The first rays of the sun filter through the tall, ornate windows of the guesthouse's main hall, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air. Naci stands in front of a broad mirror, the polished bronze reflecting her figure draped in Moukopl silks. The unfamiliar attire pinches at her waist.
Temej hovers close, glancing over his shoulder to ensure no one lurks too near. "We've come all this way to protect Tepr," he mutters, voice low, "so why are we parading around like we're their pets?"
Naci presses her lips together, half in frustration, half in resignation. "We don't have much choice," she whispers back.
Temej folds his arms, jaw tight. "Let's hope it's worth it."
A few steps away, Fol tugs at the collar of his own borrowed robe. "Khan?" he calls out, eyebrows drawing together. "Should I stand straighter? Or at least pretend I'm not a barbarian?" He makes a comically deep bow, nearly toppling forward.
"Careful," Lizi interjects from where she's perched on a cushioned bench. Her tone brims with teasing. "You'll split those fancy seams if you bend too far. Imagine the scandal: a savage in Moukopl silks, ripping his pants on day one."
Fol shoots her a side-eye. "Me, savage? I'm the picture of civilization."
Lizi chuckles, crossing one leg over the other. "Oh, absolutely. You're a perfect example of decorum. Just try not to wave a sword at anyone until mid-morning, hm?"
Lanau, arms folded, stands quietly near the window. The morning light catches on her braids, giving them a subtle glow. She observes the back-and-forth, her expression tense, though she says nothing.
Noticing Lanau's silence, Naci approaches. "You alright?"
Lanau's eyes flick up to meet Naci's. "I'm just…watching," she says simply, voice subdued. "Trying to remember how we got here. And how we'll get out."
Naci places a reassuring hand on Lanau's shoulder. "We'll get over it," she says, softly.
A sudden hush falls as heavy footsteps echo in the corridor. The group tenses, each remembering their newfound roles. Fol stands to attention—somewhat sloppily—beside Naci, while Temej angles his body to block any possible eavesdroppers.
It's only a servant passing by, pushing a cart of fresh linen. The tension dissipates, replaced by a faint chuckle as Lizi fans herself in feigned relief. "Heaven help us if we jump like this every time we hear footsteps," she says under her breath.
Temej clears his throat, voice low as he glances at Naci. "Are you sure you can do it? Bow to them after everything you've said?" His gaze flickers with unresolved doubts.
Naci squares her shoulders. "We don't bow for them," she corrects, voice firm yet subdued. "We do it for Tepr." She looks at him, at all of them. "We can't free anyone if we pick a fight now."
Temej's posture sags slightly, but he gives a single nod. "Alright," he murmurs. "Lead the way, oh gracious Khan of Tepr," he declares, voice dripping with mocked reverence.
…
Sima enters the grand hall with measured steps. The sound echoes through the near-silent expanse, mingling with the faint scent of incense drifting from ornate bronze burners. His dark robe, embroidered with subtle gold thread, sways with his refined posture.
Naci stands by a lacquered table, finishing off a bowl of sweet porridge. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Lizi and Lanau lean against a marble pillar nearby, arms folded. Fol and Temej linger a short distance away, both trying to appear unobtrusive but remaining watchful.
Sima pauses in front of Naci and offers a half-bow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "How does the Khan of Tepr enjoy our refined palace customs?" he asks.
Naci cocks her head. "I've had worse breakfasts," she replies flatly, gesturing at the nearly empty bowl in her hand.
Sima's eyes narrow, though he maintains a veneer of composure. He straightens his back. "I see," he says slowly, "your transition to imperial etiquette proceeds with all the finesse one might expect."
Naci shrugs, unperturbed by his pointed remark. "I'm sure you and your lot can educate me," she says, her tone dry. "A barbarian must learn from the best, after all."
The edges of Sima's thin smile sharpen. "Indeed." He tilts his chin, studying her with a mixture of curiosity and annoyance. "We have no shortage of lessons."
Fol, standing just behind Naci, shifts uneasily at Sima's words, but Naci waves a hand in a silent signal to remain calm. Lanau straightens, preparing for tension to spike, yet the hush that falls over them is far more dangerous than raised voices.
Naci looks Sima in the eye, her expression unyielding. "I have no intention of breaking plates or flipping tables," she remarks, trying for a light tone. "So let's call this my best behavior."
Sima inclines his head in a near-imperceptible nod, conceding the point. "We all hope your presence proves as valuable as your reputation suggests."
