Again and again, Han Wei traced that man's visage in his mind. A dragon robe drenched in blood. City gates thr…
Again and again, Han Wei traced that man's visage in his mind.
A dragon robe drenched in blood. City gates thrown wide. The man came riding through on horseback, each hoofbeat pressing a crescent moon of blood into the earth, one after another, trampling over loyalty and treachery, love and hatred, all the way to the Golden Throne Hall. And those blood-red crescents would begin to curve into a smile, a grin about to split open and swallow the world whole: the heads of grown men, the flatbreads clutched in the hands of women and children. Every time, it ended this way.
Try as he might, he could not picture that face unsullied by blood. Yes, blood. His father's blood. His mother's blood. The blood of the entire Han clan.
And as he lingered on the thought, blood began to trickle from the corner of that face's eye in the vision before him, winding down in a long red thread. That man was crying? How could he cry? He was emperor now. His name would be written into the chronicles for ages to come. What did he have to weep for?
Then pain jolted him back. Ah, the blood was flowing from his own palm.
He released the guqin string. It was already slick with red. He had gripped it so hard that it had cut into his palm. The most beautiful woman in Velvet Shade had once told him he ought to cherish these hands, hands made for the guqin, for the flute. How had they ended up sullied by work like this? "Drink this cup of poison yourself, and you'll have repaid Velvet Shade for all its kindness over the years..." It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet he still remembered every word.
But the moment he lifted his head, that blood-streaked face was about to fade away again. No. He could not allow that. He must not forget. If even he forgot how to hate, then who in this world would remember?
"You're really going to kill him? By yourself? Are you mad?" asked the woman, another soul as solitary as he was, her eyes wide with a rare flash of shock.
He did not answer. He only took the blood from his palm and drew it lightly across his throat, tracing a crimson line like a noose.