The corridor was slick with blood, the air thick with the sharp, metallic tang of it. But they didn't stop.
Zhao Yan could feel the pull of the Jade House, the weight of it in the stone beneath his feet. The empire's heart—it was so close he could almost taste it.
A guard lunged at Deng Mi, blade flashing. Deng Mi caught it on one of his blades, twisted, and cut the man down in a single, fluid motion.
Wei Ling slammed his fist into the face of another, the crack of bone loud in the narrow space. The man fell, and Wei Ling didn't even pause—he brought his saber down, ending him in one brutal stroke.
The loyal guards behind them moved like shadows, blades flashing, shields raised. They fought with the quiet determination of men who had chosen their path and would see it through, no matter the cost.
Step by step, they carved their way through the darkness.
Zhao Yan's breath came faster now, but he didn't slow. He could feel the empire's fate balanced on the edge of his blade.
