Mingchi sat alone in the dim of his study, every window shuttered, the only illumination the wavering blue holo-projection of Xinjian’s upper body. He’d spent the last hour seeking counsel from the ruler of Ho Man Ting, whose sudden shutdown of his district – expelling all non–South Kowloonis and sealing the borders – had shaken Kowloon to its core. Overnight, South Kowloon’s cultural capital had transformed into a Yang-aligned state. What shocked Mingchi most was the secret he had uncovered only 20 minutes ago: it had all begun with the kidnapping of a Kingmaker.

  A Kingmaker itself.

  Somehow, Xinjian had done the unthinkable. He wasn’t just defying the dynasty, he’d quietly slapped the Emperor across the face and only a handful in Kowloon knew.

  Empty and stained plates lay scattered across Mingchi’s desk. Open files and unsent letters lay exactly where he had abandoned them after the coronation disaster. A cold, half-finished cup of tea rested at the edge, its rim stained brown. Mingchi himself looked scarcely better: instead of his formal silk hanfu, he wore a loose undershirt and an old, creased house-robe that hung crooked from one shoulder, the fabric marked with days-old tea stains. He had been rotting inside his estate for far too long, convinced that the proud, daring Warlord Xinjian would provide the answers he needed.

  But then came the advice itself.

  ‘You need the Yang, Lord Mingchi,’ Xinjian said. ‘You saw how quickly they moved with the Tien Tao Rioters to lock down my district. Expelled every non-Southerner with precision. They don’t hesitate the way your gangsters do. Respond to their letter. Begin collaboration.’

  Mingchi inhaled slowly. His long, straight hair was tied back in a messy ponytail, but even that was threatening to fall apart, with stray hairs reaching the bottom of his face. Isolation had thinned him out, and now, hearing this, he was beginning to regret calling the Southerner at all.

  ‘Warlord Xinjian,’ Mingchi began, steadying himself. ‘I respect your defiance. You’ve shown your people still remember what it means to be South Kowlooni. But South Kowloon has always drawn its strength from its own brothers and sisters, never a foreign force. I urge you to reconsider aligning with the Yang. If Pik leans on them as well, we become puppets. We Easterners have spent more time under foreign servitude than ruling ourselves.’

  ‘The Yang are not bidding to control our districts,’ Xinjian answered. ‘Their only goal is to topple the Yaozhi dynasty, nothing more.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe a foreign force will refuse power when it’s handed to them,’ Mingchi said. ‘How much of your district is already being steered by the Ibilis? I don’t wish to wage war against the dynasty, simply to be free of them. The Yang are committed to revolutionary violence. My people won’t be free. They’ll be traded from one master to another, dragged into a fight we have no desire to be part of.’

  ‘Freedom?’ Xinjian scoffed. ‘Your district is starving. You think you’ll save them by clinging to ideological purity? If you want them saved, stop worrying about who leads you and start thinking about where you want to be led.’

  ‘No,’ Mingchi answered. ‘You misunderstand me. Your people may do whatever it takes to be free. But if freedom demands repeating our history, conceding to be ruled once again by a people who only care for their own goals, then we’ll gladly starve.’

  The hologram crackled, distorting Xinjian’s scowl. ‘You’re young,’ the warlord said. ‘Your father was a decadent man, drowning in his own excess. Do not assume you can’t be equally self-indulgent in your virtues. In time you’ll see how clinging to moral-purity has only lead men to death. No district can survive without personal sacrifice. Why do you think our ancestors signed the Unification Pact in the first place? No one wished to be Yaozhi vassals!’

  ‘No, stop, Warlord. We can be powerful ourselves. The East and South, working together once more,’ Mingchi said quietly. ‘We can beat the Emperor without handing our dignity to the engineers of the Yau bombings.’

  Xinjian leaned closer, eyes narrowing through the static. ‘Do what you want. But remember: the moment you push Yu, the Emperor will bare his teeth. I’ve done everything in my power to prevent a regicide. Regardless of what you choose, you’d best do the same, because I doubt you’ll find help from your famine-stricken neighbours.’

  ‘Let him come with his Kingmakers. Kowloon hasn’t had a regicide in a generation. Pik will survive. And so will every other Easterner under the Yaozhi’s yoke.’

  The call clicked out. The room fell silent except for the low hum of the vents. Mingchi leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting the darkness swallow him.

  I don’t know if I regret becoming Lord, he thought. My people demand answers, and all I do is sit here in the shadows feeling sorry for myself. His gaze drifted to the empty holopad where Xinjian’s projection had hovered moments before.

  I wonder how they do it. All those leaders in our history who dared defy the Yaozhi. Most have ended up dead, yet men like Xinjian refuse to change course. If they can stand against the dynasty, why can’t I? Surely, the Yang are not the only way.

  Mingchi leaned forward and pushed aside a pile of letters. A small button lay beneath them; he pressed it. A moment later, Jozef’s voice filled the dark study through the wall speakers.

