the Crimson General… sneaking about in the shadows? If we were anyone else, I'd call it treason."
Xuè Lián ignored his teasing, turning to Zhào Yunsheng. "Return to your post. If you see any movement in the forest, report to me immediately."
The scout saluted before swiftly departing, his figure vanishing into the streets.
Bai Hànfeng adjusted the hilt of his Phantom Blade, a glint of anticipation in his golden eyes. "Shall we, General?"
Xuè Lián exhaled, casting one final glance towards the horizon where Katilan Forest lay cloaked in shadow.
Whatever was brewing there—it would not stay hidden for long.
And she would ensure she was there when the storm finally broke.
The great halls of Faliton's Ivory Citadel were cloaked in a mist of lavender incense, the scent curling through the gilded columns and velvet-draped archways like a living thing. Moonlight bled with evening light through the high stained-glass windows, casting eerie patterns upon the obsidian floor. Queen Liskarm Jee sat upon her ornate throne, her fingers drumming a slow, methodical rhythm against the armrest—a spider waiting in the heart of her web.
The grand doors groaned as they swung open, revealing Princess Velimira Kuznetsov and her knight, Kaelith Voskana, their travel-worn cloaks dusted with the remnants of Katilan's dense woodland mist. They strode forward with measured steps, their presence slicing through the heavy silence like a dagger through silk.
Liskarm's icy gaze flickered toward her daughter, her lips curving into a cruel smirk.
"You return." Her voice was smooth yet laced with venom. "And? What whispers did the forest grant you?"
Velimira lifted her chin, her sapphire eyes gleaming with an eerie certainty. "The priest spoke in riddles, as expected. But his message was clear."
She reached into the folds of her cloak and produced a small, black lacquered box, its surface pulsating with a faint, otherworldly glow, etched with symbols of an ancient dialect long buried beneath the tides of time. The markings, when caught under the flickering torchlight, seemed to shift and writhe, like unseen phantoms eager to break free from their prison.
Liskarm's eyes darkened with wicked amusement, her lips curling as she plucked the box from her daughter's grasp, tilting it gently, watching as the glow slithered across its obsidian surface like liquid moonlight.
A beat of silence, heavy and charged.
Then, she laughed.
A low, sultry chuckle that soon spiraled into a rich, malevolent melody, echoing through the chamber, sending Kaelith's gloved hand twitching toward her sword out of pure instinct.
Liskarm's fingers danced across the lacquered box, her nails dragging against the ancient carvings as if she were teasing a lover. "So, the old vulture finally parts with his relics?"
Velimira narrowed her eyes. "He instructed that you keep it close. He did not say why."
Liskarm hummed, tilting her head, her silver-blonde curls spilling like liquid starlight over her shoulder. "Of course he didn't. The whispers of the old refuse to sing unless the right hand plays the strings."
Her eyes flickered toward Kaelith, as if sensing the knight's unease, before returning to the artifact. She tapped the lid lightly, the glow intensifying for a mere second before settling back into its dormant hum.
Then, she whispered, more to herself than anyone else:
"With this, Aleeman Hakiman will crumble... and the cursed, fallen prince Wei Yang Hong—Shi Zhao Mei—will have no place left to hide."
Kaelith's jaw clenched, her gloved fists tightening at the Queen's euphoric malice. She had witnessed this expression before—one that preluded a storm of blood and war.
Velimira, however, remained still, her face carved into a mask of calculated indifference.
"What is our next move, Mother?"
Liskarm's smirk widened, her fingers tightening possessively around the lacquered box.
"We wait."
Her gaze flickered toward the moonlit window, where the shadows of Faliton stretched long and hungry across the land.
"And then, we strike."
The courtyard of Kumaruchaisan Castle echoed with the rhythmic clash of steel against steel, a violent melody that resonated beneath the ominous grey sky. Tekfur Kekaumenos and his son Lenotes danced within the training circle, their swords weaving a tapestry of sheer force and precision.
Kekaumenos, despite his age-weathered countenance, moved with the grace of a seasoned warlord, his swordplay a manifestation of relentless brutality and cold calculation. Lenotes, younger and impassioned, struck with fury that burned like wildfire, yet each blow he landed was met with his father's unyielding defense—a testament to the old lion's endurance.
