It was too quiet on the way to the palace. There was no-one on the road. Thick gray clouds hid the sky, sagging ominously. Jin kept expecting a squadron of the king’s guard to pop out of the sunflower fields, to come up from a patch of earth, spears blazing, but there was no-one.

The only sound was the boots on the muddy ground behind him. Not the uniform staccato of uniformed men—these were so uneven they sounded like a rumbling storm. When he glanced behind him he saw nothing binding them at all. Here there were the Red Scarf Knights with their scarves tied round their heads; the Bloody Axe, wielding their namesake weapons, the Brothers White in cloaks they’d stolen from the Imperial Guard—to join you had to slay a guardsman and take a cloak. Either that, or turncoat. Most were turncoats. Once Chen Qin was cut off the Guard fell apart, and somehow they all came to him. Everyone thought he had the answers.

It wasn’t just militias. There were the Framers, the Bakers, the Builders, the Butchers, and more, making up the rear, workmen turned army. A few were trying to get a song going, but not enough of them knew the words. Jin knew but he didn’t join in.

“They fled, chief! Fled like dogs!” cackled Yu Kong, the new leader of the Red Scarf Knights; he was Tai Kong’s younger brother, an even more fresh-faced, impetuous clone. “All of them—look!”

He gestured at a manor by the road. No lights shone through the grand gaping windows.

“Patience, friend Kong,” said Jin, forcing a smile. “Let’s celebrate after we’ve won.”

Kong plainly chose not too hear him—the boy was grinning ear-to-ear. He went off and shouted something to his comrades, and they burst out in raucous laughter. The sound was alien to Jin’s ears; it made his breaths come harder. There were folk old and young in this strange army but the feeling was so hopeful, almost joyous, it filled Jin with dread. Yu Wei, leader of the Bloody Axes, accused him of being an old man trapped in a young man’s body. He said Jin ought to relax, let up. But couldn’t they see? All of this hung on him. All of their hopes and their joys, and the more hopeful they were, the more uncertain he was about all of it.

Jin had a great deal of love for them, each one of them, and no love for the Emperor. But there was no-one here who knew how to make things. They were plenty good at breaking things—they were so eager sometimes they trampled Jin’s protests. A half-dozen noble lynchings had happened before he could put a stop to them. The only thing keeping them from running wild over the noble countryside was him—his friendships with the leaders of each little group, his coaxing and guarantees and sometimes desperate pleas. It was all he could do to hold them together. He couldn’t stop their motion, nor was he sure he wanted to.

They moved inexorably for the Palace.

No one at the golden gates. Jin kicked them open and they gave. No guards up the several li long stretch to the front gates. How many times had he been driven up this road for Banquets, dressed up in the finest Upper-City garb? Garb he would’ve been lynched for wearing now. He was struck by the feeling he didn’t belong here; but he’d felt it so often he’d learned to make an uneasy peace with it. Why was he made to lead? Why was he treated specially—because some shaman millennia ago had said it so? It had always felt like a peculiar strain of madness to him, but here he was.

He could feel the heartbeat of his army, strong and fast, he could see the heat on their faces, their wild delight as they burst through the palace doors. He could hardly stay ahead of them. He’d thought himself good with managing wild feelings. He’d had much practice over the years—it was always Ruyi coming to him in fury or tears, and it was always he who would find the right words for her, who’d make it all okay… he had no words now. What could he say to them? Words wouldn’t please them; they wanted blood.

Up and up the tower they went. They toppled any statue in their path. They shattered glass not for sight of enemies—there were no enemies, so far as Jin could tell—but because they liked the feeling of breaking; it felt like winning. They climbed up, and up, and up, and by the time they got to the top a part of Jin wished the throne room, too, would be empty.

It wasn’t empty.

Huge golden pillars ran up on either side, flanking a blood-red carpet. And sitting on his throne, crown perched atop his head, was the Emperor. He did not look a beaten man.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

At the sight of them he stood.

“It’s over,” Jin said. He didn’t shout, but his voice carried so far in the echoing hall it sounded like he did.

“I am your Emperor!” said the Emperor. His eyes were bloodshot, his matted gray hair wild under his crown. “All of you!”

He scanned the crowd, defiance written on every dark line of his face. “Have you no shame? Look at you—animals, the lot of you! You flout the Law of Heaven!”

He tried to affect the look of a disappointed father. “Kneel and repent, and I may be moved to grant you a quick death.”

