Temporary Governor’s Study – Beihai Inner City

The once dignified study of Governor Kong Rong had become a chaotic war room.

Scrolls and maps were strewn across the low table. Half-melted wax dripped from bronze candleholders. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, damp parchment, and barely veiled contempt.

After the explosion that destroyed the main government office—an act the guards still couldn’t explain—Kong Rong had no choice but to relocate his command to his personal study in the rear courtyard. The sudden move had only further shaken the fragile confidence of the city’s elite.

Inside the room now sat a volatile mix: Kong Rong, tired and disheveled in his scholar’s robes; Aide Chen, his face pale and drawn; Captain Duan, the commander of the remaining city guard; several other military officers; the noble representatives from Beihai's powerful clans—and at the corner, lounging with false composure, sat Zhao Feng, his silk robe spotless, his expression smugly triumphant.

The moment Kong Rong sat down, the argument erupted again.

“We demand to be released from this detention!” shouted Lord Xie, a balding noble with reddened eyes. “Do you expect us to sleep on the floor like beggars? To eat porridge boiled from weeviled rice?”

“Your men cannot even guard their own gates,” added Zhao Feng with a cold smile. “And now your own office has been destroyed by rioters—or was it rebels? Hard to tell these days.”

The nobles murmured in agreement, voices overlapping in rising indignation.

Kong Rong’s jaw tightened. “This is not a detention. You are here for your own safety.”

Lord Fang stood. “Then let us leave! We’ll take our chances outside. At least then, we won’t be shivering in dark rooms under guard.”

Kong Rong looked to Captain Duan, who gave a slight shake of the head—the streets were no longer safe. Even the guards had been overwhelmed in recent skirmishes near the southern markets.

“If we let you walk out now,” Kong Rong said firmly, “the rioters will see you and descend like wolves. You’ll lead them straight to your compounds, and chaos will spread through every noble quarter. Do you want Beihai to burn?”

Zhao Feng leaned forward, a sly edge in his voice. “Then have the army escort us out. Let us leave the city altogether. That is the least you can do, Governor, as compensation for the disgrace and inconvenience we’ve suffered.”

“Compensation?” Kong Rong scoffed. “You think this is a matter of coin? If I divert troops to escort you, the entire city will fall! The walls are thinly manned as it is—”

Zhao Feng’s smile vanished.

“Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you let Lu Qianyi escape.” His voice dropped dangerously. “She was promised to me by you. Now she is missing, and you have failed to detain her. How convenient.”

Kong Rong’s fists clenched on the armrests. “That matter is unrelated and still under investigation.”

“Unrelated?” Zhao Feng laughed bitterly. “It all reeks of treachery, Governor. If you cannot fulfill your promises, then don’t expect loyalty from us. We are not your pawns.”

Before Kong Rong could reply, a soldier burst into the room, his armor dirtied, his face flushed with urgency.

“Governor!” he shouted. “The… the refugee mobs are moving again! They’ve gathered by the southern camp and are marching toward the governor’s residence! They’re shouting about justice and… something about Yellow Heaven!”

Gasps filled the room.

Aide Chen’s face went white. “It’s Yellow Scarves. They’re riled them up again…”

Captain Duan cursed under his breath. “We don’t have the men to contain another surge. Not without abandoning the gates.”

Kong Rong’s heart pounded. He looked around the room—at the sneering Zhao Feng, at the trembling nobles, at the panicked expressions of his loyal guards.

He had no army left to hold Beihai. No allies. No choice.

He stood, his voice hollow with weariness but steady.

“Ready the carriages. We leave Beihai at once. We’ll retreat east to Xiaopei, under the protection of Tao Qian.”

The officers saluted in silence, while the nobles exhaled in visible relief.

“Finally,” Zhao Feng muttered. “Some sense.”

“We leave before noon,” Kong Rong added sharply. “Gather your people. If you’re not ready, we’ll leave you behind.”

Zhao Feng stood and adjusted his robe, his lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Then I suggest you don’t leave without me.”

As the captains began barking orders outside, the nobles dispersed to make preparations, unaware that as they escaped the fire of Beihai, they might be walking straight into the next inferno.