Lenotes gritted his teeth, his blade slicing through the biting wind, only to be parried effortlessly by his father.
"You waste energy, boy." Kekaumenos's voice was a gravelled growl, his blade twisting, locking Lenotes' own before shoving him backward. "Precision before passion. What good is anger if it blinds the strike?"
Lenotes exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword, his stance regaining its balance.
"And what good is precision," he countered, "if it is wasted on mercy?"
A slow, cruel smirk curled at Kekaumenos's lips. "Then let us hope that Alphagut brings us the weapons we need." He struck forward once more, his steel crashing against Lenotes' with the force of an avalanche.
Their battle of blades raged on, but just as Lenotes moved in for another strike, the heavy doors of the training yard were thrown open with an iron-clad urgency.
A soldier rushed in, his breath laboured, his face pale with urgency.
"My Tekfur—Alphagut has returned!"
Both father and son froze, their weapons hovering midair before lowering with swift precision. A dark flicker passed across Kekaumenos's gaze before he gestured sharply.
"Bring him in."
The doors groaned open once more, and Alphagut stepped forward—limping, bloodied, and bruised.
His armor was scratched and torn, his face smeared with dirt and dried crimson, his stance swaying as if the wind itself could knock him over.
Kekaumenos's expression twisted into a mixture of fury and suspicion. Lenotes, by contrast, merely narrowed his eyes, his instincts coiling like a serpent ready to strike.
"What in the abyss happened to you?" Kekaumenos demanded, his voice a storm barely contained.
Alphagut exhaled, his breathing ragged, as he staggered forward. "Aleeman."
The name dropped like a curse upon the air, twisting through the shadows of the hall like a venomous wraith.
Kekaumenos's knuckles went white against the hilt of his sword. Lenotes, however, remained eerily still.
"Aleeman?" Lenotes echoed, his voice sharp as honed steel. "What did he do?"
Alphagut let out a deliberate, labored sigh, a performance of exhaustion rather than sincerity.
"They came out of nowhere," he rasped. "A storm in the shadows. The wolf and his men struck without warning, cutting through our knights as if they were nothing. The merchants, the weapons—all gone." He clenched his teeth, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I barely escaped with my life."
Kekaumenos roared in frustration, his sword flying from his grasp, embedding itself into the nearest wooden column with a deafening thud.
"That mongrel again!" His breath was harsh, his chest heaving with unfiltered rage. "I will carve his name into the bones of the earth and watch his city burn to embers!"
Lenotes stepped forward, placing a hand on his father's shoulder in an effort to calm him.
"Father, listen." His tone was more composed, though the gleam in his eyes spoke of something far more calculating. "Aleeman could not have known about the caravan unless someone informed him."
Silence fell over the room.
Kekaumenos's rage-stained breath slowed, his expression shifting from fury to something far colder.
"A spy."
Lenotes nodded. "There must be one among us."
Kekaumenos turned back to Alphagut, his eyes narrowing with the scrutiny of a vulture sizing up a carcass.
"Find the traitor," he ordered, his voice like crushed glass. "Bring him to me. Alive."
Alphagut bowed his head. "As you command, my Tekfur."
But behind his bowed head, a cruel smirk curled at the edges of his lips.
The memory flashed behind his eyes like a shadowed dream.
When he was returning to the Castle he brought out his dagger slight his arm thigh in one by one so that nobody would notice it as he picked a small rock on the ground and hit his head so hard that his side of his forehead bled.
Now, back within the walls of Kumaruchaisan, Alphagut strode down the torchlit halls, his wounds still fresh, yet his mind racing.
His fingers traced the hilt of his dagger, the same blade he had driven into his own flesh to fabricate his injuries.
A spy?
He would find one. Or he would create one.
A smirk ghosted across his lips as he vanished into the corridors of shadows.
The scent of amber incense coiled through the air, its tendrils of smoke rising in silent devotion as the soft glow of brass lanterns cast wavering patterns upon the polished marble walls. The great dome of Grand Minar Palace, its interior adorned with intricate gold calligraphy, trembled slightly with the distant echo of evening prayers.
