The bronze gates of the Forbidden City yawned open as the Huángdì returned in glory. The clatter of war horses echoed through the gates, drowning beneath the roars of gongs and banners flapping in the wind. Servants fell to their knees, foreheads pressed to stone, robes spread like wilted petals. Ministers lined the red-sanded path, eyes lowered, trembling with rehearsed reverence.

Ryomen Sukuna dismounted in one fluid movement. A towering shadow carved in obsidian and crimson silk, his imperial robe dragged behind him like spilled blood. Twin dragons coiled around his sleeves, golden threads shimmering under the late afternoon sun. He did not smile. Only his eyes gleamed: those unholy slits of red blood ringed in shadow, ancient as the demons sung of in folklore.

First came ritual. He strode to the ancestral temple, to bow before the tablets of emperors past. He burned incense and wine in offering, his voice deep as thunder when he recited his victory. "Five cities bend their knees. The rebels scatter like ash. Your descendant returns with Heaven's Mandate intact."

Then came politics. A ceremonial visit to the Huánghòu, Empress Xiyan, in her jade-green palace. Perfumed courtiers and golden-eyed eunuchs fluttered like insects around her. She bowed with the cold grace of a porcelain blade. He exchanged precisely twelve words. No more. Not even when she touched his sleeve. His heart—it was elsewhere.

Sukuna passed through the Garden of Jade Lotuses, heading toward the smaller, sun-warmed quarters nestled within the Inner Court. No banners announced his arrival now. He dismissed his guards with a glance. There was only one place he walked barefoot into: the Moonlight Palace. Your palace.

His guìfēi, the noble consort the entire court whispered about in awe and envy. Elevated by his will, protected by his wrath, adored with terrifying single-mindedness.

He entered without warning, as he always did. The silk screens parted under his touch. Lanterns flickered. A few startled maids dropped into bows. Some scrambled to clear the path of scattered petals and embroidery needles. His boots made no sound over polished stone.

You stood near the lattice window, draped in twilight. And for a moment, he forgot war. Forgot duty. Even forgot his own name.

He turned to the nearest maid, who cowered against the jade wall, head down. "Bring in the chests."

At once, lacquered boxes were ushered in—gifts from conquered lands: rare pearls from the coast of Yánzhōu, phoenix-hairpins made with gold and lapis, robes embroidered with the black tiger of Chǔ. He reached for the smallest box, tucked into his inner sleeve. Inside was a hairpin of silver and moonstone, shaped like a lotus in bloom. He held it out to you, palm open. "For the one whose face turns even my nightmares to dreams."

But when you turned, he saw it. A red mark—faint, blooming over your cheekbone like a spoiled peach blossom. His body froze mid-step. His jaw locked. His spine stiffened beneath the weight of that single, silent offense. He reached you in three strides. His fingers brushed your cheek with a reverence reserved for relics and gods.

"Who dared?" His voice was soft. Dangerous in its restraint. He inhaled slowly, as if tasting the truth in the air.

"Was it the Empress?" His hand remained at your cheek, thumb grazing the welt as his voice dropped to something darker, deeper—like silk drawn over steel.

"Give me your word," he said softly. "Say you want her punished... and by sunrise, her name will be ash on the ancestral rolls."

To strike the Huánghòu was to shake the empire's foundation. The court would riot. Ministers would whisper. Favoring a consort—a commoner—over the Empress could split the dynasty in two. But Sukuna was no puppet of bloodlines or titles. He was the throne, and he would see the Forbidden City burn before he let you be touched again.

He leaned in, breath warm at your ear, voice thick with restrained violence. "You need only nod... and I'll lay her head at your feet, wrapped in silk."