  ‘Yes, my lord? Is everything all right? Are you hungry?’

  ‘No, Jozef. I need a district runner. I have an urgent message for Emperor Puyin.’

  ‘Right away, my lord! It’s wonderful to hear your voice again. I’ll send him up immediately. May I also come in and finally clean the room?’

  Mingchi paused, glancing around at the mess he could barely face. ‘Perhaps later. I still need some time. Just send the runner as soon as you can.’

  The connection clicked off. Mingchi sank back in his chair, Xinjian’s words circling in his mind. Until the Warlord had mentioned the Yang, his argument had sounded almost reasonable: Pik’s salvation lay in seceding from the Unification Pact. The contract that perpetually bounded them loyal to the Yaozhi dynasty.

  But now it was painfully clear why Xinjian wanted him to take this path of “liberation”. He was steering Mingchi towards accepting Yang assistance, towards a revolution that would drag all of Kowloon into their crusade to overthrow the dynasty and march to the mythical surface.

  Not my fight, Mingchi thought. Not the East’s fight.

  Yet, even if Xinjian’s motives were self-serving, the idea itself lingered.

  Would Pik not be stronger as an independent Eastern state?

  They paid taxes and received nothing in return. Certainly not the promised rewards of the Zhaisheng. And the laws protecting Kam Shan’s monopoly over fungal processing had always crippled Eastern food production from the very start.

  If Pik stopped obeying those restrictions, Mingchi thought, couldn’t we start fighting the famine ourselves?

  The door buzzer vibrated. Mingchi pressed another button beneath the desk; the door slid open. A second tap lit a single deep-orange lamp in the corner of the study, revealing the cluttered room.

  ‘Come in, brother,’ Mingchi said.

  The district runner stepped inside, a slight, wiry young man in scuffed impact-weave trousers and a charcoal courier vest lined with blinking route-nodes, the very garment his personalised map. Sweat darkened the collar of his hooded jacket, the fabric taut over a body built for speed and endurance rather than strength.

  ‘My lord?’ The man stepped inside and bowed, clutching a slim sidebag under his arm. ‘You called for a runner?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mingchi straightened his robe and pressed a button to close the door. ‘I have a message for you to deliver. What’s your name, brother?’

  ‘Chan Yuze, my lord. At your service.’ He bowed again.

  ‘Yuze, I need you to deliver an urgent message to Emperor Puyin: Pik cannot continue paying taxes at the current rate.’

  Yuze blinked. ‘The… Tower, my lord? Alone?’

  ‘Yes. You’ll be fine. Tell him that in the coming cycles I’ll be proposing a tax freeze to Pik’s lawmakers. We will halt our tribute until we begin reversing the famine.’

  ‘He will almost certainly reject that.’

  ‘He will,’ Mingchi nodded. ‘Then you must tell him what follows. If he refuses to freeze our tax, Pik will withdraw from the Unification Pact entirely.’

  ‘That will anger the Emperor… That sounds like—’

  ‘Yes,’ Mingchi answered calmly. ‘I know exactly what it sounds like.’

  The silence stretched, heavy and dangerous.

  Yuze’s face drained of colour. ‘My lord… the Emperor could treat that as rebellion. He could charge us with betrayal. He could even arrest me for choosing to relay your words.’

  ‘I know. But you mustn’t waver. Address him with full respect. Remind him we wish to negotiate and that we will not be following Ho Man Ting’s path. The Yang are not welcome in Pik, unlike in the south. We intend to remain on speaking terms with the dynasty.’

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  ‘What if he asks me to contact you?’

  ‘And you must decline. This works only if he’s given no opportunity to outmanoeuvre us. If he asks for me, tell him I am unavailable and will reach out in my own time.’

  Mingchi studied Yuze’s uneasy expression. The journey would take nearly four days; the runner would carry the weight of this message the entire way.

  ‘Listen, brother,’ Mingchi said gently. ‘You are carrying the message that begins our path towards becoming a powerful, independent Eastern state. Do you remember Chin Xiao De from the Book of Lumen?’

  ‘Of course. Songzu Dong foretold that one day all of East Kowloon would rise as a free nation called Chin Xiao De.’

  ‘I’ll be making our prophet’s vision into reality. And it begins with you leaving this room with this message.’

  Yuze bowed slowly. ‘Then I will depart at once, my lord, and hesitate for no one.’

  ‘Take Lower Hiram through Poi Toi district,’ Mingchi said. ‘I’ll have some Kuishi meet you at the border and guide you through the Yang-held routes. I’m beginning to suspect Warlord Xinjian’s motivations aren’t as far from the Yang as he claims. I don’t want to risk you being intercepted by any Yangs he might’ve dispatched. And Yuze…’

  ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘Be brave,’ A faint, wry smile tugged at Mingchi’s lips. ‘If the Emperor shouts at you, remind yourself you’re only there because your lord had the audacity he lacked yesterday.’