It was sad for Jin to watch.

“Stand down,” he said again.

“I am—”

“No-one. Anymore,” said Jin. “You are the Emperor in your own mind, and nobody else’s. It is the people who choose the Emperor. You may claim the mandate of Heaven, but you have lost the mandate of man.”

For a breath the Emperor was speechless. Then the sneer came over his face again. Jin got the sense it was either that, or be frightened; he chose to go out proud. “I am not afraid of you! None of you!”

Jin walked up to him. His chin was held high all the while, his eyes flared and regal, up until the moment Jin’s fist met his face.

The Emperor was softer than he thought. Jin hit him a little harder than he’d intended; the man fell crying out, clutching at his nose, and there came spurts of blood. Then he was on the ground, looking up at Jin, his crown knocked off his head, and the last of his magic left him. He seemed like just a sad little man then.

“Your reign,” Jin said heavily. “Is done!”

And his army roared for him.

Jin’s was the hand that did it—it had to be him. He had steady hands. He trusted no-one else.

“Jin! Jin! Jin!”

He wasn’t sure who started it, but they were all chanting it now, and his name thundered down the hall.

Then—“Emperor! Emperor! Emperor!”

The words broke together in air. They sounded awful to him, made a thousand times louder in this cavernous space, but they were set on it—“EMPEROR! EMPEROR!” They punched the air; they swept up the room, and he could only put out a hand before they’d seized him, lifted up on their shoulders. A dozen hands passed him along.

“Emperor Jin! Emperor Jin! All hail!”

In the chaos, someone had put the crown on his head. He wanted to tell them they were making a mistake. He wanted to tell them this was madness. But though he felt helpless, though the words came to his lips, he couldn’t say them.

If not him, who?

***

Late that night, after they’d sacked the Emperor’s stores for wine and brought out the last of his foodstuffs, roasting it atop open flames in the Banquet Hall, after they’d each had a turn sitting on the throne, after went about pissing on the Emperor’s great artworks and nabbing jewels, setting fire to his gardens and making off with dozens of his ceremonial swords, even poaching his peacocks and his cats, Jin managed to break away.

There was little he could do to stop them; he’d held on as long as he could, but there was too much feeling let loose at last. They’d won, and Jade Dragon City was feverish with joy, and they all celebrated in their own way. Where he stood now—atop the roof the palace—he could see clear across the length of the city, up to the middle wall, where great smoking craters were blown out down its length. It felt like all of the Lower City had poured through. The fields were lit up with dancing. Some fields were just lit. So many little fires he couldn’t put out—but why would he want to?

Perhaps there was something wrong with him. He groaned, cradling his head in his hands. They’d been brutally mistreated, for so long, and he’d seen the injustice of it. But now all he could think of was what was to come. Already he felt a creeping dread about it; it been growing in him since the march, and it hadn’t gone away.

Maybe he was as bad as Yu Wei said. Why couldn’t he let himself be happy? They’d won!

They’d won. But the hard work, the work of rebuilding, of governing, would start tomorrow. Once the burning was done they’d wake up to the ashes, and it would be up to them to make the best of it.

Up to him.

Tonight they could burn. They’d earned a little burning—so much here needed burning, starting with that awful Middle Wall. Tomorrow he would make something better of this, he promised himself. Something they could all be proud of.

He sighed.

He looked up at the cold full moon, and he thought of Ruyi. He missed her especially sharply at times like this. Sometimes it felt like there was too much resting on him; she would hear him out, and she didn’t really solve things, but when he spoke she got angry or sad on happy on his behalf, and the pressure in him grew a little less. It was like she was feeling for him the things he didn’t let himself feel. He wondered if they could only do that because they were twins. They knew each other in a way no-one ever could.

He looked up at the cold full moon, and he wondered how Ruyi was. He hoped she was doing okay, wherever she was. He worried for her almost every night. He worried how she’d do alone—she’d gone so fast, and she had no-one, not even her rocks.

His sister was so capable it frightened him sometimes. He’d seen her at work—how she could seemingly bend the world to her will. But she was also so starved…it was like she needed a hug all of the time, and she would do anything for whoever gave her one. It must’ve gotten so much worse now that she had no one left. If she did make it to the demonlands, and they found her like this… Jin had a bad feeling.

He didn’t know that thousands of li away she was staring at the same moon, thinking of him.