The flags above suddenly caught fire. Ash scattered across the sky like a sudden storm. At the moment the banner ignited, Shen Zechuan used the force to flip off his horse. Feng Taishuangyi moved in perfect understanding, already running. Shen Zechuan narrowly avoided a frontal strike, following Feng Taishuangyi with a light leap.
The scorpion missed its target. In that brief moment of distraction, Shen Zechuan seized the arm that had struck out.
The scorpion froze, then burst into wild joy, shouting in Beisha language: “He has no stre—”
Before he could finish, Shen Zechuan had already released his grip.
His left hand struck along the side of the scorpion’s arm. The scorpion assumed it was an over-the-shoulder throw and immediately planted a leg to stabilize himself. But Shen Zechuan spun and kicked straight into his chest.
The scorpion spread his arms and roared, “A mantis trying to stop a chariot!”
Shen Zechuan’s slender two fingers pointed diagonally at the scorpion’s forehead. The scorpion, suspicious of a trick, instinctively closed his eyes.
But Shen Zechuan only let out a soft laugh.
The short blade that had slipped from his hand fell downward. Using one leg for support, he spun again and kicked the blade sideways into the scorpion.
The scorpion had no time to react. The blade pierced his lower abdomen, blood bursting out as he screamed in agony.
Shen Zechuan paid him no attention.
Behind him, flames flared up. His shadow stretched long as the fire shifted.
Fei Sheng seized the moment and shouted, “Luo Mu colluded with Beisha people! Foreign enemies are inside the city! The garrison kill the enemy—everyone else, clear the way!”
Torches on the eastern watchtower swung toward the sky. Soldiers standing on the railing raised Zhongbo waist tokens and shouted with all their strength:
“Lord’s decree—kill foreign enemies! Kill rebel troops! Kill traitors!”
Seeing that incitement would not work and all routes blocked by garrison troops, the scorpion retreated the way he came. The entire capital of Juedu had fallen into chaos. Imperial troops defending the gates were slaughtered into rivers of blood by the imperial guard.
Large sections of the battlements had collapsed. Xue Xiuzhuo’s official robes were torn, and he looked utterly disheveled until someone suddenly grabbed him.
Ya’er held Jincheng, a child, a bundle hanging from his shoulder. In the chaos, he gestured frantically and dragged Xue Xiuzhuo toward the steps.
Xue Xiuzhuo staggered, leaning against the wall, looking at Jincheng. The child, son of Xue Xiuyi and raised by Xue Xiuzhuo, was covered in tears and clutched his sleeve, crying, “Uncle… uncle!”
Ya’er stomped anxiously, pulling at Xue Xiuzhuo’s robe, urging him to flee.
Xue Xiuzhuo reached out and touched the child’s cheek.
“You are a good child.”
Jincheng looked up and felt something like rain on his face.
Xue Xiuzhuo straightened slightly, blocking out the light, hiding all vulnerability. In his entire life, this was the only moment of pause—as if only this instant truly belonged to him.
Ya’er began to cry, tugging harder, fingers turning red.
Xue Xiuzhuo gently pushed Ya’er away and freed himself.
“Go,” he said. “You all go.”
Jincheng cried out loudly, “Uncle!”
Xue Xiuzhuo did not respond.
The night rain was lighter than two years ago, yet he saw the same dim sky. A lone man guarding this city had already heard the echo of decay before daylight collapsed—but he still could not accept it, that such a colossal structure would end in such desolation.
He stepped down the stairs slowly, alone, never once looking back.
“You pushed the Yellow Register policy in Zhongbo,” Xue Xiuzhuo said, pausing, “was Yuan Zhuo’s achievement.”
Shen Zechuan did not respond.
In the dim shadows, Xue Xiuzhuo brushed dust from his sleeve.
“I admired Qi Huilian and walked his path,” he said, looking at Shen Zechuan, “but I was not as ruthless as him.”
To wager one’s life was simple. The difficulty lay in whether one dared to place that life into the game. Qi Huilian dared everything—his madness was rooted in trust in Shen Zechuan.
Lan Zhou was not his chess piece.
Because of this, Qi Huilian left nothing for Lan Zhou. Shen Zechuan did not need restraints. Qi Huilian had brushed his hair and, through those five years together, pointed him toward a path.
The teacher gave him poetry and prose, and granted him the style name “Lan Zhou.”
That was all Qi Huilian left.
“The Great Zhou endured centuries of powerful rulers, never broken by foreign powers, yet now it falls to you,” Xue Xiuzhuo said, looking at Shen Zechuan, “a fish slipping from the bottom of a cauldron.”
