Smoke still clung to the sky like a shroud. Shanjing—once the gleaming heart of the Zhong Empire—stood blackened and broken. Its spires were charred. The old walls had been shattered by siege, their banners trampled beneath ash and blood. In its ruins, the victors gathered. Not for celebration. There was no triumph here. Only the long breath before the next storm.
Within what remained of the eastern stronghold, Altan stood at the head of the assembly. Behind him stood his command: Chaghan to his left, unmoving as stone; Khulan and Burgedai flanking the other side; Stormwake Batu just beyond, his beast crouched low, eyes scanning the chamber.
Over a hundred delegates filled the room. Lords of cities. Warlords of fractured provinces. Mayors of burned towns. Bandit chiefs who had taken up banners in the void. None wore courtly finery. Armor was dented, cloaks torn, and every man and woman there was armed.
Altan said nothing at first. Chaghan stepped forward and handed him a scroll. Altan held it up for all to see.
"The Zhong Empire is dead."
No cheers. No gasps. Just silence.
He unrolled the scroll slowly and continued. "We will not replace it with another throne. No more emperors. No more sons of heaven. What rises next will not be ruled by one man's name. This is a pact. A defense. A line in the ash."
Some nodded. Others frowned. A few whispered.
Altan's voice did not rise. It didn't need to. "We form a new alliance—of cities, towns, and people who refuse to kneel again."
Khulan snorted. "And who keeps that promise? You?"
Then the room broke open. The shouting began—accusations, threats, boasts. Some claimed right to rule. Others demanded a war council. A few shouted that Altan had no authority at all.
"I led my city. I can lead all of you!"
"You ruled through fire and terror!"
"You hold the gates with Stormguards!"
"Why should we follow your law?"
Altan raised one hand.
The chamber fell silent.
"We vote," he said. "And I propose Lord Qiu."
Gasps. Stares. Someone swore aloud.
Lord Qiu, the empire's former grand strategist, sat among the gathering in plain grey robes. He had not spoken since the morning began. His hands tightened around the arms of his chair, but his face remained unreadable.
"Why him?" someone finally asked.
Altan's response was simple. "He is a man of integrity. Even with the empire in power, he was no tyrant. He protected his city—fed it, guarded it, never bent it to madness or cruelty. And when he was defeated, he accepted it."
All eyes turned to Qiu. He looked as surprised as anyone.
"I did not ask for this," the old man said.
"I know," Altan replied.
The vote was cast by dusk. Of the gathered delegates, seventy-five percent voted in favor.
There was no applause. Just a long silence as names were counted.
Altan stepped forward again. "You will vote again in three years. If Lord Qiu proves worthy, he stays. If not, he steps down. That is law."
He held up the scroll. "The framework is here. I've already drafted the first set of laws. Read them. Amend them. We begin now."
For one week, they argued. Screamed. Rewrote entire sections. Who would lead the military? How would coin be shared? What voice would smaller towns have? But it held. Somehow, it held.
By the seventh day, they signed the pact.
The First Accord of the Free Cities.
Fifteen small cities, five major ones, and countless towns signed their names to it. They became one alliance—not by blood, not by crown, but by choice. The cities who refused to sign were left out. Some declared neutrality. Others still followed broken warlords or the old ways. They would not be protected.
The scroll included one more provision. Any city that signed the Accord would receive the protection of the League's standing military. The Free Cities would have a semi-autonomous army—drawn from every signatory, loyal to no single ruler. That alone sparked another storm of arguments. Who would lead it? Who commanded authority? Several lords demanded the title for themselves. One was laughed out of the chamber, called a tyrant in his own village.
None expected Altan to speak again.
But he did.
He offered the compromise. The army would fall under a rotating council, elected every five years by the Senate. Neutral cities would be given time to reconsider. No alliance could be forced—but protection could not be freely given without sacrifice.
Then came the final vote. The League would be formed. And Shanjing—once throne to emperors—would be transformed.
Lord Qiu stepped forward and made the proposal: "It is no longer the throne of emperors. Let it serve the people now."
The delegates agreed. Shanjing would remain the capital—but not of an empire. It would become the seat of the League of Free Cities.
The shattered palace was stripped of its imperial seals and converted into the new Senate Chamber and military headquarters. Soldiers tore down the golden banners of Hu and hoisted the plain emblem of the League—an open circle ringed with city sigils, unbroken, shared.
From its halls, the first elected officials of the League would begin the painful work of rebuilding—one law, one town, one grave at a time.