The old Emperor seemed to have barely enough strength to stand. He needed the support of both palace maids to rise and shuffle the few steps to the table, and those few steps appeared to have entirely spent whatever reserves of energy he possessed.

“Has the evening meal arrived?”

The old Emperor asked.

Jing Tingming quickly replied: “Not yet, Your Majesty. Shall your servant go and hurry it along?”

The Emperor said: “If it hasn’t come yet, that’s a pity. I actually would like a bite to eat. But there’s no need for you to go—stay here and keep me company for a while. Without your master around, you’re the only quick-witted one left in this palace.”

Jing Tingming glanced at Yao Wuhen, then instructed the two maids: “Since His Majesty doesn’t want me to go, the two of you go and urge the evening meal along—tell the imperial kitchen His Majesty is already hungry.”

The two maids were glad enough to escape. The smell in this room was genuinely oppressive—not just the exotic sweetish reek of the Ghost Addiction Paste, but also the stale, decaying scent of an old man’s body.

Once the two maids withdrew, Jing Tingming looked at Yao Wuhen again and signaled with his eyes that the moment had come. But Yao Wuhen seemed to have gone momentarily numb. He was staring at the old Emperor as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing—his mind had not yet caught up with the reality before him.

In truth this was understandable. For common people, what was the Emperor? The Emperor was a god-like existence—the supreme being of the mortal realm. In the hearts of the people, the Emperor was always august and solemn and terrifying, bearing an innate heavenly might.

But an Emperor like this—the shock Yao Wuhen felt in his heart had not yet subsided.

Jing Tingming cleared his throat. Yao Wuhen came back to himself. He stepped forward two paces as if to help steady the Emperor—but in those two steps his keen awareness told him there was someone in the shadows, and unquestionably a skilled fighter. Any reckless movement on his part and the figure in the shadows would act immediately. Not just any reckless movement—even stepping to within a certain distance of the old Emperor might provoke a response.

Yao Wuhen assessed the distance. He would have to kill with a single blow; he would not get a second chance.

“What is your name?”

The old Emperor suddenly asked.

Yao Wuhen answered immediately: “Is Your Majesty addressing me? Your servant is called Yao Wuhen.”

The Emperor made a sound. “You’ve been posted in the provinces—you’ve had it hard, I’d imagine. I can see scars on your face. Turn your head and let me see—are there some on your neck as well?”

Yao Wuhen pulled his collar to one side and exposed the scars on his neck.

“Your Majesty, your servant has not had it hard.”

He didn’t know what else to say, so he offered the most perfunctory reply he could.

“You look young. There will be many more opportunities for you to earn merit. Since Liu Chongxin transferred you to the capital, I know you are a man to be trusted… You are young, which is good—in the future you can still serve the Crown Prince. He is stronger than I am… though whether or not you will be able to serve him, I couldn’t say.”

The old Emperor seemed to drift for a moment, then asked Jing Tingming: “Has it been a while since I’ve seen the Crown Prince?”

Jing Tingming answered: “Your Majesty, the Crown Prince comes every day to pay his respects.”

The Emperor stared blankly for a long while, then asked: “Has he? But it seems to me as though I haven’t seen him in a very long time.”

Jing Tingming said: “Every time the Crown Prince comes, he kneels at the threshold, because every time he arrives, Your Majesty has not yet risen—and Your Majesty has given standing orders that no one is to disturb you. But the Crown Prince comes at the appointed time every day, rain or shine, without exception.”

The Emperor sighed. He turned his head and glanced sideways into the shadows—precisely the direction that Yao Wuhen had been watching, the area behind the screen standing perhaps five feet from the Emperor’s side.

“Jing Tingming, go and close the door.”

The old Emperor suddenly gave this order. Jing Tingming felt something was off, but the moment for action had not yet come; he quickly acknowledged the order and turned to shut the room’s door. When he turned back, he found the old Emperor looking directly at him, and those formerly dim and yellowed eyes now held a keen, sharp light—a frightening light.

“I suspect I know why you’ve come. You’re here to kill me, aren’t you.”

The old Emperor pointed at Yao Wuhen. “He has been staring at my neck since he entered. I have spent many years guarding against those who might come to kill me. Reading eyes—I have not lost my skill. I want to know: was it the Crown Prince who sent you?”

Jing Tingming dropped to his knees with a crash: “Your Majesty, no, no, your servant—”

The old Emperor smiled and shook his head slowly. “You’ve all underestimated me. And underestimated the people around me. Punu—come out.”

At the Emperor’s words, a middle-aged man emerged from behind the screen—a man who appeared to be about forty, with a stern, austere face, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword at all times, a man who himself seemed to be a sword.

The Emperor said: “Punu, tell them.”

The man called Punu looked at Yao Wuhen and said: “Before you reached the bedchamber, you adjusted your garments three times. You have a blade concealed beneath your clothing. You are probably more accustomed to your left hand, because your weapon is on the right side—if you were right-handed, drawing from that position would cost you a fraction of effort, and a true expert would never allow himself to lose half a breath’s time.”

The Emperor said: “Before you had even come through the door, Punu had already warned me that you were suspicious, and asked whether I wished to order the guards outside to seize you. I thought—let it be. I wanted to know who it was. I turned it over and over, and it can really only be the Crown Prince. Every minister and official at court hopes I live a few more years—the longer I live, the longer they can go on making havoc—only a son of mine would hope I die quickly…”

He smiled and asked Jing Tingming: “Do you know what I just said to Punu? I said: *Quickly bring me the Ghost Addiction Paste—I want one more draw.*”

Jing Tingming was so frightened his face had gone white and his body was trembling; not a single word came out.

“Yao Wuhen—be quick. I am afraid of pain.”