“There were many guesses. Even Yuan Zhuo once imagined I might be of the Li bloodline left by Shen Wei,” Shen Zechuan said, glancing toward the palace, “but I am the son of a condemned criminal. The world chases imperial blood, yet only my teacher walked the opposite path.”
Those who attain the Dao are not predetermined by heaven.
“Qi Huilian alone turned the tide. I admire him,” Xue Xiuzhuo said deeply, exhaling, “My lord is still young. The one who comes today to surrender is Xue Xiuzhuo. The city gate has fallen, the roads are open—Shen Zechuan, do not kill the innocent. I come to receive you.”
His voice struck like thunder, shaking the officials on the city wall. Surrendering was a humiliation through the ages, yet Xue Xiuzhuo bore it alone.
“No…” Kong Qiu cried out, pounding his chest. “Great Zhou…”
Officials wept and collapsed in despair.
Surrender meant the end of war. Zhongbo’s remaining forces would not advance further. With Juedu fallen, the thirteen western cities might be spared—that was the last hope, the final grain store of the Great Zhou.
Kong Qiu understood this was the only viable path, yet it also meant the end of Great Zhou itself.
He could no longer stand. Gripping the wall, he wept.
“Today the world changes hands because of our incompetence.”
Then, with sudden resolve, he shouted:
“I am a minister of Great Zhou—I will not kneel to a second master!”
He threw himself off the wall.
Fei Sheng shouted, “Stop him!”
But before anyone could reach him—
A figure shot forward and grabbed Kong Qiu. Liang Cuishan cried out, “Minister-in-Chief, no!”
Kong Qiu staggered back, collapsing against broken bricks, coughing violently in tears.
…
The carriage rushing toward the west gate was attacked. Streets were jammed with carts and horses. Nobles were fleeing in panic, clogging the road completely.
Guards whipped their horses, shouting, “Move! Make way!”
But it was too crowded. The carriage could not advance even a step.
Inside, Li Jingtian saw towering palace halls and heard the sound of bells.
“The city has fallen!” Han Jin ran barefoot through the streets, laughing wildly as he grabbed scattered proclamations. “The city has fallen!”
“Xue Xiuzhuo has surrendered!” someone cried. “Great Zhou is dead!”
Li Jingtian’s chest tightened in pain. She trembled, lifted the carriage curtain, and suddenly bent forward, vomiting. Wind tore through her hair, rain covered her face, her thin back showing faint bone beneath.
Xue Xiuzhuo’s final choice was to bear humiliation for her.
Her body shook. Cold pierced her bones. She let out a hoarse laugh.
In truth, she and Xue Xiuzhuo were mutually dependent, yet never truly teacher and student. Neither needed that label. At this moment, Xue Xiuzhuo was only fulfilling the word “minister.”
Jiang Qingshan had not returned. Li Jingtian’s escape to western lands was merely lingering survival.
Great Zhou had already fallen. Shen Zechuan now held not only the strongest army, but also public support. The eight cities’ efforts had been handed over, becoming his victory.
“Living in hiding and wandering in fear… how dull.”
She looked up at the rain.
She had spent her entire life in hiding. A life that could never stand in the light. But she had struggled—and lost. She accepted it.
“Empress—” a guard lost his grip.
She leapt down from the carriage.
Rain soaked her as she tied up her hair. Tens of thousands fled west, yet she alone moved east against the tide.
Han Jin clutched proclamations, laughing and chasing after her. “I’m going to find my big brother!”
The Minglitang was already burning.
Li Jingtian bent down and picked up a broken drum. She struck it. A dull sound echoed.
“Going to the palace?”
Han Jin clapped. “Yes! Yes!”
Amid chaos and slaughter, Li Jingtian no longer looked at anyone. She beat the broken drum and laughed wildly with the madman, walking toward the palace.
“I was once a displaced minister, now a hero in chaos…”
The sky was dark with no light. Kong Qiu and officials wept on the city wall.
“Wind from Hsiao Pass hears border horns…”
Northern Li’s stone monuments stood through seasons. Iron cavalry charged through dead grass. Xiao Jicheng dismounted and wiped snow from his blade.
“Snow shines like frost stars…”
Tea Stone River surged on. Withered red blossoms disappeared into the current.
“Return sheath, dust brushed away…”
Yao Wenyu coughed blood in his handkerchief. Qiao Tianya watched through rain and fire.
“Banquet in the hall, broken cups raised…”
Li Jingtian beat her drum through crimson walls.
“Drink all wine in cups…”
Flames rose into the sky. Han Jin ran ahead. Li Jingtian turned back one last time toward Juedu. The drum fell silent.
She murmured hoarsely, singing through fire:
“…drunk in wild song… no need to ask about glory…”
The hall collapsed in a roar.
Fire engulfed her completely.