Control. Power. Right to rule. They were lies. Jhong found out that truth when he first arrived in the capital. His rank as captain had been stripped with his desertion, and the men who had joined him left him before he’d even reached the city. Bandits had taken his boots, horse and sword. His feet had wept blood and clear liquid from the week-long trek.

Only two men had stayed alongside him: Gobin and Jhong’s deputy, Shul. He’d been a loyal man. His death had not been a peaceful one. Jhong sighed sadly at Shul’s memory, focusing instead on the viceroys standing over the imperial square. They knew as much as him that their power wasn’t in their immortal strength, or their armies. It was the ability to be followed without question, and that obedience was now questioned.

The viceroys stood with their circle of Stone armored immortals, a line of Turquoise and Amethyst statues over the thousands of soldiers arrayed below them.

“You’ve all heard,” Yan-Li boomed above the courtyard, “of viceroy Udo’s death. His tyranny has ended. His followers have been cleansed. Those who have suffered from his reign will be compensated with coin and land. Khitao is free. It is a small thing compared to Udo’s corruption, but know this: I will not rest until every filth, every jinn,” the viceroy’s gaze rested to Jhong, then continued past him, “every source of suffering to the people will be stamped out from this land, and burned out from history. There will be no trials. There will be no forgiveness. Only the people’s will, and a united Qeita. Long may the Republic live!”

The countless soldiers raised their spears. “Long may you live!”

Jhong smiled despite the nagging fear quivering through his spine, clenching every muscle in his body, reaching to his face. The viceroy’s threat was clear. The question was why hadn’t he killed Jhong already? It was well within his power, within his very hands: to snap Jhong’s neck here and now.

Except it wasn’t what the People wanted, not yet. Yan-Li truly believed in what he said. He needed the people’s acceptance before he could end the Taorin. There was nothing worse than a man with an ideal. Yan-Li’s was his Republic. It made him predictable… weak. His bulwark of seeming strength would be his eventual trap.

Jhong left the courtyard, flanked by Gobin and Tuoshi. The soldiers watched them, beady-eyed, like crows waiting for their deaths. You couldn’t kill what was already dead. They’d each accepted their fate long ago. He and Gobin at the gates, Tuoshi on the streets.

Jhong remembered the screaming of the countless men dying to the vashen beasts scything through them, hundreds of feet below the ramparts of the Border, the looming gates closed shut by the Emperor and his immortals. How could he forget the beasts, taller than trees, wider than houses, pus colored, bulbous and vile? Their six loping limbs shaking the ground with their weight, and the yellow-skinned vashen hosted atop them on wooden platforms, shooting their arrows or raining buckets of acid spit harvested from their giant mounts.

There were worse things than immortals in this world, and Jhong and Gobin had prepared to face them. They had been ready for death ever since that day.

Tuoshi sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “There are eaters here, not our own. They’re waiting outside the gate.”

“We can take the tunnels,” Gobin said. “They won’t be able to surround us—”

Jhong waved a hand. “We come out the same way we came in.”

“This isn’t needed,” Gobin murmured.

“Fear is always needed,” Jhong said, taking out the hatchets sheathed beneath the backside of his black tunic. “It saves lives.”

The herb eaters waiting outside the imperial gate didn’t fear the Taorin. They didn’t fear Jhong. A mistake that was always learned too late.

The gates were open, unguarded. It seemed the streets outside were deserted. Jhong and his men stepped out. The wind whistled past and ruffled lanterns strung overhead between the stone buildings. They’d been unlit for days now, forgotten in the peoples’ absence.

They appeared from the corners of the open street, soundlessly surrounding them. Only their eyes were revealed in their dark hooded cloaks: irises a bloody red. They drew out long curved knives in each hand.

Jhong smirked before he darted forward, the air hissing with his speed. One of the assassins parried his strike. Jhong’s other hatchet cleaved into his gut, hewing out through his right side. The stench of bile and coppery tang of blood spilled on the tiled street. The man fell, cradling his guts.

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The headsman kicked back a jumping attacker. Tuoshi roared behind him, wet smacking and ripping of flesh. The thunderous crack of a cranemusket shot from above, echoing across the city. By the time it sounded Jhong had already dodged its shot, shrapnel flying off the stone floor. Biting down one hatchet, Jhong leapt up, scaling the building with acrobatic ease, hooking his other hatchet to a cranny or ledge. The sleeves of his clothing ripped from his movements, his muscles coiling and springing into powerful action.

He found them on the rooftop. A cranemusket required two people to hold, eight feet long when mounted. They had left the weapon. Laundry clotheslines swayed and covered anyone from view.

