Something was coming. Not a possibility, but a certainty, like when a man smiled before he stabbed you when you glanced away. Only this time it was not just a singular man, but thousands of men smiling and looking to backstab the next one before the other could do the same. That was the game Jhong had played to become Headsman of the Taorin Jinnto. He knew when you played that game for too long, you developed another sense of when death was near.

Jhong always kept his ears low, his head level. His network of informants throughout Qeita all told him the same thing: the Emperor was murdered. The Viceroys were mustering their armies, and all were headed for the capital.

He sat in his tea parlor, where he liked to think in quiet solitude. A serving woman entered the room and bowed before refilling his teapot. She was beautiful in her pale-faced slender way, like all the serving women there were.

When she slid the door open, Jhong commanded, “Stay.”

The woman shut the door, and without a word, she disrobed. Pale skin, her body illustrated with snaking tattoos and glyphs that stated she was a courtesan of the Taorin. Jhong needed to clear his head. There were three ways of doing that: to feel fear, to kill someone, or to fuck. He was too proud for the first, too tired for the second. The last option was right in his hands, and he never missed an opportunity he couldn't reach.

Jhong unbuttoned his dark tunic. Underneath the silk was scarred skin and black ink. He was a tall man and she was a tall woman, too ungainly to carry, so they continued standing. When his heart raced and his blood flowed Jhong felt the most lucid, all his thoughts spiraling into one point: chaos. The capital would soon be engulfed in it, burned by it. But in chaos there was opportunity. Jhong saw it as when he had killed his old master to become Headsman. With an exultant sigh, he saw clearly how the Viceroys would squabble with another, leaving them vulnerable as unguarded sheep; how the Celestial throne – the Dynasty – was ripe for the taking. Jhong kept his ears low, his head level, but his eyes were always gazing up to the heavens.

When he was finished, the gangster left the parlor, two other men joining him outside. Tuoshi was his right-hand man, a hulking brute Jhong had recruited when he was still a street urchin. Gobin was Jhong’s only advisor, always polishing his spectacles, always quiet unless needed.

The slim man spoke softly, every word carefully enunciated, not a syllable more. “We’ve secured the contract.”

Jhong continued walking, his men keeping pace with him.

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The Headsman asked, “Everyone’s accounted for?”

“Yes. Every role has been filled.”

“Good,” Jhong said. “Carry out the orders.”

It was a bright and clear day after last night’s rain. Still, shadows seemed to cling to the men as they walked in the shade of the narrow alleyways. When they moved into the open streets of the stone district, more commonly called Hightown, people avoided their path.

Jhong made his way to a stooped man who called out, “Come one, come all! Shoeshiner for over thirty years, no one’s faster, no one’s the wiser!”

“Hello, Dai,” the gangster said behind the shoeshiner. He always set up shop at noon, on the same street since before Jhong had even established business in Hightown.

The old man turned to him, startled, a flash of fear he quickly covered with a loathing scowl. “I don’t serve your kind.”

Jhong offered a look of mocking puzzlement. “We’re Qeitan citizens, same as you, Dai. How about I give you a silver coin and you can shine my shoes, just for today?” A coin glinted between his fingers.

A silver coin was well over a thousand shoeshines. It meant Dai would never have to shoeshine again. The old man stared at him, until his gaze lowered as he waved to a chair.

Jhong sat down and gave a contentful sigh, slapping his feet onto the raised platform.

The shoeshiner sat on a small stool to begin his work, using a jar of wax and cloth to wipe Jhong’s dark-blue sharkskin shoes.

“Tuoshi,” the Headsman said, “give me a book.”

The large man handed a tattered book from the shoeshiner’s stand, meant for entertaining customers.

Jhong flipped through its pages with disinterest.

“Teachings of the late Drinn Jenpo, master warrior and philosopher of a past age?” he noted. “You must be a man of principle. Are you a veteran?”

The old man merely nodded as he continued buffing Jhong’s shoes.

“You see,” Jhong said despite Dai’s silence, “despite your principles and ideals, you still agreed to shine my shoes and bite down your pride. Why is that?”

The shoeshiner paused.

The gangster’s face hardened. “Continue.”

Dai started on the other shoe.

“Ideals don’t feed you. They’re not even air, they can’t sustain you. They’re more like this book. You may as well try to eat it. I want you to know this, Dai. Maybe you’re thirty years too late to realize this, but fighting for an ideal is an empty promise. You’ve just proven it.”

Jhong flipped the silver coin, clattering to the cobblestones. The old man was quick to grab it, kneeling down on both knees. The Headsman stood and continued on his path.

Jhong would make them all kneel, every single one of them. Because he would make them see, beneath all their empty words and ideals, they were all sheep searching, desperately, for a master. He just had to make them see him.