 

Outside Prosperity Hall – Southern Beihai

The clatter of hooves and creaking wheels echoed through the merchant-lined street as Zhao Ming’s carriages arrived at the sturdy gates of Prosperity Hall. Armed escorts moved aside to make way, their eyes scanning the surroundings as the morning sun glinted off spearheads and the brass fittings of trade wagons. Despite the tension in the air, the compound of the Murong family’s trading and escort headquarters stood firm—its thick walls and trained guards a rare pocket of order in the restless city.

Shopkeeper Wu, clad in his usual gray robes with a ledger tucked under one arm, stepped forward quickly upon seeing the lead carriage.

“Young Master Zhao,” he greeted, voice steady but eyes sharp, “we’ve begun moving more grain into the inner storehouses, and weapons are being inventoried as ordered. Murong De has tightened the security at the southern gate.”

The carriage door opened, and Zhao Ming stepped down, adjusting his dark cloak. With one smooth motion, he turned to extend a hand.

“Careful,” he murmured.

Qing Mei, cheeks flushed with the faint warmth of travel, took his hand and descended gracefully. Behind her, Yu Ying and the other girls followed, organizing themselves quickly with practiced coordination. A few of the younger ones glanced around in awe at the busy, fortified hall.

Zhao Ming turned back to Shopkeeper Wu. “There was a breach at the estate yesterday. Rioters forced their way into the inner courtyard. It’s no longer safe there. I need you to arrange temporary lodging here for the girls.”

Shopkeeper Wu’s brows furrowed, concern flickering behind his spectacles. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Fortunately, no,” Zhao Ming said calmly. “I returned in time.”

Wu exhaled. “Heaven bless.” Then he turned and gestured to a nearby servant. “Take them to the west wing. The rooms there are empty, furnished but dusty. They’ll need cleaning.”

Qing Mei stepped forward, her sleeves still slightly wrinkled from travel. “It’s all right. We’ll clean them ourselves. Just show us where.”

Shopkeeper Wu gave her a respectful nod. “I’ll send over bedding, fresh water, and cleaning tools shortly.”

The servant bowed and led the girls toward the west wing, their soft chatter fading behind the doors as they entered the Prosperity Hall to settle in.

Zhao Ming remained behind. He glanced toward Yu Ying. “Once they’re settled, I need you to scout the refugee camp. I want to know what refugee camps—”

Before he could finish, footsteps pounded against stone, and a mercenary with a red band tied around his arm came sprinting across the courtyard.

“Where’s Master Murong De?!”

Murong De stepped out from the side wing, his arms crossed and an oil-stained rag tucked into his belt. “Here. What is it?”

Zhao Ming and Yu Ying turned to join him as the mercenary halted, catching his breath.

“It’s the refugees,” the man gasped. “They’ve begun moving. All of them. Not just small groups. They’re rallying behind some leader calling himself ‘Old Zhang.’ The one claiming to speak for the Yellow Heaven.”

Yu Ying’s expression sharpened. “How many?”

“Too many to count. Hundreds, maybe more. They’re marching through the southern streets toward the governor’s office.” He looked from Murong De to Zhao Ming. “But… there’s still no movement from the city army. Nothing from Kong Rong. His banners are still up, but the gates are quiet.”

Murong De’s face darkened. “Damn it. That old fool might already be gone.”

Zhao Ming’s fingers tightened behind his back. The worst-case scenario was starting to unfold.

He turned to Yu Ying, his voice quiet but firm. “Change of plan. I need eyes not just on the refugee camp—but also on the governor’s residence. I want to know if Kong Rong has abandoned the city.”

Yu Ying nodded with a faint smirk. “Understood. I’ll be back before the next tea is poured.”

She vanished down the corridor, light on her feet as always.

Murong De looked at Zhao Ming. “If the army’s gone, we’ll be facing a full-blown rebellion before sundown.”

Zhao Ming’s eyes narrowed as he looked toward the south, where smoke hung faint in the sky like a warning.

“Then it’s time we decide if Beihai still has a future… or if we take it for ourselves.”

As Yu Ying disappeared past the archway, vanishing into the restless streets like a shadow at dusk, Zhao Ming turned back toward Murong De, his expression grim, eyes sharp with rising purpose.

“This,” Zhao Ming said quietly, “is the worst-case scenario.”

