CHAPTER 234: THE LAST DANCE

The southern wing erupted in chaos. Screams and steel rang through the torchlit corridors as Hua Jing and her force burst through the breach. The remnants of Pei Rong’s men, led by Han Sui, fought with desperate ferocity, emboldened by their leader’s wrath. The air filled with the acrid tang of smoke and the metallic scent of blood.

Hua Jing moved at the front, her blade flicking under torchlight, crimson robes trailing trails of steel. Every strike was precise—no hesitation, no mercy. She carved a path toward the heart of the rebellion, the flash of her sword teaching men to fear.

Beside her, Wei Ling and Zhao Ling Xu fought as one. Wei Ling’s shield rose and fell, parrying blows that might have killed them both. Zhao Ling Xu’s blade was a herald of vengeance—always forward, never wasted—cutting without remorse.

The rebels backed into the ancient chambers, cobwebbed vaults and half-collapsed ceilingstones raining dust and debris. Flames licked the edges of broken beams, plunging the room into fiery light and deeper shadows. The closer they fought to the blaze, the hotter the air tasted—the walls searing, conjuring the memory of all they’d lost.

Wearied men on both sides fell. Guards who had followed Zhao Yan for decades—now fighting in place of their dying prince—pressed forward, their loyalty fueling each swing of their swords. Rebels, once bold under Pei Rong’s promise of power, now swung wildly in panic, rage their only tether.

And at the center of it all, two figures stood in stark contrast: Hua Jing—her eyes ablaze with fury and unwavering purpose—and Han Sui, the wiry archer whose single arrow had nearly shattered an empire. They moved to one another through the chaos—a silent collision inevitable as the earth itself.

Hua Jing ducked under a slash from a rebel spearman, reversing her weight in a spin that sent his weapon clattering across the marble floor. She glanced up and saw Han Sui mere paces away, dodging past two downed guards. Their eyes locked—hers filled with silent accusation, his with bitter resolve.

With a single step, Hua Jing closed the gap. They clashed like fate itself—his dagger against her sword. Sparks flew as metal met blade, and for a moment the world fell away. Around them roared the battle—screams, cries, hooves striking broken marble. But here, there was only the pulse of their hearts in time with clashing steel.

Han Sui’s eyes burned. "You had to take everything," he snarled through gritted teeth. He swung low, forcing Hua Jing to parry upward, wood cracking under the impact.

"Everything he was," she answered coldly, pressing her advantage. "My prince. My life. And image of the empire he swore to protect."

Her words were carved into steel. Han Sui grew tight around his blade.

"Oh? You think it was just about the prince?" he spat, stepping back and slashing. The cut scored her armor; she winced as hot metal kissed flesh. "You don’t understand! We wanted change! A future without corrupt royalty!"

Hua Jing countered swiftly, her blade slicing a clean line across his shoulder. He staggered, pressing the cloth of his torn jacket to stop the bleeding.

"Change? You call murder change? Slaughter? Burning down the empire?!"

A flash of pain and defiance crossed Han Sui’s eyes. "At least we tried — instead of letting the throne rot from the inside!"

She tightened her grip. The firelight danced across her blade. Without a word she struck—his dagger flew in sparks as she deflected it—and she drove her dagger forward, tipping the weight into him.

He stumbled, blood dripping from his mouth. He looked into her eyes—hours of hate, pain, betrayal—and something in him flickered: regret, maybe?

But the fight was not over.

Around them, the rebellion collapsed in kinetic fury. Zhao Ling Xu roared as he killed two men trying to flank him. Wei Ling shut the path to the fire, watching the blaze threaten wood and beam just overhead. The palace guard, reborn from shadow into resolve, fought as wolves.

With one final push—Hua Jing’s sword pressed heavy against Han Sui’s throat. Smoke and sparks whirled, embers studding the air like summer stars.

He locked eyes with her, silent and bleeding. "You don’t... win." His voice raspy. "Do you know... what you’ve lost... with your victory?"

She met him without flinching. "I haven’t lost, Han Sui. I’m reclaiming." Her voice was steel. "You killed a man who still belonged to the people. And you nearly killed a man destined to rebuild. You will lie here—you, your cause—until your echoes fade."

His breath rattled. The world around them closed in—faces, flames, the stench of war.

Then he slumped. The tension left his shoulders. His dagger fell at her feet as he squeezed his eyes shut.

Hua Jing remained poised—until the movement behind her pulled her attention. Wei Ling signaled. Zhao Ling Xu stayed ready. The battlefield was secure. The rebellion—crushed.

Hua Jing took Han Sui’s dagger from the floor, pressing it down into his chest until he stilled and blood seeped into the cracked marble. She stood and looked over the room—dead and dying men lying still, the fire guttering in the walls.

Then she turned to Zhao Ling Xu and Wei Ling. "Make sure none of these men can rise again." Her voice was echoing calm above the crash of smoldering ruins. "Let no one threaten this empire again."

Zhao Ling Xu nodded. "My blade guards it."

Wei Ling lowered his sword, exhaustion finally in his stance. "It’s done."

They moved from the center of the conflict, leaving Han Sui’s body behind. Hua Jing paused a moment—past anger and grief settling into icy resolve. She wiped her blade free, stepping away from the fire-tinged marble as dawn clouds began to filter pale light through collapsed windows.

It was victory—bitter, final.

But a victory borne of loss.

And in that morning’s first light, Hua Jing realized: the empire might be healed—but her heart would be mended in time.

Zhao Yan was still unconscious. She did not know how long she would be able to take this...