The air at dawn was brittle, tasting of frost and impending iron. As the first light touched the gold-tiled roofs of the palace, the "Elite 300" gathered in the courtyard. They were the finest soldiers of the Yang Dynasty, their black-and-silver armour gleaming like dragon scales. At their head was Wen Zi Shan, mounted on a massive warhorse, looking every bit like the conquering hero. He believed he was destined to be. From the high balcony of the residential palace, three men watched the departure.

  Yang Feng leaned against the cold stone railing. His eyes were bloodshot; he had spent the entire night waiting for the reports on the Great Wall Pass, but the Ministry of Records still didn’t provide answers. Every request was met with a missing key or a misfiled scroll. He looked down at Wen Zi Shan, and for the first time, he didn't see a protector. He saw a man walking into the fog. Yang Lei stood to his left, his hands hidden in his long sleeves, gripping his own forearms hard. Xian Shang, standing a few paces back, was silent. He was counting the heartbeats. His three riders—his "ghost hunters"- had left hours ago under the cover of darkness. By his calculations, they will reach the Pass by tomorrow morning. They were his only insurance. If they found the trap, they would have two full days to ride back and intercept the Grand Marshal on the road.

  Wen Zi Shan raised his sword, the steel catching the morning sun. "For the Emperor! For the Empire!"

  The 300 voices roared back in unison, a sound that should have been inspiring but felt, to those on the balcony, like a funeral dirge. The heavy gates of the palace swung open, and the rhythmic thump-thump of the horses began. Wen Zi Shan marched at full speed. Another 10000 soldiers will join him from various barracks along the road.

  Feng turned away from the railing, his face pale but his eyes burning with a cold, newfound fire. "The Ministry of Records," he said, his voice cutting through the stillness. "I am going there myself. If the keys are missing, I will have the doors broken down. If the scrolls are misfiled, the librarians will stay until they are found or until they are replaced."

  He didn't wait for a response. He walked past Xian Shang without a glance, his robes snapping with sharp, regal authority. He was no longer asking for permission to be the emperor; he was taking it. Yang Lei followed him quickly, but Xian Shang remained, his mind racing with thoughts, "Twenty-four hours. That is all my men need. Quickly, find the flaw and stop this madness before the Great Wall Pass becomes a graveyard."

  He then caught up to Feng’s words and swiftly looked at the door where the brothers left with raised eyebrows. “The ministry of records? What does this kid want from it?” He connected this to the disagreement between Lei and Jian yesterday. A sinister smile appeared on his face. “Yang Jian, the scorpion stings when surrounded by flames. And not everyone wants to be a puppet. Did you overlook this?”

  At the same time, the riders crossed into the mountain areas, taking a shortcut to save more time. They didn’t notice the pairs of hidden eyes and the silent sound of the pigeon flying back to Lijiang.

  That night at the 2nd western palace, Jian sipped his tea, his eyes reflecting the single candle on the table, as Liang Jin read a small note passed to him earlier, "Just as you predicted, master. The Prime Minister’s rats are fast. They skipped the main road and took the mountain path. They’ll be at the pass by sunrise."

  "I counted on his fear, Liang Jin. A man like Xian Shang doesn't trust a 'gift' from an enemy. He was always going to send scouts."

  Jian leaned forward, the light catching the sharp edges of his new black fan. "But he made one mistake. He sent 'ghost hunters' to a place where the Ghost already lives. Ensure that by tomorrow morning, the only thing those scouts find at the Pass is their own graves. I want the Grand Marshal to receive nothing but silence as he approaches the mountains."

  Liang Jin stood, his shadow looming large against the walls. "It will be done, Master."

  High in the mountains, the three scouts pushed their horses through a narrow ravine. The shortcut was saving them hours, but the air felt thin and unnatural. "We reach the pass by dawn," the lead rider shouted over the wind. "If we move now, we can intercept the Marshal before—"

  He never finished the sentence. 3 arrows pierced their skulls. There was no scream. Only the heavy thud of three bodies hitting the dirt and the panicked neighing of

  riderless horses. From the darkness of the pines, Qing Cang stepped out. He looked at the three scouts—Xian Shang’s "insurance"—and chuckled, "The Prime Minister should have sent more than three”. He picked up the pigeon cage one of the scouts had been carrying and opened the door. The bird didn't fly; he simply snapped its neck.

  "The master wants silence," Qing Cang told his men, who emerged from the shadows, their hands holding the bows used, "Burn the bodies. Leave the horses. Let the world think they fell to bandits."

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The Ministry of Records was usually a place of whispers and dust, but tonight, it echoed with the sound of splintering wood. Feng stood in the centre of the

  Grand Archive, his face illuminated by the flickering torches held by his personal guard.

  "Your Majesty! Please!" the Head Librarian wailed, clutching his robes. "The geography of the Great Wall Pass is classified under the 'Forbidden Defence' scrolls! Only the Steward and the Grand Marshal have the….”

  "I am the emperor," Feng interrupted, his voice cold and flat. He didn't even look at the man. "There is no 'forbidden' knowledge to the one who sits on the throne. Break the seal."

