王子
Hong Weimin is in the catacombs. He can’t stop to think, or else they’ll find him. Always waiting for the perfect opportunity to pounce. But he’s safe for now. His whole body is shaking with tension and he collapses as a day of nonstop running catches up to him. He closes his eyes to rest, but before he can fall asleep- footsteps. And not friendly footsteps, no. Friendly footsteps would be quiet too, but in a discernible pattern. It was how the survivors communicated. But these, these were irregular, the tip-tap of sandals trying, and failing, to imitate. He closes his eyes, hoping they’ll go away, but as his heart pounds without ceasing, neither do the footsteps, growing closer and closer.
And then he hears the laughing.
The laugh is one he knows. One he fears, has feared ever since he was born. It is a deep, sultry laugh, belying the frailty he knows it to conceal.
Why is he here, he laments to himself. Of all the hunters to find him, this one is the worst. For he never fails a hunt.
As if on queue, a voice resounds through the empty antechamber.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
The saccharine tones of the melodious voice cause him to tremble. This is the end.
The footsteps grow closer.
Hong Weimin reflects on his life choices. 16 years, all gone to waste. Perhaps he’d be more fortunate in the next life.
The footsteps grow closer.
Preparing for the end, he prays to the gods he doesn’t believe in to give him a chance, grant him a wish, anything at all. But silence is the only answer he receives.
The footsteps stop.
“Hello, my embarrassment of a bastard.”
The voice drips with contempt and derision, as if he wasn’t worth the time.
All the tension leaves Hong Weimin’s body in an instant. He stands to face his torturer. His abuser. His former idol. His king. His father.
With the last of his will, he lunges forward, knocking the mask of his assailant away to reveal a face the color of jade, with black shoulder length hair, decidedly not that of his father.
No. The face is one he knows, one he shares blood with, and much more. The face is that of his blood sister, the soon-to-be Crown Princess of the Kingdom, Hong Shufen.
The attacker with the face of his sister but the voice of his father laughs eerily, and everything fades to black.
***
Year 258, Reign of Empress Cao Ming Yung
He wakes with a start, drenched with sweat despite the chills running throughout his body. It takes him a moment before he recovers his senses and realizes that he’d been ignoring the servant who had awoken him from a half-remembered nightmare. As he turns his attention to the servant, they back away in a bow that averts their gaze from his own. So as to disturb the awkward silence, he addresses the servant.
“Why have you awoken me, Feng Shun.”
“Apologies, honorable prince, but this lowly servant was sent to inform you of a meeting of the contenders with our exalted king.”
Although Hong Weimin was the son of the king, and therefore a prince, he and the rest of the royal family were referred to as ‘contenders’, the result of a long tradition preceding the Hong family’s rise to power.
“Why wasn’t I informed sooner!” Hong Weimin shouts at the servant, springing from his bed and circulating qi throughout his body as a stimulant. “I must be dressed and taken there immediately!”
Despite his tone, the contender was known for his good treatment of royal servants, as compared to his siblings.
“As you wish,” answers the servant, backing away as several other servants flood the room as if on call. Not that Hong Weimin notices.
***
Hong Weimin is lost in his thoughts as he half walks, half runs, to the throne room. As the greatest position of political influence in the kingdom, his father holds the majority of important meetings there. He runs from the ornately decorated walls of the royal bedrooms to the wide and imposing red hallways, supported by pillars of marble streaked with gold. Servants scurry out of his way, not daring to risk a contender’s wrath.
After several li and countless turns in the maze-like palace, he arrives at the throne room, guarded by two King’s Emissaries, elite martial practitioners loyal to the king. Covered in rose gold cloth that hid chainmail from head to toe, each held a Xuanhua Axe demonstrating both their expertise and strength. As their gaze falls upon him, Hong Weimin feels that they are looking down upon him. It wouldn’t be the first time an emissary had killed a contender.
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But his mind is on other matters. Why was I not informed of this meeting, he thinks to himself. Although many don’t respect him due to his status as the youngest surviving contender, he would have expected his siblings to at least inform him.
But when he approaches the door, the emissaries cross their weapons, blocking his way. In unison, they speak.
“Only the worthy may be granted entry.”
Although he may have been a bastard, Hong Weimin possessed all the pride and ego of any noble. “I am a CONTENDER. I am worthy. Now let me pass.”
He tries to push their blades aside, to no avail. They speak once more, forcefully this time.
“Only the worthy may be granted entry. You are not worthy.”
Despite his arrogance, Hong Weimin knows better than to test the King’s Emissaries. He’d learned that lesson at the same time the former 8th prince had.
Hong Weimin curses the day of his birth. After all, it’s the only reason he’s treated so. I may be the youngest, but it’s no accident I’m still alive, he thinks to himself. It was HE who had arranged the assassination of the corrupt 6th princess, may she reincarnate as a mortal. And though he may have been a bastard, he’d shown his aptitude and cunning time and time again.
But then he feels it. It’s as if… he’s been bound. Like a cultivation oath, but different somehow. This… sensation is binding, yet not on his cultivation, but on his very life. His chest constricts as it locks in, feeling both like the last puzzle piece being placed and a liquid condensing under pressure.
