Ling An – Day of the Southern Prayer Procession
The streets were swept by midnight. No blood, no banners, no dust. Only fire.
Braziers lined the avenue between the Southern Shrine Gate and the Imperial Mirror Pavilion. Crimson-robed monks moved in pairs, each bearing incense censers carved with images of the storm god and the silent queen. Bells rang low from temple towers, like the murmuring of distant drums.
From my vantage point atop the shrine stairs, the city seemed to breathe smoke.
And somewhere within that smoke — death waited.
The procession began at dawn.
I wore ceremonial white, with a crimson belt of prayer knots. Shen Yue stood at my right, veiled. Behind us, my gathered supporters — three nobles, five shrine officials, and one silent merchant-priest who still bore the mark of his old vows.
Wu Jin had not come in person. But his eyes watched. I could feel them, quiet as breath against the back of my neck.
This was the moment. My ascension — or my unraveling.
At the incense altar, I raised my hands.
"Today," I said, voice echoing across the square, "we burn not for wealth. Not for conquest. We burn for memory."
A thousand citizens bowed.
"We burn to recall that which Heaven itself forgot."
Shen Yue lit the offering bowl.
The first flames curled upward — not golden, not orange, but ashen blue, as if the smoke remembered what the world had lost.
The people murmured. That was the first sign.
In the crowd, Minister Shen Yuan watched with folded hands. His eyes were fixed not on me, but on the flame — as though willing it to fail.
He had done something. I could feel it.
The incense warped. The flame quivered. Bells rang off-tempo.
But I continued.
Then came the cry.
Somewhere near the front. A woman. Not loud — but sharp enough to turn heads.
Shen Yue's hand froze as she lifted the second offering.
"Keep going," I said.
But her eyes were fixed on something behind me.
"It's her," she whispered. "She's here."
I turned.
And saw only smoke.
But beneath it, there was a form.
A woman, veiled in red, standing too still, too quiet. Not breathing. Not real.
Except I knew her.
Wu Kang's mother. The Imperial Queen and the primary consort of my father.
She had always been hidden from the imperial court and has always been with my father showing unconditional support.
But I knew what this means and I knew what should be done
She had been sacrificed.
Or perhaps… she chose it.
There was no proof. No blood trail. No scream.
Only her name — spoken in the fire. A name no one should remember.
And still the flame turned blue.
Shen Yue whispered beside me, "She was part of the offering. But not yours."
The air shifted. The fire surged.
Then — silence.
Elsewhere – Eastern Palace
Wu Kang stood before his advisors, waiting.
"Why hasn't it failed yet?" he asked.
No answer.
Taian tilted his wine cup.
"Perhaps he was cleverer than we thought."
"Or perhaps we were less ruthless."
Then, word arrived:
"Your mother... Her name was spoken."
Wu Kang stilled.
"What name?"
"The old one. Her shrine name. It was whispered in the offering smoke."
A long silence.
"Impossible," he said.
"Yet it burned true," the messenger replied. "And the shrine lit fully."
Wu Kang turned away. But something inside him had broken.
Back at the altar, I felt the world tilt.
My skin burned — not from fire, but from proximity. The prayer bowl pulsed like a second heart.
And beneath it all…
A voice I had not heard since Dongxia.
Not a whisper. Not a word. Just remembrance.
"She died so the gate would open."
I staggered. Shen Yue caught my arm.
"You must finish it," she said.
I stepped forward. The final rite was in my hand.
The crowd waited. The city held its breath.
And just before I could speak—
The bells shattered.
Not cracked. Not broken.
Shattered.
Each piece falling like ash.
And the sky turned red.
A wind rose — not from the east, nor west, but from beneath.
A deep breath drawn by the earth itself.
The brazier flames bowed inward.
Something was coming.
In the silence that followed, the southern gate groaned open on its own. No one had touched it.
The silence became unbearable.
Then the woman in red was gone.
No footsteps. No retreat.
Gone.
The citizens looked around, murmuring.
Some cried.
I stood still, holding the last prayer scroll — unread.
If I read it, I completed the ritual.
If I did not… something else might.
Shen Yue looked at me.
"Decide now," she said.
I looked out over the shrine steps, over the heads of nobles and priests and watchers. The people, already pale, now stood frozen like stone.
Then I heard the voice again.
Not hers. Not the dead consort.
Mine.
But spoken from a throat that was not mine.
"I remember how it ends."
The sky cracked with a soundless scream. Across the plaza, a monk convulsed and collapsed, blood pouring from his eyes. Another screamed, tearing at his robes, shouting in tongues that had no name.
I closed my eyes and read the scroll aloud.
The final words were not of peace.
They were of sacrifice.
And as the flame consumed the scroll, the wind stopped.
And the gate closed.
But something had entered.
And it was listening.