Sima leads the procession down a wide corridor, its polished marble floors reflecting shimmering light from tall windows. Courtiers in flowing silken robes bustle around them, heads bowed in deference—though some flash curious, sidelong glances at Naci and her group. The air smells faintly of incense mixed with the sharp tang of ink, a sign of the city's scholarly and administrative pulse.
Clearing his throat, Sima halts at a pair of carved doors. "This," he declares, extending a slim hand, "is the Bureau of Rites. They are responsible for official ceremonies, festival protocols, and the general maintenance of moral order." His voice carries that polite edge—authoritative, yet touched with faint condescension.
Naci, attempting to present a respectful front, offers a curt nod. Her thoughts, however, wander, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes. She leans closer to Temej, whispering, "He makes it sound like parading around with fancy hats is some supreme destiny." Temej snorts softly in agreement, glancing aside to hide his amusement.
As they move on, courtiers scatter, clutching scrolls and delicate fans. Fol lingers at the back. he murmurs to Lanau, "I've never seen so many people dressed in curtains."
Lanau shrugs, her gaze flicking over the rows of officials.
"The Ministry of War," Sima announces next, pausing beneath an imposing arch etched with martial symbols. Rows of serious-faced officers shuffle about inside, arms full of ledgers. "These men coordinate troop deployments, maintain supply lines, and handle the empire's countless skirmishes. They answer directly to the Emperor and his closest advisors."
Naci nods, forcing herself to maintain an expression of polite interest. "Impressive," she ventures, though the dryness in her tone nearly betrays her. Beside her, Lizi covers a grin with her hand—she can practically sense Naci's growing impatience.
They continue onward, the corridors winding through various courtyards. Scribes hunched over desks fill one plaza with the soft scratch of quills. Clerk-officials rush by, sleeves billowing, arms laden with documents. At one corner, an elderly official attempts a deep bow to Sima—only to step on the trailing hem of his robe, collapsing into a flurry of scrolls.
Lizi's shoulders shake with barely suppressed laughter. Temej catches her eye and shakes his head. Naci smothers a snort, murmuring under her breath, "And they think we're the uncivilized ones."
Sima, for his part, pretends not to notice the mishap, though a tightness in his jaw reveals mild embarrassment. He leads them around the fallen official, continuing in a smooth voice, "As you can see, the Imperial City's administration is vast. Each branch plays a crucial role in upholding order."
Naci inhales slowly, wrestling with her desire to make a quip. "I can imagine," she says at last, meeting his gaze with cool composure. "Must be complicated."
Sima's eyes flicker with faint satisfaction. "It is," he agrees, then gestures for them to follow further. "You'll need to understand these hierarchies if you wish to be taken seriously as a vassal."
The group resumes its walk. Naci shoots a sidelong glance at Temej, who mouths silently, "Must. Not. Laugh."
Sima leads them onward through an archway of carved pillars, each column adorned with swirling motifs of dragons and phoenixes. The corridor gives way to a small, manicured pavilion built around a trickling fountain. Intricate lattice screens frame the open sides, letting a gentle breeze drift through.
At the pavilion's center, Sima comes to a decisive halt. Clearing his throat, he adopts the tone of a lecturer in his private domain. "This, Khan of Tepr," he begins with a measured sweep of his arm, "is where many vital decisions are refined and carried out. We coordinate, oversee, and manage...well, everything."
Naci raises an eyebrow. "Everything?" she echoes, half-convinced, half-skeptical.
Sima gives a subtle shrug, as though the truth is self-evident. "Each official within these walls has pledged absolute loyalty to the Emperor. It's a delicate balance of councils, bureaus, and offices. You must learn to navigate them all if you truly wish to remain in His Majesty's favor."
Naci crosses her arms, feigning a thoughtful nod. "If they're all like you," she says, her voice edged with wry humor, "I'll manage."
A flicker of annoyance crosses Sima's eyes, but his mouth curves into a thin smile. "I admire such confidence," he replies mildly, letting the quip slide. Instead, he gestures toward the scrolls displayed on a low table. "Here, the eunuchs handle direct imperial matters—edicts, audits, censuses—where precision and subtlety are paramount. Meanwhile, governors, like our honorable Shi Min, oversee larger regions, ensuring taxes, laws, and peace are maintained at the Emperor's pleasure."
Lizi leans closer to Temej, murmuring under her breath, "He certainly enjoys hearing himself talk, doesn't he?" Temej stifles a grin, nodding.
