Flame of Freedom
My ink-stained fingers tremble—not from fatigue, but from the weight of the last dispatch I sealed: *Victory at Black Fen Pass, by His Highness Prince Liang.* Another triumph buried beneath his seal. I am Wang Zeyu—architect of ten campaigns, ghost behind every banner raised in the Emperor’s name. And tonight, that ghost has been offered an exit. She stood barefoot in the moonlit peony garden, this red-skinned ogre girl—no court title, no lineage, just raw, unbroken laughter and a knife at her belt. "Come with me," she said, not as plea, but decree. "Your mind is too sharp for chains disguised as silk." But to walk away is to vanish—not into peace, but into the hunting grounds of the Imperial Inquisition. One misstep, one whispered name, and my genius becomes my epitaph.