At the heart of this celestial solitude, Sultan Alibek sat upon a prayer rug of deep sapphire and silver embroidery, his head bowed, his lips moving in reverence as he recited from the sacred Al-Zāhir al-Haqq.
His voice, deep and unwavering, carried through the chamber, wrapping around the verses with a tone of solemn command. His right hand rested upon the hallowed manuscript, its pages aged yet luminous, adorned with celestial etchings that shimmered under the candlelight.
He recited:
"And so it was decreed upon the oppressors of men, that they may build fortresses of iron and stone, yet no fortress shall shield them from truth. For the Almighty strikes not with weapons of steel, but with the reckoning of time, and time bows to none but Him."
His eyes, dark and contemplative, traced the verse once more before he slowly closed the book, his fingers brushing against the gilded lettering on its cover.
As silence settled upon the chamber, a voice called from the entrance.
"My Sultan," came a respectful yet firm tone.
Alibek turned his gaze towards the doorway, where his Vizier, Kazim Al-Turani, stood with his hands folded before him, his posture rigid with urgency.
The Sultan nodded, permitting his entry.
Kazim stepped forward, his richly woven robes swaying with the movement. A man of wisdom and strategy, his eyes gleamed with the sharp glint of an ever-calculating mind.
"Aleeman Hakiman has returned," he announced, "alongside his brother Samiyoshi and his comrades. But this time, My Sultan, they bring with them something else."
Alibek's brows furrowed slightly, his fingers interlocking as he leaned forward.
"Something else?" His voice was calm, but edged with intrigue.
Kazim's expression did not waver. "Highly advanced weapons, My Sultan."
Alibek's stillness was more dangerous than an outburst. His gaze, keen as the edge of a yataghan, settled upon Kazim.
"From where?"
"From the hands of the Kumaruchaisan knights," Kazim replied. "They were escorting the shipment from Noshian City, a province of Arcanodole, en route to Kumaruchaisan. Aleeman and his men intercepted the convoy and seized the cargo."
A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant tolling of the minaret bells beyond the palace walls.
Alibek exhaled slowly, his mind assembling the pieces of an unseen war long before it had begun.
"So, it is true," he murmured, more to himself than to Kazim.
The Vizier remained still, waiting for his sovereign to continue.
The Sultan finally rose from his seated position, his robes cascading around him like flowing ink, the weight of his lineage pressing upon his broad shoulders.
"Tekfur Kekaumenos prepares for war," Alibek said at last, "and now we see his true intention—he seeks to dismantle Abjannas, not with steel and horsemen, but with weapons of destruction beyond conventional warfare."
Kazim nodded solemnly. "That is my belief as well, My Sultan."
Alibek's jaw tightened. His nation had fought wars, survived invasions, and withstood the tides of time through resilience, but the age of war was shifting.
And with it, so too must the warriors who would wage it.
He turned to Kazim, his voice as firm as the pillars of the palace.
"Summon the council at evening."
Kazim inclined his head. "And the weapons?"
A flicker of thought passed through the Sultan's gaze before he responded.
"They will remain within our walls until I decide their fate."
The Vizier bowed once more. "As you command."** He turned and departed, the weight of strategy already forming in his mind.**
As the doors closed behind him, Alibek slowly turned back to his sacred book, his fingers brushing against the cover once more.
"The reckoning of time…" he murmured, his eyes narrowing with the wisdom of a man who had long understood the price of power.
And as the moonlight cast its ethereal glow upon the palace, the Sultan of Abjannas prepared for the storm that was to come.
The twilight sky bathed Miracheneous Academy in hues of deep amber and crimson, as the setting sun kissed the towering spires and futuristic domes of the institution. Students gathered in clusters across the grand courtyard, their whispers and murmurs weaving through the cool evening air like an impending storm.
At one corner, Hua-Jing sat with her friends—Finn, Wang Ji-Pang, Mei-Xi-Li, Mika Yamana, Elizabeth Feng, and Shi Zhao Mei—all of them engaged in animated conversation.
"What in the world is wrong with my brother!?" Hua-Jing groaned, folding her arms as her brows furrowed. "First, he sneaks off to the Eastern Region. Then, he infiltrates the Ji-Gong Palace, takes one ministers hostage, insults a monk, and now—" she dramatically waved her hands "—he's ambushed the Kumaruchaisan knights and taken their entire caravan of dangerous weapons!"