Sima continues, oblivious or simply choosing not to acknowledge their aside. "Each rank possesses its own codes of conduct, rituals, and alliances. What you call 'bureaucratic nonsense' is, in fact, the backbone of our realm." He straightens, regaining the faint spark of pride in his eye. "For a new vassal, you'll need an alliance or two among these officials—unless you prefer wandering the corridors lost."
Naci lifts her chin, letting the echo of water from the fountain underscore a moment's tension. "I'm not one to get lost in corridors." Her gaze flicks to Temej, who gives her a slow nod of support. "But if alliances keep me alive, I'll consider it."
"Wise indeed," Sima responds, his tone oily-smooth. "I trust," he says evenly, turning back to Naci, "you'll exercise discretion. The Emperor values your experience with cavalry and frontier tactics. He also values respect for his system."
Naci stares at him, unblinking. "Moukopl protocol and I are still getting acquainted," she says, voice mild. "But I've never run from a challenge."
Sima's thin smile reappears. "Excellent," he says. "Then let us continue. There's more to see—more officials eager to...make your acquaintance." He glances at Lizi's smirk but chooses not to engage. Instead, he gestures for them to proceed.
As they move away from the pavilion, the fountain's quiet splashing fades behind them. Naci sets her jaw, forcing herself to step in time with Sima's measured strides, determined not to let him see the small ripple of nerves tugging at her. She's already seen that these corridors hide sharp ambitions behind every silken robe, and no one—neither eunuch nor governor—can be trusted without question.
Still, her heart hardens with resolve. If this empire is a labyrinth, she'll learn its twists. She and her companions came for the sake of Tepr, and no storm of pompous ceremony or cunning official will stand in her way.
Elsewhere within the Imperial City's labyrinth of gilded corridors and towering gates, a young maid leads Official Mo and General Han along a winding path. Her steps are brisk but light, the embroidered hem of her robe whisking against marble floors polished to a mirror sheen. Each hallway they pass grows more ornate—murals of phoenixes, carved pillars inlaid with jade, and curling gold filigree that reflects the flickering lanterns.
At last, they emerge into a grand courtyard, where the Jade Gold Palace stands in silent majesty. The palace's façade gleams in sunlight, its walls covered in polished stone with veins of translucent jade and swirling gold engravings that depict legendary Moukopl battles. Arched doorways, each framed by carved lotus blossoms, soar upwards, meeting an intricately tiled roof crowned with golden rooftops.
The maid pauses at the foot of a magnificent flight of steps, carved from pale green stone. Bowing to the two men, she gestures they should ascend. "Please, sirs. The Emperor and his war advisors await your counsel. I shall guide you to the Hall of Grand Designs."
Mo adjusts his wire-framed glasses with an air of impatience, while General Han smooths the edges of his carefully groomed mustache. Both exchange a look—anticipation and skepticism mingling in their eyes. "Thank you Kexing," Mo says while she leads them inside, her footsteps muffled by thick jade-green rugs that line the vast corridor beyond the palace doors.
They arrive in a circular chamber, a space bordered by tall windows that admit beams of clear morning light. At the far end stands the Emperor, clad in a robe so heavy with embroidery and bejeweled clasps that it seems more an artifact than an article of clothing. Around him cluster war advisors and high-ranking officials, all dressed in varying degrees of ceremonial finery. Eunuchs stand in attendance at discreet intervals, silent as shadows.
Official Mo and General Han approach, careful not to appear rushed, each bowing in the Moukopl style. The Emperor, regal and impassive, lifts a languid hand in acknowledgment.
"Your Majesty." Mo's voice comes out polished, though the corners of his mouth twitch with some inner discomfort. "I bring my counsel and the counsel of my esteemed colleague, General Han."
General Han inclines his head, posture straight. "We come bearing insight into the empire's future arsenal."
A hush falls over the assembled advisors. Old Ji of the Northern Bureau nods. "Indeed, Official Mo has submitted a request to speak of new weapons," he intones.
The Emperor, eyes half-lidded, rouses at the prompt. "Yes... speak. We have time for discourse this morning."
Mo clears his throat, adjusting his glasses again in a nervous habit. "We propose the introduction of muskets, small cannons of sorts, used by pirates and outlaws at sea. Their surprising firepower, when harnessed, can be integrated into the Moukopl arsenal on land. With due respect, Your Majesty, it is a new era. Our empire cannot ignore these developments."