Murong De folded his arms, his brow lowering. “Seems like it.”

“The city’s defenses are collapsing,” Zhao Ming continued. “The government has fallen silent. Kong Rong—whether out of cowardice or calculation—is likely abandoning Beihai altogether. From here on out, it’s every man for himself.”

Murong De watched him in silence as the weight of those words settled in the air.

“If that’s the case,” Zhao Ming went on, stepping closer, his voice steady despite the storm brewing outside, “then I will stop the Yellow Scarves and suppress the rioters. I’ll take back the city—by force, if necessary. If Kong Rong is leaving it behind, I’ll claim it. Even if I must become a warlord to do it.”

There was no arrogance in his voice—only resolve.

Zhao Ming met Murong De’s gaze. “But I can’t do it alone. Will the Murong family stand with me?”

Murong De’s expression didn’t waver. Then, with a short huff, he broke into a laugh.

“You brat.” He smacked Zhao Ming lightly on the arm. “You’re already family. Of course I’ll help you.”

He turned to face the outer courtyard, where guards were still sharpening blades and unloading supplies. “This city’s already gone to the dogs. Even if we don’t want to fight, we’ll have no choice. These rioters are beyond reason now. And I don’t believe for a second they rose up on their own. Someone’s stirring the pot.”

He looked back at Zhao Ming with a smirk. “Besides, if I don’t help my nephew-in-law, little Xue will have my head. I can already hear her scolding me.”

Zhao Ming chuckled lightly at that.

Murong De then raised his voice. “Shopkeeper Wu!”

The old man came quickly from the side building, a scroll tucked under his arm. “Master Murong?”

“Burn the talisman.”

Wu blinked. “The one for—”

“Yes. Now.”

With a respectful bow, Shopkeeper Wu took out a small, silk-wrapped bundle from within his sleeve. Inside lay a paper talisman inked with intricate azure runes. He stepped to the brazier by the side and ignited it with a taper. The paper flared in a brief, brilliant blue flame—its spiritual signal soaring toward Jade Heart Peak, to the Azure Sect, where Murong Xue’s summons would be heard.

As the last ashes drifted away, Murong De turned back to Zhao Ming, his face serious once more.

“You have my sword, and my men,” he said. “But from this point on, you lead. What’s our next move?”

Zhao Ming didn’t hesitate. He pointed toward the west.

“The Western Gate,” he said. “If we’re to survive and maintain control, we need a safe entry and exit from the city. If the rioters push harder or the Yellow Scarves advance, we can’t afford to be cornered. That gate is our lifeline.”

Murong De nodded. “Agreed.”

“We’ll secure a perimeter,” Zhao Ming continued. “From Prosperity Hall, through the Murong Estate, and up to the Western Gate. If we can manage it, we should even consider tearing down part of the gate itself. That way, no one can trap us inside—whether the Yellow Scarves or some army claiming to restore order.”

Murong De didn’t blink. “I’ll get it done.”

He called over one of the mercenary captains, a tall, sun-browned man with a sabre strapped across his back.

“Secure the route to the Western Gate,” Murong De instructed. “Don’t engage unless necessary. Clear the way. Patrols every hundred paces. Make sure no one—no one—gets the drop on us.”

The captain saluted. “Understood.” He barked an order, and a team of mercenaries swiftly formed up and left through the side gate, heading out into the smoke-laced city.

Zhao Ming stepped beside Murong De. “We don’t need to seize the gate just yet—only ensure the path to it remains open. Once we have that, we can fortify our position and expand as needed.”

Murong De grunted in agreement. “Good thinking.”

With the orders given, the two men stood in silence for a moment, watching the preparations unfold in the courtyard. Around them, servants and guards moved quickly, reinforcing doors, stacking grain, and checking weapons. The girls had settled into the west wing, already cleaning and unpacking. The Prosperity Hall was becoming not just a stronghold, but a fledgling command center.

Zhao Ming exhaled quietly, his gaze drifting toward the city skyline, where the first tendrils of smoke were curling higher.

“Now we wait,” he murmured. “Until Yu Ying returns.”

“And then?” Murong De asked.

Zhao Ming’s eyes narrowed.

“Then we decide.”