Her friends exchanged glances, their eyes wide with amusement and disbelief.
Finn chuckled, rubbing his chin. "Well, you have to admit… he's got style."
Mei-Xi-Li smirked. "I bet he didn't even break a sweat."
Mika Yamana leaned forward, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "But how did he even know about the convoy in the first place? It's almost like he has eyes everywhere."
At that moment, Shi Zhao Mei, who had been sitting silently, crossed one leg over the other and spoke in a calm, unreadable tone.
"Because he does."
Silence.
Every pair of eyes snapped to Shi Zhao Mei, their mouths slightly ajar.
Hua-Jing raised a brow, her intuition already tingling with suspicion. "Wait… What do you mean by that?"
Shi Zhao Mei simply took a sip of her tea, her long lashes lowering slightly over her crimson eyes.
"Nothing."
Before anyone could pry further—
A sudden stampede of footsteps echoed through the academy grounds.
Students—especially female students—rushed towards the grand gates, their voices rising in an excited flurry.
"He's back! Aleeman Hakiman has returned!"
The entire atmosphere shifted in an instant.
Curious, Hua-Jing and her friends followed the crowd towards the entrance. Shi Zhao Mei exhaled, feeling a strange flutter in her chest.
The sight before them was almost legendary.
Aleeman Hakiman rode through the gates on his mighty steed, Şimşek, his posture regal, his aura impenetrable.
The moonlight glistened over his battle-worn armor, the lingering scent of steel and gunpowder clinging to his frame like the essence of war itself.
His obsidian eyes, sharp as a falcon's, gazed over the crowd, unfazed by the admiration and awe surrounding him.
He looked less like a mere student returning from a mission—and more like a Sultan returning from a victorious campaign.
"Tsk." Wang Ji-Pang rolled his eyes with a smirk. "Look at him, acting as if he owns the entire state."
Finn laughed, nudging Wang playfully. "Who's going to tell him he doesn't?"
Hua-Jing sighed. "That's the problem with my brother—he's too straightforward and acts like a righteous warrior. That's why people—both men and women—admire him."
Mei-Xi-Li, Mika Yamana, and Elizabeth Feng nodded in agreement.
"He's fearless." Mei-Xi-Li added.
"He's ruthless." Mika chimed in.
Elizabeth chuckled. "And he's completely unaware of how ridiculous his charm is."
As Aleeman dismounted, the female students instinctively tried to approach him, but… they hesitated.
His presence was overwhelming—not out of arrogance, but because he carried the weight of a leader, a warrior who had tasted battle and emerged unbroken.
The air stilled as he approached his sister and their group, his steps measured, his gaze unwavering.
Then, in his deep, commanding voice, he spoke—
"Hua-Jing."
She snapped to attention immediately.
"Finn. Wang."
Both men nodded, suppressing their smirks.
Finally, his gaze flickered to Shi Zhao Mei.
A single unreadable glance.
She held her breath.
Then, with the authority of a commander, the charisma of a Sultan, and the mischief of a wolf, he smirked—
"Did you miss me?"
"Miss you?!"
Shi Zhao Mei crossed her arms, her red and black imperial robe fluttering against the evening breeze, her long raven-black hair cascading over one shoulder.
"I thought you had been intricately occupied, what with ambushing the knights of Kumaruchaisan, looting their caravan, and causing an international uproar." She raised a delicate brow, smirking slightly. "Interesting."
Aleeman's smirk deepened.
But before he could reply—
"So, brother—" Hua-Jing's voice cut through the night like a whip.
The younger sister of Aleeman Hakiman stood with arms akimbo, one foot tapping impatiently against the cobblestone path. Her sharp eyes—mirroring the very same dark fire as her brother's—glared at him with a mix of amusement, exasperation, and the unshakable authority only a younger sister could possess.
"What exactly happened at the palace?" she demanded. "What profound lecture did our Sultan and dear father bestow upon you? Let me guess—" she smirked "—did they scold you for being the reckless wolf that you are?"
Finn and Wang exchanged grins, eagerly awaiting Aleeman's response.