A ripple of murmurs spreads among the war advisors. Some frown in outright disapproval, others lean closer with subdued curiosity. One official with a fussy moustache interjects: "Muskets? Are they not mere pirate fantasies—reckless contraptions with no place in formal warfare?"
General Han, who stands a respectful half-pace behind Mo, steps in. "They may seem novel, Minister, but the advantage of projectiles that can be fired by a single soldier—faster than our archers can reload or outrun—could be immense. Imagine a cavalry armed with these. The shock alone might destroy Yohazatz morale for good."
A bolder advisor clicks his tongue. "What about the costs? Muskets come from foreign lands and require specialized metalworking, that we would need to buy. The training alone—"
Mo exhales, exasperation flickering across his face. "Yes, training is required. So is forging new tactics. But consider how far we've come with gunpowder- Our Crouching Tigers are so successful that the whole world envies them. Muskets are now flooding our seas. They can break enemy lines at close range. It's not a question of if, but when the enemy begins to field them. We must not lag behind."
A war counselor in elaborate armor, shoulders bedecked with dragon motifs, folds his arms. "We have never found bows wanting. The Moukopl archers remain unparalleled, do they not?"
Han nods politely, yet stands firm. "They are, indeed, fine archers. But the world moves forward. Muskets can punch through armor that arrows struggle to pierce. And they instill fear in the enemy. They make scorching iron rain. The thunderous noise alone can demoralize less disciplined troops."
The Emperor regards them all silently. His gaze slides to Mo, who is bristling with intellectual fervor, then to Han, whose posture radiates the calm surety of a commander. At length, the Emperor inclines his head—a gesture that both invites them to continue and warns them of the gravitas in the room.
Mo wets his lips. "I witnessed a demonstration of these weapons, Your Majesty. Their immediate lethality is impressive, though not without drawbacks. They are slow to reload, inaccurate at extreme ranges. But I have many ideas to improve them."
One of the Emperor's senior advisors, robed in burgundy, shakes his head dismissively. "You would make us adopt pirate tricks? Or worse, foreign barbarians? Muskets are unpredictable!"
General Han's mouth quirks in a near-grin. "Respectfully, sir, unpredictability has its uses. The pirates have capitalized on these weapons for years. Pirates. Imagine what a trained Moukopl battalion could do."
From behind the Emperor's high seat, a young eunuch steps forward to softly announce, "Your Majesty, time grows short for the midday hearing." The Emperor silences him with a subtle wave, eyes fixed on Mo and Han.
"Old Ji, what do you say about potential rebellion from within if we arm too many with these weapons?" The Emperor's question slices through the tension, his tone bored yet pointed.
Old Ji lets out a small laugh. "You always ask the wisest questions, Your Majesty. But Ji too believes that for all the empire's grandeur, we must adapt. The muskets' greatest threat would not be an internal revolt but an external enemy using them against us first. If we adopt them carefully, under strict oversight, we keep the advantage. With higher regulation, it will also be more difficult for mere commoners to own those weapons. Muskets are far more expensive than simple swords too. Would that stop any revolts? Of course not. Revolts are not caused by weapons existing or not. Weapons always exist. It's stability and administration that reduces the potential unrest. When the people are unhappy, they will fight with their fists if that's all they have."
Silence stretches like a taut bowstring. The Emperor steeples his fingers, gaze drifting over the assembled war advisors. A hush as thick as the palace's tapestries weighs in.
Finally, the Emperor speaks, tone measured. "Official Mo. General Han. Your arguments have merit, though the empire is not a toy to be risked on whim. We must consider the cost, the forging, the training. But I agree that ignoring these weapons places us at risk."
A slight exhale from Mo signals his relief. Han dips his head in respect. One of the more conservative counselors frowns, evidently displeased.
The Emperor continues, "Let us convene a smaller council to discuss the logistics—production, training regimens, command structures. I will not see the empire undone by pride or fear of change."
An approving murmur ripples among those open to new tactics; grumbles manifest among the traditionalists. Mo bows deeply, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you, Your Majesty. We shall not fail you."
With a curt nod, the Emperor stands, his ornate robes trailing along the floor as he strides toward a side door leading to more private quarters. The advisors scatter—some to plan, others to fume.
General Han looks to Mo, relief creasing his brow. "I'd call that a victory, wouldn't you, Official Mo?"
Mo snorts, pushing his glasses up. "A victory with a thousand follow-up debates, but yes, a step forward." His gaze wanders to the quiet corners where a couple of eunuchs whisper. "Now let's see how the eunuchs might twist this in the coming days."