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The first estate to be invaded belonged to Lord Zhang Wei, the emperor's own uncle.130Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEGs2xgWUHJ
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Lord Zhang was not asleep. He sat in his study, an old scroll open on his lap, a single candle burning beside him. The scroll was a record of the revolution that had put his family on the throne – a revolution he had clearly seen . He had known the emperor would not let the court session pass unanswered. He simply did not know when the answer would come.
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It came at the second hour of the night.
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The window slid open without a sound. A figure in black dropped to the floor – no face visible, only two cold eyes above a silk mask. More figures followed, one after another, until five of them stood in a semicircle around his desk.
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Lord Zhang did not flinch. He had seen worse in his youth. He reached for a dagger hidden in his sleeve, but before his fingers closed around the hilt, one of the shadows spoke.
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"Lord Zhang. By order of the emperor, you are stripped of your titles, your lands, and your position in the court. You will come with us immediately."
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"I will not," he said, his voice steady as old stone.
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The lead shadow guard pulled out a scroll. It bore the imperial seal in bright red wax, still warm. "This is not a request, my lord. It is a command."
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Lord Zhang stood slowly, his joints cracking. He looked at the five figures, then at the door where his personal guards should have been. They were not there. He heard no sounds of struggle from the courtyard. No shouts. No clashing of metal.
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"What have you done to my men?"
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"No one is harmed." The guard's voice was flat, almost bored. "They will be released once you are secured."
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Lord Zhang laughed – a dry, bitter sound. "My nephew sends you to do his work. How fitting. He does not even have the courage to face me himself."
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"Lord Zhang. The chariot is waiting. Please do not make us drag you. It would be undignified."
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The old noble looked at the scroll again. The seal was genuine. There was no appeal. He walked to the door, then paused. "May I take my scroll?"
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The lead guard nodded once. "Anything you can carry."
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Lord Zhang picked up the scroll, tucked it into his robe, and walked out without another word. In the courtyard, a column of a hundred soldiers in full imperial armor stood in perfect silence. Their torches did not flicker in the still air. Their faces were hidden behind metal visors.
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His household guards knelt in a row, their weapons piled on the ground before them. They were not bound. The emperor's order had been explicit: Guards who surrender are not taken.
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Lord Zhang looked at them – men who had served him for decades, some since he was a young general. "Rise," he said. "You have served well. Go home to your families. Do not seek revenge. Live and forget all that happened tonight."
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One of the guards, a grizzled veteran with a scar across his cheek, wept openly. "My lord, we failed you."
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"You did not fail. You survived the night that is enough." Lord Zhang climbed into the wooden chariot. The door closed behind him with a heavy thunk. The chariot creaked and rolled toward the Forbidden City.
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Through the small barred window, he watched his estate shrink in the distance. The candle in his study still burned in the window. No one would snuff it out. Tomorrow, strangers would walk those halls.
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He closed his eyes and clutched the scroll to his chest.
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***
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General Feng Jian was known throughout the five provinces as the "Iron Fist of the South." He had crushed three rebellions. He had burned two cities to the ground. He had once beheaded a messenger who brought him bad news, simply because the man stuttered.
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When the shadow guards entered his bedroom, they found him already dressed in full armor, sitting on the edge of his bed, his personal sword across his knees. He had not been sleeping. He had been waiting.
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"I have been expecting you," he said. His voice was low and rough, like stones grinding together.
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The lead shadow guard hesitated at the door. This was not the reaction they were trained for. "General . Then you know why we are here."
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"I know , my emperor is a coward who sends shadows to do what real soldiers should do face to face." He stood, the armor clinking softly. "Where is my nephew? Hiding behind his concubines?"
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"General Feng. The chariot is waiting outside. If you would follow us—"
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"I will walk." He sheathed his sword with a sharp click and strode past the guards without looking at them. In the courtyard, he found his own officers kneeling in rows, their weapons stacked high. They looked up at him with shame and fear.
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General Feng stopped. He looked at each of them. "Stand up," he barked. "You are soldiers, not cowards. You followed orders. You have nothing to be ashamed of."
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One of the officers, a captain no older than twenty, tried to speak. "General, we could have fought—"
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"And you would have died. For what? For a petty emperor who fears his own shadow?" He shook his head. "Go home. Drink and forget about tonight. If anyone asks, you were never here."
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His officers rose slowly, saluted, and walked away with heavy steps. Some looked back. None spoke.
