Chaoge.
King Zhou, Di Xin, stood alone atop the city wall, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword at his waist, the palm of his other hand pressed to the city brick, his fingertips slowly rubbing over the fine, dense marks carved into the stone.
Those marks had been left by the craftsmen when the city was built.
Hundreds of years had passed, and wind and rain still had not worn them smooth.
He lowered his head and looked down. The lights of the royal capital spread out beneath his feet, streets and markets crisscrossing, thousands upon thousands of homes joining into one warm sea of light, like a chessboard set aflame.
That was his capital, his people, the realm he had won with blade and blood.
Yet there was no satisfaction or joy on his face. The vertical crease between his brows was as deep as if carved by a knife, and the corners of his mouth pressed downward.
His ambition was like a blade fresh from the quenching fire; his paranoia was like charcoal burned to the very end yet refusing to go out.
And his heart was even madder—the madness of a man who knew full well he was walking a road of no return, yet insisted on walking it to the end.
The wind scraped across his face, and he did not so much as move an eyelid.
An attendant, head lowered, hurried up onto the city tower and stopped five steps away, bowing.
"Your Majesty, three ministers have been kneeling outside the hall for three shichen. They say..."
"Say what?"
King Zhou asked casually, his tone utterly cold and indifferent.
"They say, they say an immortal entrusted them with a dream, and that Your Majesty should not show such contempt toward immortals and