Even Shi Zhao Mei's smirk widened, a glint of curiosity in her crimson eyes.
Aleeman, however, simply exhaled through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck before giving a slow, casual shrug.
"Let's see…" he began, his voice carrying that familiar, lazy confidence. "Father was furious, as expected. Sultan Alibek? Less furious—more intrigued. Vizier Nasir? Amused, but also a little too invested in my future conquests."
Hua-Jing's eye twitched.
"They weren't angry enough."
Aleeman tilted his head. "Oh, they were. Father called me reckless, insubordinate, and…" He paused, tapping his chin as if trying to recall. "Ah, yes. A 'walking disaster waiting to happen.'"
Finn burst out laughing. "Well, he's not wrong."
Wang smirked. "That title suits you perfectly, my Bey."
Hua-Jing's brows twitched even more.
"And yet…" she folded her arms. "You're still standing here in one piece."
Aleeman's smirk turned wolfish. "That's because, dear sister, I am quite skilled at talking my way out of things."
Hua-Jing scoffed. "You mean lying."
"It's called strategic omission."
"It's called nonsense."
"Same thing." Aleeman shrugged again.
Shi Zhao Mei chuckled under her breath, hiding her smile behind her sleeve.
Hua-Jing huffed. "You're impossible."
Aleeman grinned, reaching out to ruffle her hair.
"And you're adorable when you're mad."
Hua-Jing slapped his hand away.
"Tch! I hope father gives you more trouble next time."
Aleeman laughed, but his eyes flickered towards Shi Zhao Mei, who had been oddly quiet.
She wasn't looking at him—but the soft pink hue dusting her cheeks did not go unnoticed.
He smirked.
"What about you, Gemstone Bellied Troublemaker? No smart remarks?"
Shi Zhao Mei's eye twitched.
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Oh, immensely."
She rolled her eyes, but a small, reluctant smile played at the corners of her lips.
Aleeman chuckled, then clapped his hands together.
"Alright, enough of this interrogation. I'm starving. Who's joining me for dinner?"
Hua-Jing crossed her arms. "You should be punished, not rewarded."
Aleeman grinned. "Then punish me after I eat."
The chamber of the council was bathed in the golden glow of hanging lanterns, their soft flickering light casting elongated shadows across the polished onyx floor. The vast dome above, adorned with intricate calligraphic etchings of Al-Han-Muminin, gleamed under the warm radiance of the grand chandelier suspended from its centre—a masterpiece of brass and celestial blue gemstones.
At the head of the oval table, flanked by silk-draped banners of the Hakiman Dynasty, Sultan Alibek Hakiman sat with a regal stillness, his piercing gaze scanning the assembly before him.
To his right, Orhan Bey, his brother, the lion of Abjannas, rested his elbows on the armrests, fingers intertwined, an unreadable expression adorning his seasoned face. At his side, his nephew, Samiyoshi Hakiman, exuded a quiet authority, his sapphire-hued kaftan swaying as he adjusted his posture.
Surrounding them, the viziers, grand strategists, and scholars of Abjannas, men of wisdom and war, had gathered to deliberate upon a matter that would shape the destiny of their people.
Seated in their designated ranks, the viziers represented the pillars of governance:
Vizier Nasir Tamzid, Vizier Kazim Al-Turan, Vizier Harun al-Muhaddith, Vizier Suleiman Ibn Rafiq and Vizier Faruk Basri.
As the discussion commenced, a lingering question hung in the air—one the Sultan could not ignore.
Sultan Alibek leaned back, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.
"Where is Aleeman?"
The inquiry sent a murmur across the council chamber. Vizier Kazim Al-Turani exhaled sharply, his arms crossing over his broad chest.
"No doubt making trouble elsewhere."
Orhan Bey sighed, rubbing his temple.
Samiyoshi, however, merely smirked, shaking his head. "He prefers action over talk, Uncle. But he knows his duty."
"A wolf is still a wolf," Vizier Nasir Tamzid said sagely, stroking his beard. "Aleeman's instincts will always guide him toward the hunt."
Sultan Alibek hummed in amusement but did not push further. Instead, he gestured for the meeting to continue.
Samiyoshi, ever the voice of rationality, took charge.
