The Doomed Monarch

Execution Date

The royal bedchamber smelled of stale medicinal wine and damp stone. Lin Feng sat upright on the edge of the mattress, his fingers digging into his temples as the skin behind his eyes pulsed with a violent, white-hot heat. Inside his mind, a massive lattice of burning silver lines expanded, mapping out constellations that did not belong to the northern sky. Numbers bled into his consciousness, ticking backward with the cold regularity of a dripping cleaver.

Ten years. Exactly three thousand six hundred and fifty days until the sky cracked open.

He gasped, his breath rattling against his teeth as he collapsed back onto the pillows. The door to the chamber creaked, and a heavy, smelling-salt aroma cut through the dampness.

"You are late rising, your Highness," said Uncle Lin Biao, his fat fingers tracing the gold embroidery of his own sleeve. "The court is waiting. The northern lords are demanding their grain tax refunds, and I have already signed the decrees on your behalf. You look pale. Perhaps another draft of the black root tea?"

Lin Feng stared at the ceiling, his vision still swimming with the glowing numbers of the countdown. He did not look at his uncle. The old man had been selling the kingdom’s iron reserves to the southern border tribes for three seasons, leaving the royal armory filled with rusted scrap.

"Did you sign them with the royal seal or your personal signet, Uncle?" Lin Feng asked, his voice flat, devoid of its usual teenage stutter.

Lin Biao paused, his boots scraping against the stone floor. "The seal, of course. For the good of the realm. You are not yet crowned, nephew. The burden of statecraft is too heavy for a boy still mourning his father."

Lin Feng stood up. His knees shook slightly, but the silver lines in his soul flared, sending a jolt of raw, unrefined spiritual energy through his meridians. He walked over to the washbasin, splashed cold water onto his face, and caught his reflection in the bronze mirror. The skin on his neck was clear, but beneath the surface, he could feel the faint, microscopic prickle of a brand waiting to form.

"To save it, I have to give it away," Lin Feng whispered to the glass.

"What was that?" Lin Biao asked, stepping closer, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. "You are acting stranger than usual today. If you are unwell, the grand physician can prepare a secluded pavilion for your recovery. For a year or two."

Lin Feng turned around, wiping his face with a coarse linen cloth. "I am perfectly well. In fact, I have never seen the world with such clarity. Tell me, Uncle, how much did the Iron Kingdom pay you for the western garrison blueprints?"

Lin Biao froze. His eyes darted toward the heavy oak doors, then back to Lin Feng. His expression hardened, the faux-paternal warmth melting away to reveal the sharp, cynical politician beneath.

"You should watch your tongue, boy. A kingdom without an army cannot afford internal gossip. The western garrison was a lost cause anyway."

"It was an empire's shield," Lin Feng said, stepping into his uncle's personal space. "And you traded it for three boxes of low-grade spirit stones and a promise of a governorship under their flag."

Lin Biao sneered, his hand tightening on his dagger. "And who will believe you? The council answers to my purse. The palace guard eats from my hand. You are a figurehead who hasn't even broken through the second layer of Qi condensation."

Lin Feng smiled. It was not the smile of a prince. It was the frantic, jagged grin of a man who had just seen the end of the world and realized nothing else mattered.

"I don't need them to believe me," Lin Feng said.

Before Lin Biao could draw the blade, Lin Feng’s hand snapped forward. His fingers, reinforced by the desperate surge of cosmic energy from the star map, caught his uncle by the throat. The old man's eyes bulged as he was lifted two inches off the floor. The mahogany desk behind them shattered as Lin Feng slammed him into the wood, pinning him down.

"You are a thief of time," Lin Feng muttered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper as the old man thrashed beneath him. "And I am very short on time."

With a swift, brutal twist, the cracking of bone echoed through the quiet chamber. Lin Biao went limp, his jaw hanging open at an unnatural angle.

Lin Feng did not look back at the body. He pulled the royal signet ring off his uncle’s fat, twitching finger, wiped the grease on his own trousers, and walked out into the corridor.

Two palace guards stood at attention, their spears crossing instantly to block his path. Their faces were pale, having heard the crash from inside.

"Prince Lin Feng," the left guard said, his voice trembling. "Where is the Regent?"

"The Regent has retired from public service," Lin Feng said, holding up the blood-stained signet ring. "Open the grand hall. Gather the ministers."

The guards looked at each other, then at the dark stain blooming on Lin Feng’s cuffs. Neither moved their spears.

"I will not ask a second time," Lin Feng said, his voice echoing with a strange, multi-layered resonance that made the iron tips of their spears vibrate.

The right guard swallowed hard and lowered his weapon. The left followed immediately, pulling open the heavy bronze doors that led to the throne room.

The ministers were gathered in a loose circle around the empty jade throne, whispering over maps and tax ledger scrolls. When Lin Feng entered alone, the murmurs died down. Prime Minister Xu stepped forward, his long grey beard shifting as he frowned.

"Your Highness? Where is Lord Biao? We have urgent matters regarding the northern border deployment."

"Lord Biao is dead for treason," Lin Feng said, walking straight up the steps toward the throne. He did not sit. He turned to face the assembly, his hands resting on the jade armrests. "The southern border belongs to us no longer. The western garrison is gone. We are surrounded by three hostile empires, and our treasury is empty."

A collective gasp rippled through the old men.

"Dead?" Xu stammered. "By whose authority? You cannot simply execute a member of the royal bloodline without a tribunal!"

"I am the tribunal," Lin Feng said. "Minister Xu, how many spirit stones are currently stored in the grand ancestral vault?"

"Those are sacred!" Xu yelled, his face turning purple. "They are for the grand barrier ritual to protect the capital!"

"Bring them to the main courtyard by sunset," Lin Feng said. "Every single one. I will also require the ledger for every rogue cultivation sect within three hundred miles. They will surrender their pills and herbs to the royal army, or they will be burned out of their mountains."

The ministers broke out into angry shouts. Several drew their administrative tablets, shaking them at the young prince as if they were weapons.

"This is madness!" one older lord cried. "You are trying to start a war with our own people before the neighboring kings even cross our borders! You are a tyrant in the making!"

Lin Feng looked out over the sea of furious, terrified faces. He felt no anger toward them, only a profound, crushing exhaustion. They were fighting for dirt and gold, completely unaware that the very ground beneath their boots was already on a lease.

"If I am a tyrant, then prepare to bleed for me," Lin Feng said, his voice cutting through the noise. "Because if we do not conquer this entire continent within three years, there will be no world left for you to complain about."

He pointed at the high priest standing in the shadows near the altar. "Bring the crown."

The high priest looked at Minister Xu, then at the dark, cold intensity in Lin Feng's eyes. Shaking, the old priest lifted the heavy gold circlet from its velvet cushion and ascended the steps.

As the gold settled onto Lin Feng's brow, a deafening crack of thunder shook the entire palace structure. The high windows shattered inward, showering the floor with glass.

Through the broken frames, the afternoon light vanished. The sky above the capital flared a brilliant, horrifying blood red, the color of a fresh arterial spray stretching across the clouds for one long, silent second before snapping back to blue.

The ministers dropped to their knees, groaning in terror. Lin Feng remained standing, his hand gripping the cold jade of the throne as his brand burned into his flesh.