Fifteen years later, in the first month (Kaiyuan) of the thirteenth year of the Great Dragon
The battlefield echoed with the clang of steel and agonised cries. Blood, thick and dark, soaked the ground beneath the bodies of fallen soldiers, strewn in gruesome heaps. Smoke coiled into the sky, mixing with the stench of death.
Prince Zhixian sat astride his horse atop a hill, his cold, grey eyes sweeping the carnage with detachment. His face, sharp as polished jade, betrayed no emotion as he assessed the battle. Each movement of the soldiers below was calculated like a Xiangqi piece on a board.
This was where he belonged.
The battlefield had become his domain—predictable, brutal, and efficient.
He raised a gauntleted hand, signalling his archers to fire. If they pressed this attack, they would finally break the siege of two years.
"Your Highness! Our men are still on the field!" the commander faltered, his voice filled with hesitation.
Zhixian's head turned with eerie calm, his voice surprisingly soft. "Do you dare defy my orders?"
The commander's face drained of colour as he stammered, "N-no, Your Highness, but—"
Zhixian's sword flashed before the commander could finish his sentence. Blood sprayed as the man's head fell to the earth. The surrounding soldiers froze in stunned silence, eyes wide with horror.
Zhixian wiped his blade clean with the fallen man's tunic. "Shall I ask again?" His voice remained serene, a chilling difference from the violence he had just committed.
None dared speak.
Zhixian's gaze shifted to Captain Lian as he sheathed his sword, his expression unreadable beneath his helmet. "Captain Lian, you now command the archers. Fire at will."
Captain Lian, unshaken by the display, saluted sharply. "Yes, my lord!"
He barked orders, and moments later, a deadly rain of arrows arced into the air, darkening the sky as they fell upon the enemy.
Zhixian watched as the enemy lines wavered, then crumbled under the onslaught. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips—the day was almost theirs.
But his satisfaction was cut short. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a breach in the defensive line, a group of desperate enemy soldiers breaking through and charging toward him.
If those men on the line survived, they would have him to deal with.
The enemy forces were gaining ground quickly. His mind worked even quicker, calculating the terrain, the angles, and the likelihood of his success.
He dismounted, his sword sliding free of its sheath with a soft metallic hiss. The first soldier rushed him with a crude battle cry; his sword raised high.
Zhixian sidestepped, his blade cleaving the man's neck. The soldier's head rolled, blood spurting across Zhixian's armour, but the prince had already moved on before the body hit the ground.
The second soldier, eyes wide with rage, swung wildly. Zhixian ducked under the blow, driving his steel boot into the man's knee. The bone snapped with a sickening crack, and as the man screamed, Zhixian ended his suffering with a thrust to the chest, twisting the blade before pulling it free.
A third lunged, and with a flick of his wrist, Zhixian impaled him through the gut. Blood splattered the ground, but Zhixian's expression remained untouched by the violence. Each movement was a dance he had mastered long ago.
Many saw him as the harbinger of death, a mindless killing machine.
But war was not just about killing—it was the strategy. Zhxian's eyes flicked toward the debris of a fallen catapult nearby, and an idea formed. With a glance at the charging soldiers, he darted toward it, grabbing a piece of burning wood and hurling it into the advancing men.
The makeshift weapon smashed into their formation, scattering them. Before they could regroup, Zhixian was upon them again, cutting them down.
He fought with deadly force. He wasn't just a warrior; he embodied Tianshou's survival.
Victory is survival, he reminded himself as he cleaved through another opponent.
Zhixian could feel his men's stares on him—their awe and fear. They had watched as he single-handedly tore through the enemy ranks.
The symbol of cold, unshakable power.
The battlefield was where he ruled—here, he was not the emperor's son but something far more powerful.
Another soldier hesitated, his blade trembling. That brief moment of doubt sealed his fate. Zhixian advanced, his sword slicing clean through the gap in the soldier's armour, splitting flesh and bone. The man fell with a wet gurgle, his life ebbing away at the prince's feet.
As the final enemy before him crumpled, Zhixian stood amidst the carnage, his breath steady, his pulse calm. Around him, the bodies of the slain littered the ground like discarded dolls. Blood pooled at his feet, the metallic tang of it filling the air.
"Press the attack!" His firm and commanding voice cut through the chaos. Renewed by their prince's terrifying display, his soldiers surged forward with a roar, cutting down the remaining enemy forces.
The prince watched as the enemy's retreat became messy, their soldiers fleeing in panic, leaving behind the wounded and the dying.
The day was won.
A sound by his side caught his attention. His horse, Heiying, had finally decided to come to him. The proud creature had a mind that Zhixian had learnt to let live.
He patted the mane absentmindedly as he turned to Captain Lian, who had rushed through the crowd to his side.