Jhong heard a footstep and threw his hatchet, spinning through a bedsheet until the axehead hit with a wet thud, spraying the cloth red.

The remaining gunner was a hooded woman, leaping out and slashing with a long and curved knife. Jhong leaned backwards, hatchet still between his teeth. He took it out and ducked around a clothesline, the woman following him, cutting through the clothing in her way. He already was waiting from the other side, thrusting his heel into her liver.

She staggered back, slashing wildly with her knife. Jhong stepped towards her, batting away her blade, clattering to the floor. He punched her and she fell, spitting blood. She tried to sweep Jhong with her legs. He stomped into her ankle, and she screamed.

“Who sent you?” Jhong said.

The woman shuddered, her eyes red with hatred.

She hissed, “You will die, jinn.”

“Won’t we all, even immortals in the end? Who sent you?”

Jhong twisted his heel further into her bone. She shrieked, then laughed madly.

“All your allies are gone,” she gasped. “You will die, and everything you’ve built will be ash!”

Jhong kicked her in the gut. While she curled and writhed in pain, he picked up her knife.

“No doubt there’s poison on this blade,” the Headsman mused. “What effect would it have on you? Vashen venom that boils your blood? Numbnettle that will leave you paralyzed? Let’s test it.”

The assassin said, “I’ll see you in the endless darkness, jinn.”

Jhong bent down and pulled the woman’s head by her hair. He cut her cheek with her blade, slowly, so she would scream. The assassin’s eyes bubbled, then bloody tears dripped out. She spasmed, her eyes closing, spittle frothing from her mouth.

He watched until she was still.

The silence renewed, the stillness sudden from the previous violence. Jhong climbed down the building, landing lightly back onto the street.

His men waited, Gobin with his ringed knife, Tuoshi with his gore crusted knuckled daggers. Their eyes were feral, watchful of any more who would dare attack them, his black hounds.

Gobin put his round spectacles back on his bloodied face. “This was an unnecessary risk.”

Jhong glanced at the walls of the imperial district. The soldiers above watched, saying nothing. Several squads marched out from the gates and from every corner, surrounding them. They held crossbows, some even with muskets, all pointed at the three men.

An officer walked towards them, looking at the corpses scattered on the cobblestones. “You’ve spilled blood on the streets.”

Tuoshi stepped forward, two heads over the soldier, blocking his path to Jhong. “They attacked us first. You all did nothing.”

The officer looked blandly back at the looming man, seemingly bored despite Tuoshi’s threatening glare. “It’s not the Republic’s matters on disputes. You people are free to do as you will, so long as you follow the Republic.”

Jhong studied the soldier. He looked back, his eyes cold and hateful. There was no reasoning with his kind of hate. It was the kind that made men wait, patiently, until they could finish what they’d never forgiven. This man’s strength didn’t come from an ideal; it came from the desire to break another man’s will and life. Jhong knew this to be true, as he saw some measure of himself in the man’s eyes.

The Headsman smiled. “What is your name, officer?”

“Gen Yao.”

“We acted in self defense. As you said, the Republic doesn’t interfere with the disputes of the people. We’re free to leave, unless you wish to take it up with your viceroy.”

Gen smiled. “Your enemies surround you each passing day, jinn. The Republic can’t be bothered to deal with the likes of you. Scum always rises to the water, and we’ll be waiting to clean it up.” He waved to the soldiers. “Clear out the bodies.”

Jhong nodded. “Until we meet again, officer.”

They passed unchecked through the squads of soldiers.

Walking through the empty streets like ghosts in a dead city, Jhong felt eyes watching through the covered windows of the buildings. A wagon veered and halted before them. Jhong and the two men stepped on, and the wagon jostled towards Lowtown. The stench of spirits and piss reached Jhong’s nose, something almost forgotten, yet familiar, like a street whore’s morning kiss. Shattered glass lined the streets. Stray dogs looked mournfully up to them, hoping for a morsel that wouldn’t come. There were no people, no beggars, just a rotting silence.

Gobin dabbed his blood smeared face with a handkerchief.

Tuoshi whistled. Dark clad men appeared from the shadows of each alleyway they passed. More joined behind them, gangs of Taorin wielding hatchets. Hundreds crowded the streets, black souled men willing to do blacker deeds. Overhead, cranemuskets bristled out from the rooftops of the leaning shanties.

“You’ve called all the Taorin,” Gobin said. “What now, Headsman?”

Jhong said, staring to the faroff imperial palace, “Now we go kill an immortal.”