"The weapons we seized from Kumaruchaisan knights and merchants were en route from Noshian City, a part of the Arcanodole state. These were meant for Tekfur Kekaumenos, meant to annihilate our lands."
A wave of muttered curses rumbled through the viziers.
"May the dogs of Kumaruchaisan choke on their own steel!" Orhan Bey spat.
"What sort of weapons are we speaking of?" Sultan Alibek inquired, his voice measured but firm.
Samiyoshi turned to one of the scribes, who unrolled a detailed parchment, revealing sketches of arcane-powered rifles, explosives embedded with celestial ore, and alchemical concoctions that could reduce fortifications to ash.
The council stirred.
Vizier Suleiman Ibn Rafiq frowned. "Highly technical. Beyond their usual craftsmanship."
Vizier Faruk Basri tapped his ringed fingers against the table. "This reeks of external involvement. Kumaruchaisan lacks the intelligence to create such weapons alone. Who else has their hand in this?"
Samiyoshi exchanged a look with his father before replying.
"Faliton."
A deadly silence fell over the room.
Then—
"Liskarm Jee…" Sultan Alibek murmured, his expression darkening.
"The Queen of Treachery." Vizier Nasir Tamzid sneered. "No doubt she has her fingers dipped in every conflict that threatens our lands."
Sultan Alibek clasped his hands together, eyes heavy with contemplation. "These weapons could have destroyed Abjannas."
Orhan Bey exhaled through his nose, his voice edged with steel. "But now they are ours."
A smirk played on Samiyoshi's lips. "And they shall be repurposed."
Sultan Alibek turned to Vizier Kazim Al-Turani, his strategist.
"What can be done?"
The Master of War leaned forward, a dark gleam in his gaze.
"If they sought to use these weapons against us, then we shall turn them against their makers. We will study them, improve them, and prepare for an attack that will shake Kumaruchaisan to its core."
The council nodded in agreement.
Sultan Alibek rested a hand on the golden armrest of his throne, his voice ringing with undeniable authority.
"These weapons will no longer serve our enemies."
He turned to Samiyoshi and Orhan Bey.
"We will distribute them amongst our Janissary armies. They will be reforged in our foundries, modified to fit our needs. Every bullet, every blade, every piece of metal will bear the mark of Abjannas."
He looked toward his strategists and viziers.
"From this moment forward, we will no longer defend. We will conquer."
The room shook with approval, the viziers murmuring their oaths of loyalty.
But despite the grand strategy unfolding, there was a quiet expectation lingering in the air.
And Sultan Alibek knew it well.
The Wolf of Abjannas had yet to return to his den.
And when he did, he would learn that his conquest had only just begun.
Under the shroud of midnight, where the twin moons hung like watchful sentinels, the Arcanodole State lay bathed in a misty haze, its sprawling avenues and towering edifices caught between the archaic grandeur of gilded spires and the cold, impersonal glow of neon lights. Amidst this paradox stood Noctis Concordia, an establishment that bore witness to secrets darker than the wine it served.
The bar's interior was a masterful collision of past and future—a vaulted ceiling of mahogany beams and chandeliers of crystal and brass overlooked walls lined with digital marquees, flashing holographic notices of wanted criminals and upcoming gladiatorial battles. Velvet-draped alcoves offered seclusion to those who sought discretion, while the centre of the room pulsed with the chatter of traders, mercenaries, and nobles alike.
Patrons indulged in gold-rimmed goblets of crimson elixir, their laughter blending with the melancholic melody of a stringed quartet, its sound eerily mechanical, produced by automated musicians who never tired nor faltered. Waitresses clad in silken tunics interwoven with nanothreads weaved between guests, balancing trays laden with spiced liquor and steaming platters of exotic meats.
The smell of aged oak, tobacco smoke, and clove-scented rum hung heavy in the air.
But amidst the revelry and indulgence, two shadows moved with calculated precision, seeking neither drink nor pleasure.
A figure in a long black hooded cloak stepped through the grand archway, his gait measured, his presence masked in the sea of revelers. He did not pause to indulge in the sights, nor did he acknowledge the wandering eyes that trailed his entrance. Like a ghost, he passed unnoticed, weaving through the bodies until he reached a secluded booth in the dimmest corner of the tavern.