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General Feng climbed into his chariot. The door closed. He did not look back at his estate. He simply sat in the darkness, his hand resting on his sword, and waited.
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The chariot rolled forward.
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***
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Elder Huo was a Daoist priest of the highest rank – a man who had blessed the emperor's coronation, who had performed the sacred rituals to ensure good harvests, who had advised three generations of emperors on matters of the spirit. He lived in a small temple within his estate, surrounded by incense smoke and the soft murmur of prayers.
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At the third hour of the night, he meditated on a worn woven mat, his back straight as an arrow, his eyes closed. A long string of prayer beads – carved from jade, each bead blessed by a master who had died a hundred years ago – hung from his wrist.
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The shadow guards entered the temple as quietly as smoke. But Elder Huo's ears were sharp.
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"I heard you coming," he said without opening his eyes. "Your feet are heavy for spies . Too much iron on your belts."
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The lead guard stepped forward. "Elder Huo. By imperial decree, you are stripped of your rank and title. You are to come with us immediately."
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"I am meditating," the old priest said calmly. "You will wait."
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"Elder Huo, this is not—"
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"You will wait until I finish." His voice did not rise, but it carried a weight that made the guards exchange uncomfortable glances.
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The lead guard waited ten heartbeats, then stepped forward and touched the priest's shoulder. "I am sorry, Elder. We have our orders."
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Elder Huo's eyes snapped open. They were not the eyes of a gentle old man. They were the eyes of a serpent – cold, ancient, and furious. In one swift motion, he grabbed the guard's wrist with iron fingers. The string of beads broke with a sharp crack. Jade beads scattered across the wooden floor like fallen teeth, rolling into corners, bouncing down the steps.
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"You will burn for this," the priest said. His voice was no longer calm. It was a curse given form. "The emperor will choke on his own saliva that greedy bastard. His sons will die before they are born. His name will be erased from every record, every scroll, every memory. He will be forgotten like dust on a tomb."
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The guards dragged him to his feet. His robes tore at the shoulder. The broken beads crunched under their boots. Elder Huo did not resist physically, but his mouth never stopped moving. He cursed the guards. He cursed their children. He cursed the chariot. He cursed the Forbidden City itself.
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When they pushed him into the chariot, he laughed – a dry, rasping sound like dead leaves scraping stone. "Tell your emperor something for me. Tell him I will teach his new priests nothing. Nothing. They will light incense wrong. They will chant backwards. They will summon demons instead of blessings. Tell him that."
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The chariot door slammed shut, cutting off his voice. But even through the wood, the guards could hear him laughing.
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***
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Lady Pan was not a virtuous woman. Everyone in the capital knew it. No one spoke of it openly, because her family was powerful and her tongue was sharp as a knife.
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At the fourth hour of the night, she was not alone in her bedchamber. The young man beside her was a lute player from the pleasure district – a slender fellow with soft hands and softer lips. He was handsome, and he was completely naked. Lady Pan was also naked.
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They had been drinking wine from a silver pitcher. The remnants of their feast – grapes, honey cakes, a half-eaten roasted quail – lay scattered on the silk sheets.
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When the shadow guards burst through the door, they did not expect to find poetry and music. They found them.
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The lute player screamed – a high, piercing sound that woke half the household. He scrambled off the bed, knocking over the wine pitcher, and tried to cover himself with a pillow. The pillow was too small.
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Lady Pan did not scream. She sat up slowly, deliberately, and pulled a silk sheet over her chest. She looked at the guards with cold, amused eyes.
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"Whatever my nephew is paying you," she said, "I will double it. Triple it. Name your price."
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"Lady Pan. You are under arrest. By order of the emperor."
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"Arrest?" She laughed. It was a rich, musical sound. "Arrest for what? Enjoying myself? I am a widow. I am allowed to have company."
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"For conspiring against the throne."
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She raised an eyebrow. "I have never conspired a day in my life. I am far too busy with young men and old wine to bother with politics. You should know that. Everyone knows that."
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The guards hesitated. This was not in their training manual. One of them glanced at the lute player, who was now weeping softly behind the bedpost.
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Lady Pan followed his gaze. "Leave him out of this. He is just a boy. A very talented boy, but a boy nonetheless."
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"Both of you. Come."
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The lute player tried to crawl under the bed. One of the guards grabbed his ankle and pulled him out – naked, weeping, his dignity scattered across the floor like the grape skins. He covered his face with his hands.