The old Emperor let out a long, slow breath. “I have been waiting years for the Crown Prince to act. But he has been cowardly, unwilling to make his move. And Liu Chongxin, fearing harm would come to me, has kept protection so tight that the Crown Prince never found an opening. My son—I know him. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

He breathed in deeply, then slowly exhaled.

He looked at Yao Wuhen and said: “I can die. But do not harm Liu Chongxin.”

He looked at Punu and said: “Go outside. Pretend you saw nothing. I hope… that the Crown Prince—still has time.”

The moment those words left his mouth, a flash of light appeared in Yao Wuhen’s palm. It was the gleam of Piye. A streak across the throat of the old Emperor—his mouth was still open, the words still unfinished, when the line of blood at his neck suddenly burst open, and blood poured from the wound in a torrent.

Punu stood where he was and watched. After a moment he sank to his knees and touched his head to the floor, once, twice, again and again.

Then he rose, looked at Yao Wuhen, and said: “His Majesty has departed. You may die now.”

Yao Wuhen held up a hand, signaling Punu to wait. There was something he wanted to know.

He asked: “Since His Majesty had long harbored a wish to die, why didn’t you act? Why did no one else act?”

Punu answered with unexpected seriousness: “His Majesty is His Majesty. We are his subjects. But His Majesty told me long ago: if the Crown Prince were to send someone, I was not to interfere. His Majesty said the Crown Prince could still save Dachu. But His Majesty waited many years, and the Crown Prince still never acted. His Majesty also said—the Crown Prince ought to have been able to make his move. So why did he not?”

Yao Wuhen let out a long breath. “I understand. But I cannot die just yet.”

Punu’s brow furrowed. “You may die.”

Yao Wuhen said: “The Crown Prince needs reassurance.”

Punu’s frown deepened. After a moment, he understood.

He said: “I will give you the time it takes to burn one stick of incense to handle whatever needs to be handled. After that I will kill you. Whatever happens next, no one will help you. Do as much as you can.”

Yao Wuhen said with cool arrogance: “This was too easy just now. Even I found it dull.”

With that, he vaulted through the rear window and was gone. Punu did not move. He stood in silence for roughly half that time, then looked at Jing Tingming, who was still on his knees on the floor, still shaking—the old Emperor’s body lay not far in front of him, the blood creeping closer and closer to where he knelt.

“Don’t become Liu Chongxin,” Punu said to himself, as if to no one.

Then he turned and leapt through the rear window as well.

That night, Yao Wuhen killed the Empress, killed the Noble Consorts, killed the Imperial Princes. He moved through the palace like a ghost—it was his first time inside, and night had already fallen, yet the route map Crown Prince Yang Jing had given him was etched into his mind with perfect clarity. Not a single wrong turn. He killed with increasing pleasure; with each kill his spirits rose higher. This was the first time he had ever felt such joy.

He killed the Crown Prince’s birth mother—the current Empress—because he knew she was soft-tempered and pliable; the moment Liu Chongxin returned he would terrorize her into compliance. If Liu Chongxin controlled the Empress, the Crown Prince—given his feelings for his mother—would ultimately still become a puppet.

He killed several Noble Consorts within the palace. He killed all the Imperial Princes. He moved like a true ghost, drifting silently from place to place through the imperial grounds.

At the last site, he looked down at the young prince collapsed in a pool of blood—a boy who appeared to be about ten years old—and thought to himself that this could not possibly be the old Emperor’s own blood. Given the state of the old Emperor’s body, how could he have fathered a child this young?

At that moment, guards converged from all directions—numbers beyond counting—surrounding the courtyard completely. Punu stood at the gate, sword in hand, watching him.

Punu felt deep regret. He had not imagined so many would die. He regretted giving Yao Wuhen so much time—even though he hadn’t given the full amount, he found that whatever time he had given had made him complicit in the killing. Yao Wuhen was too fast.

The next breath, a storm of arrows came screaming toward Yao Wuhen. Before him a curtain of blade-light appeared—the Piye blade became a river of flowing brilliance in his hands—but there were too many arrows, and some found their mark. His body held though; the soft armor beneath his garments stopped the arrows short of his flesh.

Yao Wuhen burst out laughing. He thought of the Crown Prince—that man was actually not bad at all.

He charged outward. A sword came directly at him—fast enough to frighten even Yao Wuhen. But in his hand he held Piye, a blade that cut iron like clay; his strike hit the sword squarely, and the sword broke cleanly in two.

Yao Wuhen burst through past Punu. Ahead, more imperial guards came surging toward him; Yao Wuhen unclipped the crossbow repeater from his belt, sprinting and leaping while squeezing off targeted shots, keeping count in his mind. He slaughtered his way forward and reached the agreed-upon position. He raised the crossbow and fired the last bolt high into the sky. That was the thirtieth—the signal arrow.

The signal arrow made no sound. Because it was not a signal arrow.

Not only did it make no sound—it sprayed a cloud of powder from the crossbow mechanism as it fired. Yao Wuhen clapped a hand over his mouth and nose immediately, but it made no difference. Within moments he felt wave after wave of dizziness washing over him.

Yao Wuhen froze—and then broke into laughter, calling out as he laughed: “Exactly as expected. *This* is what a qualified emperor looks like.”

From all directions, from every side, people came flooding in like a tide converging from all points.

Yao Wuhen gripped Piye and shouted at the faces before him: “All of you—remember this. My name is Yao Wuhen. I am the realm’s foremost assassin. Number one in the world! Number one! Number one!”

He shouted those three declarations, then raised his blade and advanced—swaying but inexorable, one step at a time.

“You will carry my name out of here! The one who killed the Emperor was Yao Wuhen!”

—