Lowering himself onto the empty wooden bench, he rested his hands on the marred surface, fingers tapping in an almost impatient rhythm. His cloak's shadowy depths concealed his features, but his posture radiated authority—a presence that did not beg for attention but demanded it in silence.
Moments later, another hooded figure entered.
Moving with the same spectral grace, the second figure approached the booth, seating himself opposite his waiting companion.
The first man—King Charles IV of Arcanodole—leaned forward, his voice a quiet rasp beneath the hum of the bar's atmosphere.
"Did someone follow you?"
The second man—Monk Pan Zhihaou—exhaled through his nose, a dry smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
"No." His voice, though soft, held the weight of centuries—like ancient scrolls whispered into the wind.
A pause hung between them, heavy with unspoken schemes.
Then, King Charles IV, the sovereign manipulator, leaned back against the cushioned seat, his gloved fingers drumming against the wooden table. His emerald eyes, hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, gleamed with amusement.
"Tell me, monk," he drawled, his tone laced with intrigue. "What is the state of Ji-Gong? Has the Emperor finally succumbed to your whispers?"
Pan Zhihaou, the cunning serpent of Ji-Gong, steepled his fingers before answering.
"Weng Jin Shun remains… volatile," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "His hatred for his own blood has reached its peak. He believes that the curse upon his son—Shi Zhao Mei, or as the world now knows him… her—Wei Yang Hong, will bring ruin upon his dynasty."
Charles IV let out a low chuckle, the kind that slithered between amusement and disdain.
"Shi Zhao Mei," he repeated the name with mock reverence, "the one cursed by the Goddess Yuán Nǚ Wáng herself."
Pan Zhihaou's expression remained impassive. "Yes."
A gleam of satisfaction crossed the King's face before he tapped the table once, as though sealing an unspoken decree.
"And what of Aleeman Hakiman?" His tone was casual, but there was no mistaking the sharp interest laced beneath it.
Pan Zhihaou's fingers twitched slightly, a rare gesture of irritation.
"That wolf…" he muttered, "he infiltrated the Ji-Gong palace, placed a blade at Minister Cai Sheng's throat, and—"
Charles IV raised a brow, "—And?"
The monk's lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed, "And he called me 'Old Bald Donkey' in front of the entire imperial court."
The moment the words left his mouth, a snort of amusement escaped King Charles IV. He could not help himself.
"Bald donkey?" he echoed, eyes alight with cruel amusement.
Pan Zhihaou scowled. "Yes."
A pause.
Then, Charles IV burst into laughter.
Not the restrained kind befitting a monarch, but a rich, unrestrained cackle that startled nearby patrons into silence. Even the mechanical musicians stuttered for a beat before continuing their melancholic tune.
Pan Zhihaou clenched his jaw, waiting for the fit of laughter to subside.
"Oh, monk," Charles IV finally said, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye, "how have you managed to let an impudent cub like that slip through your fingers?"
Pan Zhihaou, now thoroughly unimpressed, exhaled sharply. "He will not slip through again. The Emperor is mine to manipulate. His hatred festers daily, and with the right push, Ji-Gong will crumble from within."
The amusement in Charles IV's gaze dimmed into something far more calculating.
"Then the time is ripe," he mused.
His gloved hand slipped into the folds of his cloak before withdrawing a small, black lacquered scroll case, etched with symbols of an ancient dialect, its surface pulsating with a faint, otherworldly glow.
He slid it across the table.
"Give this to Weng Jin Shun."
Pan Zhihaou's fingers barely brushed against the object before he halted. "What is it?"
"A gift," Charles IV smirked. "One that will ensure Ji-Gong turns its eyes away from Arcanodole and Faliton… and toward its own destruction."
The monk, though suspicious, nodded slowly, slipping the object into his robes.
Pan Zhihaou leaned forward, his voice a whisper of impending ruin.
"Then it is decided. Weng Jin Shun will dance to our tune. Shi Zhao Mei will fall. Aleeman Hakiman will be hunted. Ji-Gong will tear itself apart from within."
Charles IV raised his goblet in silent agreement, the crimson liquid within catching the dim light like spilled blood.
The night deepened, and with it, a web of betrayal was spun tighter still.