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Lady Pan stood, still wrapped in the sheet. "At least let me put on a proper dress. I am a noblewoman, not a fishwife."
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"You will be dressed at the palace. Move."
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They dragged her through the corridors, the silk sheet trailing behind her like a defeated flag. Servants who had gathered to watch covered their mouths and giggled. The lute player was shoved along behind her, still naked, still weeping.
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In the courtyard, a soldier handed Lady Pan a coarse wool cloak. It was gray and ugly and smelled of horse. She put it on over the sheet.
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"This will wrinkle my hair," she said.
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No one laughed.
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She climbed into the chariot, arranging the wool cloak as if it were imperial silk. The lute player was shoved into a separate cart with other servants and concubines who had been swept up in the night's arrests.
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As the chariot rolled away, Lady Pan stuck her head out the small window. Her hair was indeed a mess – wild strands sticking out in every direction. But her voice was steady.
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"Tell my nephew I will have his head on a platter. Not for the arrest. For interrupting my night. Do you hear me? For the interruption."
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The guards did not answer. The chariot disappeared into the darkness.
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***
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Across the capital, the same scene played out in a hundred different colors.
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A judge from the northern district was found composing poetry in his garden, sitting by a koi pond. He asked the shadow guards if he could finish the stanza. They said yes, because the stanza was short. He finished, bowed, and walked out without another word.
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A wealthy silk merchant who had purchased a noble title was found trying to bribe the guards with a chest of gold coins. The guards took the gold and arrested him anyway. He wept and begged, but the chariot did not stop.
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A young baron – barely eighteen years old, newly married, terrified – fell to his knees and begged for mercy. His new wife stood in the doorway, clutching a blanket to her chest, her face white as snow. One of the guards handed the young man a handkerchief and helped him to his feet. "Do not weep," the guard said quietly. "Exile is not death. You will see her again." The young baron nodded and walked to the chariot without resisting. His wife fainted before the door closed.
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A general's wife – a formidable woman with arms like a blacksmith – slapped the lead guard across the face so hard his helmet spun sideways. He did not flinch. She slapped him again on the other cheek. He still did not flinch. She drew back for a third slap, then burst into tears and walked to the chariot on her own. "Tell my husband," she said, "that I love him. And tell him I left his favorite horse untied in the north pasture." No one understood what this meant, but the guard nodded anyway.
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A priestess of a minor temple set fire to her own altar rather than let it be seized by soldiers. The fire spread to a nearby garden of rare orchids. Soldiers spent twenty minutes putting it out while the priestess was dragged through the smoke, coughing and laughing.
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A diplomat who had served three foreign kings was found asleep in his bed, snoring loudly. The guards had to shake him awake three times. When he finally understood what was happening, he asked if he could bring his pet parrot. The guards said no. He spent the entire ride to the Forbidden City arguing about the parrot's dietary needs.
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By the fifth hour of the night, over thirty chariots rolled through the dark streets toward the Forbidden City. Behind them, surrendered guards dispersed into the shadows, back to their families, back to their ordinary lives. No blood had been shed. No swords had been drawn in anger. But the silence that followed the chariots was heavier than any battle cry.
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The wheels creaked. The horses snorted steam into the cold air. Inside the wooden cages, noblemen and priests and generals and ladies sat in darkness, each lost in their own thoughts.
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Lord Zhang Wei clutched his scroll and thought of revolutions.
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General Feng Jian touched his sword and thought of vengeance.
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Elder Huo counted the broken beads still stuck in his robe and thought of curses.
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Lady Pan combed her fingers through her tangled hair and thought of wine.
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The young baron thought of his wife's face as she fell.
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The diplomat thought of his parrot.
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And the chariots rolled on.
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The gates of the Forbidden City loomed ahead – massive wooden doors studded with iron, flanked by guards in golden armor. The chariots passed through one by one, their wheels echoing against the stone tunnel.
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Inside the grand courtyard, torches burned in iron brackets. Soldiers lined the walls, their faces hidden behind visors. A cold wind blew through the open space, carrying the smell of incense.
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The chariots stopped. The doors opened.
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The nobles stepped out – some weeping, some cursing, some silent as stones. They were led in chains toward the cells below the palace.
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The last chariot carried the lute player. He was still naked, still weeping, still covering his face. No one knew what to do with him. A guard threw a horse blanket over his shoulders and led him inside.
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The gates closed behind them with a sound like thunder.
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The Forbidden City had consumed its own.
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Dawn was still an hour away.
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