Jackal Among Snakes

Ji Meng stood still as his honor guard put his armor on again. Some time ago, he thought he’d never again experience this feeling. He thought he’d grow fat, like a pig fated for slaughter, until Argrave’s hammer came down. But there was a new path—one where he didn’t need to worry about the excesses of the imperial court, the scheming, because someone else would handle it for him.

Perhaps he was simply broken after being in captivity. Regardless, as his guard tightened the last strap of his armor, one stepped forward with his dadao in hand. He took it up. It felt heavy, weighty, after he’d neither seen nor touched it for so long. But Ji Meng hefted it firmly in hand and strode toward the door, flanked by his own men who were similarly unchained.

When he left the room, an army waited for him. They watched him as he walked toward his horse, the tension of a battle soon to come set over the field. There was chatter, silence, and laughter in equal amounts—various mechanisms to deal with the anxiety of battle. For Ji Meng, there was only a hunger. A hunger to earn, to prove, and lastly, to rule. He no longer cared in what capacity—the Great Chu was his.

Wordlessly, he straddled his horse and placed his weapon in a sheathe tied to the horse’s saddle. He held out his hand, and his honor guard delivered to him a familiar ornate horn. He raised it to his lips and blew. Wyverns flew up into the sky as a low, rumbling note echoed throughout the battlefield, drawing the attention of all. When the sole focus of an army fell upon him, Ji Meng gathered his breath to speak.

His vital force empowered his speech, echoing out louder than the horn that preceded it. “We march to save our countrymen. We march to destroy the gods that would fracture our empire with imposters, then set it aflame. We march, children of the empire, to restore the balance of heaven.”

Nothing more needed to be said. Ji Meng raised the horn back to his lips, and blew it thrice—the signal for a march. And an army that had been on the cusp of falling apart hours before… it advanced to where the carnage of gods in their ivory tower above left its mark on the earth.

#####

Dimocles rather enjoyed the throne of Emperor Ji Meng. Even the body wasn’t half-bad. He sat, the puppets of the imperial court arrayed around him, as they fruitlessly argued in circles about the wanton destruction raging about them. It was nothing more than playacting—a countdown, waiting for the south to fall apart under the Qircassian Coalition’s excessively ruthless move.

Perhaps Argrave would do something foolish and overextend as he had in the Bloodwoods. The king always made foolish decisions to protect others. Most likely, the south would turn. If Argrave didn’t extricate himself properly, Vasquer’s forces would suffer massive damage, and Dimocles could swoop in with all the fury of the whole Great Chu and mop things up. Perhaps his uneasy alliance with the emperor would fall apart, or perhaps the real Ji Meng would—

“My emperor!”

Dimocles was pulled from his gleeful thoughts as a messenger stormed in, coming to kneel before him. He wanted to reprimand the fellow, but messengers held a special status in the court. Instead, he indulged, “We are listening.”

“The Yellow Emperor has taken the field of battle! They say his vital force is fully restored, and he reinforces city after city to lessen the burden of the defense. Some… some local garrisons have defected. They’re heading closer and closer to the heart of the empire.”

Clamor erupted in the court—many reprimanded the messenger for even daring to give this imposter the title of ‘emperor.’ Dimocles was baffled. Was this another trick, a machination of the god Rook, perhaps? Had Argrave a person under his thrall that knew polymorphism? Dimocles had received this A-rank ascension from Erlebnis himself, and was assured that none other knew of it. Still, Argrave had raided Erlebnis’ vault…

“Describe this Yellow Emperor,” Dimocles commanded over the din.

“They say…” the messenger hesitated, lowering his head further in the kowtow. “They say that he wields the emperor’s… no, your dadao expertly, tearing through any and all attacks that assail the cities or any foolish enough to resist. His honor guard, meanwhile, is said to be the exact ones sent with the emperor on his journey. He claims to all his intent to kill the… the emperor.”

Dimocles heard something dangerous on the man’s tone—wavering belief. This uneasiness he felt was mirrored in his court as silence consumed the room until only the heavy breathing of the exhausted messenger could be heard. These people, puppets all, looked to Dimocles for their answer. Dimocles in turn wished to look to Erlebnis.