Using his affinity for Fate, he attempts to determine what has happened. Although he is only in Qi Condensation, he is well-accustomed to his craft. Within moments, he finds the restriction; it is a seal placed upon his soul itself. It looks like a red circular coin with a square cut from the middle, the edges of the coin covered in gold. Father… what have you done, he thinks to himself.
As he processes this, the doors to the throne room swing open, and a small crowd rushes out. He recognizes some of them; Minister Liu, Secretary of the Treasury; General Wu, third in command of the army, and many others, too many to count. None of them stop to address him.
Following the bureaucrats are the other contenders. His brothers and sisters, although they are anything but family. Leading them is the First Princess, a triumphant look on her face. To break Hong Shufen’s cold demeanor, something truly fortunate must have occurred.
The other contenders display a wide array of emotions; Hong Xiurong appears calculating, as always, while the typically nonchalant Hong Bao is the picture of despair. But they all share something in common; none stop to converse with him.
After all the contenders have left the throne room, he notices that the Emissaries have left. Weighing his options, the seventh prince cautiously, yet confidently enters.
The throne room is just as it has always been; seven pillars stand on either side of the path to the throne; one for each pillar in the ideal Foundation Establishment. The columns are as thick as a dragon’s neck, or so he’s been told. At the very least, they dwarf him in size.
The dimly lit corners appear benign, but he knows emissaries hide within the shadows, ready to defend the king with their lives. But to Weimin, especially after all these years, the throne room is rather… boring. No murals decorate the walls, a lost opportunity to depict epic battles, like the founding of the Hong Kingdom itself. No artifacts are on display, the sole focus of the room instead being placed upon the throne itself.
But the throne… the throne is gargantuan in size, eclipsing the pillars entirely. The roof of the palace had been replaced with a portal to the heavens, allowing for a throne so large the top wasn’t visible from the ground. In years past, rulers of the kingdom had possessed an expansion technique making them appear as a giant. That technique had been lost to time, but the throne itself is an immortal artifact, far more resilient than mortal stone. But what was the purpose of such a grand gesture, when the man who sat upon it is an insect in comparison.
Hong Tao is a tiny man. Although he sits at the peak of Core Formation, his physical body is weak and frail, the result of a failing Body Cultivation. His hair is white despite his relatively young age. His skin is cracked in some places and charred in others, a side effect of his triple affinity for earth, lightning, and fire. And yet, his presence is imposing nonetheless, for nothing is weak about him. His aura fills the room, and as Hong Weimin comes within an appropriate distance for conversation, he is forced to kneel before the king. He had learned long ago that it was futile to resist; his father had, on multiple occasions, slaughtered his own children over things far pettier. Even if he had been able to, it would have been a death sentence.
After an incense time, the king speaks, his scratchy voice full of derision. “What brings a Qi Condensation failure like yourself before me?”
Moments pass, and yet Hong Weimin does not respond. This is another game the king plays, lashing out at the world around him for his poor fortune.
“You may speak, you pathetic excuse for a prince.” When around his children, the king dropped all pretenses of royalty and civility, exposing his true persona.
“My King, this lowly prince only wishes to know why this one was barred from the meeting,” the prince responds.
It is several moments before Hong Bao responds, moments that leave the young contender slick with sweat. Even remaining within the king’s aura is taxing both physically and mentally.
“You were not worthy of attending that meeting.”
Risking it all, the prince speaks out of turn.
“I am your son, the 7th prince of the Hong Kingdom, and beloved by the people. I have as much a claim as any to a meeting of the contenders.”
“Which people do you claim that love you so? Certainly none amongst the living, alive in the past as you are.” The king’s biting words cut deeper in truth.
Hong Tao still remembers the day soldiers regaled in royal colors attacked his home and burnt it to the ground. “Ten years since I lost my people," he thinks.
The Hong family was certainly royal, but that didn’t set them apart from any other kingdom amongst the Crimson Empire. No, it was not the Crimson Empress’ blood that made them strong.
“Ten years since you destroyed my power.”
Even now, Weimin is bitter. Everyone he’d ever known, gone in an instant. And all because of a barbaric game.
He dreams of a world in which he stands up to his father, firing back impassioned remarks like, “I will survive you, father, and I will destroy your cruel Contender’s Cup to expose your depravity.”
As if reading the prince’s seditious thoughts his father rises to his feet, stomping holes in the gigantic stone tiles.
“A Qi Condensation failure,”
STOMP
“Is NO Contender,”
STOMP
“AND CERTAINLY NO SON OF MINE.”
STOMP
He radiates cold anger, his voice a low bellow even as its enhanced wielder deafens the prince. As the king increases his aura, Weimin’s resolve crumbles, the blood running from his nose gracing his lips with a dizzying flavor offering to take it all away. For he can’t resist his father.
His body trembles. One moment, he stands bowing under the pressure. The next, he is on his stomach, his muscles protesting their harsh treatment. His bones are next to betray him, white fragments forming osseous flowers suspended in dissociated flesh. Somehow, his brain remains intact, and he is painfully aware of what is happening to him.
Then it’s over.
He is kneeling before the King. His father.
“Get out of my sight. Until you are late stage Foundation Establishment, do not approach me again.”
A disgraced Hong Weimin limps out of the palace, his body scarred by memories of a dream.