  With a final heavy blow from an iron bar, the restricted door gave way. Feng stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs. He pulled out a weathered, yellowed scroll titled 'The Survey of the Eastern Spines: Year of the Iron Tiger.'

  Yang Lei crowded in beside him, closing the door and dismissing the librarian and his clerks. Together with Feng, they unrolled the map across a dusty table. It wasn't the simplified military map Jian had used. This one was detailed, showing the internal structure of the mountains. Feng’s finger traced the Great Wall Pass. He saw the narrow path, just as Jian described. But then he saw the annotations in the margins, written in faded red ink.

  (Natural

  Chimney Effect. High sulphur deposits in Cave 4 through 9. Ventilation is one-way: upward. If fire is set at the southern mouth, the pass becomes a furnace. No escape.)

  "It's not a shortcut," Feng whispered, the blood draining from his face. "It’s an oven."

  The air was heavy. Feng’s hand was shaking as he held the scroll detailing the sulphur-choked "Chimney" of the Great Wall Pass.

  Feng whispered, his voice cracking. "We must stop him, second brother. 10000 men. They aren't going to a battle; they’re going to a graveyard. We must send riders. We must tell Wen Zi Shan to turn back!"

  Lei stepped into the light, his face unnervingly calm. He took the scroll from Feng’s trembling hands and rolled it up with slow, deliberate precision. "And then what, little brother?" Lei asked quietly. "We save Wen Zi Shan. The man who has bled our treasury dry for decades? The man who was planning to use those same 10000 soldiers to eventually put the Prime Minister on your throne?"

  "They are soldiers of the Yang Dynasty!" Feng shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "They are people, souls!"

  "They are the price," Lei countered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a low, hypnotic hum. "Eldest brother isn't doing this because he's a monster. He's doing it because the Empire is a garden choked with weeds. You cannot save the flowers without pulling the roots, and Wen Zi Shan is the deepest root of all."

  Feng shook his head, backing away. "It’s murder. It's cold-blooded murder."

  "It is surgery," Lei insisted. He grabbed Feng’s shoulders, his grip firm—the elder brother guiding the younger. "If Eldest Brother succeeds, the Prime Minister loses his sword. The court will be terrified. You will finally be the emperor in more than just name. If you stop this now, you save a corrupt Marshal and hand the keys of the palace back to Xian Shang. Is that what you want? To be a puppet for the rest of your life?"

  Feng looked at the dark corners of the archive. The "fire" in his mind was small then, a tiny spark of righteous fury at the coldness of his brothers. He whispered. "10000 families will mourn,"

  "And millions of families will live in a stable Empire," Lei replied

  Feng’s voice came out hoarse and shaken. “Second brother, you were on my side yesterday. What happened to you?”

  Lei sighed, “Eldest brother was right. Both you and I are shortsighted. Up until now, he was fighting alone. His sole purpose was to clean the empire. He shouldn’t be stopped. You can’t kill the snake without getting wounded.” He leaned in, his eyes searching Feng’s. "Promise me. Do not speak of this. Do not confront Jian. Let the Ghost finish his work. For the sake of the Dynasty."

  Feng stood silent for a long time. The weight of the crown felt like it was crushing his skull. Finally, he gave a slow, jagged nod. "I... I promise. I will stay silent."

  Lei exhaled, a look of relief crossing his face. "Good. Let's go back to the palace."

  As they walked out, Lei didn't see Feng’s expression. Feng’s eyes weren't dull anymore; they were hard. The promise was a cage, and the fire was already beginning to

  burn underneath the ash. He would play the part for now, but the "Third Prince" was truly dead.

  The next day, the sun rose high at noon. Xian Shang stood in his mansion perfectly still; his eyes fixed on the northern sky. He was waiting for a speck, a flutter of wings—anything to prove that his riders had reached the pass. The silence was oppressive. Xian Shang’s usually steady hand began to tremble. He looked at the empty birdcage sitting on the table. "No message," he whispered. "Not a single word."

  His chief aide stepped forward, sweating despite the breeze. "Prime Minister, perhaps the mountain winds... or the terrain..."\

  "Shut up," Xian Shang hissed, his voice cracking with a sudden, sharp terror. "They are dead. All of them. My riders, my messengers... even the pigeons."

  He slumped into his chair, the weight of his defeat crashing down on him. He had spent forty years climbing the ladder of the Yang Dynasty, outmanoeuvring emperors and generals, yet he was being dismantled by a man who hadn't even put on his boots.

  "How?"

  Xian Shang slammed his fist onto the table, rattling the fine jade tea set. "How can he do this? He hasn't left his palace in weeks! He sits there with his bandages, drinking tea while he cuts my throat from three hundred miles away!"

  He looked at the direction of the 2nd Western Palace, his eyes filled with a mixture of loathing and genuine, soul-deep fear. "He isn't a man," Xian Shang muttered, his face aging ten years in a single moment. "He’s a spider. He doesn't need to move; he just needs to feel the movement on the web. And I... I walked right into the centre."

  He realized then that the Grand Marshal and the 10,000 soldiers were already ghosts. They were just men who didn't know they were dead yet. He looked at his own hands and wondered if he was any different.

  "Yang Jian," he cursed, “You have burned the bridge, the road, and the sky. You didn't just defeat me. You erased me."