“It seems we must reclaim our blade from the corpse of the faker,” Dimocles declared, rising to his feet. “Gather what men can be spared. We will meet this pretender in the field of battle, and tear the mask from his face so that all can witness his deception. None can imitate us, even if they bear our blade and our men. Go, now—depart, with this command in your hearts.”

The imperial court, called to action so quickly, departed in a frenzy, and the messenger ran out of the room without another word. He did intend to confront Ji Meng. He had the Blessing of Supersession, and the backing of the Qircassian Coalition. Powerful Ji Meng and his allies might be, but they were mortals all the same. The only risk was the gods—a risk that was sure to be mitigated greatly by the Coalition, watching above for any misstep. One clash, one battle, carrying behind it infinite legitimacy. Ultimately, it was the winner that was the most legitimate. But if he lost…

As the people began to fade, Dimocles got a hold of the commander of the palace guard. The palace guard would be the troops he was to lead—every bit the match of Ji Meng’s honor guard, be it in equipment or otherwise, they would be the cornerstone of this upcoming battle. But he had another task for them.

“We have something you must see to,” Dimocles declared quietly. “The Palace of Heaven… ensure that there is a suitable path to it, at all times, via spirits or otherwise.”

The guard captain nodded and went off to do his bidding, seeing nothing unusual with this situation. Even if he was overcome, he could retreat to the Palace of Heaven. So long as he lived, doubt would remain in the empire. The Palace of Heaven couldn’t be taken half-heartedly, not with gods as its garrison.

#####

Anneliese, following behind the veritable force of nature that was Ji Meng, soared through the sky aback a wyvern with her staff clenched tightly in her left hand. Though she followed, it was only a short distance behind. She had a very good reason to be at the front of the crowd. All of the defenses that ordinarily might’ve stalled their advance were instead dedicated solely to defending from the hellfire that the tower of clouds above subjected this city to.

Anneliese did her part in this long march, defending with S-rank wards wherever possible. Their advance in the skies and on the ground felt unstoppable, unassailable, in large part because none of the divine servants of the Qircassian Coalition deigned to descend. They bided their time as the mortal ants did battle, surely waiting to swoop in when things were most favorable.

But a true confrontation awaited; the clash of the two emperors. The moment that they heard the Blue Emperor had taken the field, Anneliese had been assigned to the front. She thought she’d conquered nervousness, but her role was so pivotal that it had revived that dormant feeling. It redoubled when the first sighting of the Blue Emperor’s army came into view—Dimocles. Even from here, she saw a familiar sight within his body—the Blessing of Supersession that Argrave had once had. The chaos it could cause, in the hands of an S-rank spellcaster… she shuddered to think of it.

“Durran,” she called out loudly over the wind. “I’ve got eyes on him.”

In response, Durran brought a horn to his lips and blew it boldly. The wyverns, once barely following behind, began to surge ahead as all manner of power wrapped around them. They cut through the oddly beautiful lilac sky as they advanced, flying over an open field of tall grass that stood between the two armies. Spells of extreme power rose to smite them down, but the Magisters of the Gray Owl sitting atop the wyverns defended masterfully as they had in countless battles before.

When they made it to the middle of the vast field of grass between the army of the Blue and Yellow Emperors, Anneliese grabbed a knife strapped to her boot, cut the strap tying to her the saddle, and dismounted. Artur’s enchantments on her armor came to life, slowing her fall. The enemies paid some attention to her as she fell, and great spells bridged the gap to strike her down. With Veid’s heart as her staff, no magic could even near her.

Anneliese alighted on the field, totally alone as chaos consumed land and sky. She saw an army marching forth, and at its head, the so-called Blue Emperor, Dimocles. The malignant collector. The man that’d caused them so much trouble in the Bloodwoods, here again to thwart them. Anneliese gripped her staff tightly, then grabbed the top of it with her other hand.

With a quick wrench, she drew the blade out from the slender staff. She felt an icy claw wrap around her heart as its second function took effect. When it was fully drawn, the iciness in her chest was near unbearable. But she pointed its edge at Dimocles, and saw that icy power erupt forth from her heart, along the blade, and finally to Dimocles, where it coiled around him. She saw him grab his chest, and knew that he felt it too.

Using the power of Veid’s heart, which had been forged into this weapon, she had compelled combat from Dimocles. Until she sheathed her weapon or left this mortal coil, he could not flee. And she certainly felt in her heart one thing.

Dimocles would die today.