"What do you want, then?" He raised his chin, signaling for Wu Heng to look at his body. "In my state, you might as well give me a quick death."
He moved his wrist, and the chains clinked again. "I've been locked up for so long, fed a little war power every day—kept barely alive, neither allowed to die nor live. You raised me like a pig, fattened me for slaughter. Is it time to kill me now?"
Wu Heng did not deny it.
His tone remained calm, as though he were commenting on the weather. "More or less."
War closed his eyes and leaned back against the chair.
The iron chair was cold. The back of his head rested against it, and he could feel that chill spreading down his spine all the way to his tailbone.
The dungeon fell silent, with only the faint crackle of the oil lamp's wick burning, like insects gnawing at wood.
He was silent for so long that Wu Heng thought he had fallen asleep.
Then he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling.
The ceiling was made of stone, with a crack running from one corner of the wall to the other like a black bolt of lightning. He spoke to that crack, as though talking to himself, or bidding farewell to someone unseen.
"I knew this day would come. I knew it from the day I was captured." His voice grew soft, as soft as the wind, like an echo drifting from far away. "You wouldn't let me go, because I am War. You don't need war, but you need war's power. You want my power, not me."
Wu Heng said, "That's right."
War fell silent again.
This silence lasted even longer.
The oil lamp's flame flickered. Perhaps the wind