"Ensure our wounded are sorted. Interrogate any prisoners with rank. We need every piece of intelligence we can get."
Captain Lian saluted, exhaustion evident in his face. "Understood, Your Highness."
Zhixian nodded and mounted his horse again, surveying the battlefield. The fires from the burning enemy camps cast long, eerie shadows, their flickering light dancing across the faces of the soldiers who still stood. He nudged Heiying's sides gently, pushing him into a slow walk across the field.
Two long years of fighting, bloodshed, and sacrifice had led to this moment.
But even now, with victory within reach, Zhixian's mind was restless. The fight with the Hanzi Kingdom had taken a lot out of them, this siege particularly. The other kingdoms had gone quiet recently—too quiet.
He suspected they were planning something, something bigger than this. And the thought of returning to the palace, to the political moves of his mother—the empress—his half-siblings, and all their slimy supporters, unsettled him more than any battlefield.
He had been gone for six years and knew that stepping back into that den of vipers would require more than just his sword.
"Burn their camps," Zhixian ordered coldly, his gaze never leaving the horizon. "And take no prisoners aside the ones we need."
The soldier beside him didn't dare hesitate and quickly saluted. "Yes, Your Highness."
As the enemy fled into the darkness of the Hanzi border, Zhixian dismounted again, his thoughts already shifting to the battles yet to come—not on the field, but in the palace halls, where words were sharper than any blade.
For a brief moment, Zhixian's calm mask cracked, a fleeting frown creasing his brow.
Something's wrong, he thought, as a sharp, sudden twinge gripped his stomach. His hand instinctively moved to his side, though he forced his expression back to its usual, blank calm.
Not now.
Lian had returned to give a report, his sharp eyes caught the motion. He stepped forward, concern flashing across his face. He discreetly fished a small vial from his pocket and silently handed it to the prince.
Zhixian took it without comment, the brief exchange unnoticed by the soldiers around them. It was routine by now—just another battle, another dose of his medicine.
"How long has it been since that started?" Lian asked, stepping forward. "I'm not sure how much we have left. We would need to leave for the capital to get another stock."
"You worry too much, captain," Zhixian said softly, brushing off his captain's concern, though both men knew the truth. "What is the report?"
"We managed to grab some important people before the rest escaped. Please come with me."
They both walked through the field to the tents on the side, lost in their thoughts.
As he approached the group of prisoners in the largest tent, Zhixian's eyes locked onto one in particular—a captain by the look of his torn uniform, still defiant despite the blood and dirt caked on his swollen face.
The man glared up at him, hatred burning in his eyes.
"It is kind of you all to join us," Zhixian announced his presence. His gaze lingered on the captain, his lips curling into a faint, mocking smile.
Most of the prisoners shrunk back in horror at the sight of him, their eyes filled with fear. But the captain did not flinch. His chest heaved as he pushed himself up, his broken voice rasping through the dirt and blood.
"You evil bastard!" he spat, the words harsh and defiant. "Don't think you have won. This war is far from over!"
Zhixian's smile faded, his cold eyes narrowing as the captain lunged forward with surprising strength, despite the pain wracking his body.
His shackled hands clawed at the air as if trying to reach Zhixian's throat.
Without a word, Zhixian stepped back, effortlessly avoiding the man's grasp. The captain's momentum carried him forward, and Zhixian reached out, grabbing him by the arm and twisting it behind his back with a sharp motion, pinning him to the ground.
"Your loyalty is admirable," Zhixian mused, his voice low as he stood over the man, "but loyalty to a dying cause is nothing more than blind foolishness." His grip tightened, forcing a hiss of pain from the captain's lips.
The man's glare never wavered. "I would rather die than kneel before you."
Zhixian chuckled, the sound cold and detached. "I don't need you to kneel nor do I need your life."
The soldiers rushed in to grab the man, throwing in a few punches and kicks to subdue him.
Zhixian crouched down to meet the man's gaze, his expression neutral. "You'll talk. One way or another," he said quietly, his voice almost gentle.
The prisoner spat at his feet. "I'll die before I help you, tyrant."
Zhixian didn't flinch. He simply smiled—a cold, mirthless thing that sent a shiver through the gathered soldiers. "You're going to die anyway," he replied, standing and nodding to his men. "But I'd prefer it if you died after you told me what I need to know."
As they dragged the prisoner away, Zhixian straightened, his eyes scanning the horizon again.
The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the battlefield. There was little satisfaction in today's victory. Only the creeping sense that the real fight had yet to begin.
Pain lanced through his side again, sharp and insistent. He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his ribs, but the ache remained. It always did.
The kingdom would survive. It had to. Even if, piece by piece, it devoured him whole.
He turned toward the horizon, where the palace was hidden in the distance, gilded by the dying light. A gilded cage.
Zhixian inhaled once, deeply, then stepped forward.
There was no turning back.