  ‘Thank you, Lord Mingchi,’ Yuze allowed himself a small breath, bowed deeply, and stepped out into the corridor.

  The moment the door shut, the steel in Mingchi’s expression dropped again. He closed the lights once more, exhaled, and steadied himself against the backrest.

  The Emperor’s private meeting room was small, built to seat no more than himself and the grand chancellor. The lighting was always dim, with faint blinking dots of green and blue embedded in the domed ceiling above the round holotable. Each tick confirmed that the room’s communication systems were functioning as usual.

  Emperor Puyin sat, chin resting on his knuckles, on the single gilded chair by the table, used by generations of Yaozhi emperors. The armrests were browned where hands had rested for centuries, and the headrest where his neck sat carried a shallow indent. Had the cushions not been regularly replaced, Puyin feared he’d be sitting on a few layers of fabric by now.

  Grand Chancellor Lin Zexu stood beside him, hands clasped neatly behind his back, gazing at the same dormant table that pulsed blue. ‘The surfacer should make contact any moment now,’ he murmured. ‘He’s a punctual man. Principled, from what I’ve heard. Dong once wrote that every child of God living under his Light would embody the noble virtues of ten Kowloonis.’

  ‘Hold your praise, Zexu,’ Puyin said quietly. ‘Dong wrote those things six centuries ago. For all we know, the surface could be in a much worse state than us, ruled by a man desperate to convince us it still matches the glory of Dong’s ancient stories. I have no doubt he’s read all three of our Holy Books by now and knows how we’ve mythologised his people. He thinks he has the upper hand because he’s from the surface.’

  ‘I doubt he has any nefarious intentions with these meetings, or with Kowloon for that matter, your Grace.’

  ‘Don’t pretend as though you know the man.’

  A small smile flickered across Zexu’s lips, gone as soon as it appeared.

  ‘I study patterns, my lord. Even the habits of men I have yet to meet. When you observe people long enough, you realise there are only a handful of distinct personalities in this world, and before long, you start seeing the same few types repeat themselves. He’s done everything any seasoned emperor would. This surfacer we’ve been talking to has the clear signs of a noble leader. It’s why I believe we should accept his offer to trade with the surface. He has a lot to offer and Kowloon cannot endure on dwindling stockpiles forever.’

  The Emperor leaned back, unease shadowing his face. ‘Noble, you say. Nobility means little if he uses it only to serve his people. This deal Hwa-Chee proposed, to begin trade with the surface, it’s a deal in the dark. Reading that man is impossible and I cannot predict the hidden consequences.’

  ‘But it would be historic, my lord. A venture into uncharted territory. Perhaps the most defining decision of your Zhaisheng. Whatever comes of your renaissance, the act of opening trade with the surfacers alone would make your name legendary.’

  Puyin stroked his goatee as he considered the chancellor’s words. The black dye no longer hid the thin streaks of grey threading through the roots, a telling sign of the toll of recent events. ‘Perhaps… You may be right, Zexu. I know the man covets Kowloon’s treasures; that much is natural. Still, trade with the surface could finally set the Zhaisheng in motion.’

  ‘It would be tragic if history remembered us as the era that refused progress,’ Zexu replied. Puyin cocked a brow at him just as the table pulsed blue. Hwa-Chee was calling.

  ‘Tap us in, Chancellor,’ Puyin said.

  ‘As you wish, Your Excellency.’ Zexu swiped his palm across the console, and a three-dimensional hologram of Hwa-Chee’s upper body materialised before them, bathed in an eerie bluish-green glow. A moment passed.

  ‘Emperor Puyin.’

  Puyin leaned forward, intrigued by how much the clarity and detail had improved since their last call. Holograms never looked this crisp with Kowlooni technology.

  So it may be true, Puyin thought. They might truly have superior technology. During our last meeting, Hwa-Chee mentioned his people building communication receptors underground, specifically to amplify these calls. They must be working as intended.

  ‘Sir Hwa-Chee, I bid you welcome once more. I hope you have been well since our last meeting.’

  ‘I have. News of your existence has shaken up a lot of things up here. It seems you and I have become the centre of global sensationalism. Have you given thought to my offer of trade since our last meeting?’

  ‘It would be beneficial for Kowloon,’ Puyin announced. ‘We require steel for many ongoing investments. The purest forms available. But can we begin trading in currency already?’

  ‘No, even if we could, I’d rather us not. At least not yet, to integrate your currency into the global banks would require much more time. For now, I wish to trade directly for resources. After analysing samples of your Kowlooni silica-aluminous concrete, we’ve confirmed it’s a viable material for our use.’

  Puyin frowned. ‘Analysis? How did you get samples of our concrete?’

  ‘Sorry, there’s been a misunderstanding. I do not mean literal samples. As part of the information we requested after our first contact, we were given samples of the atomic data of your concrete. It is very impressive.’

  ‘May I ask why you have taken such an interest in our concrete, Sir Hwa-Chee?’

  ‘Look at the heights your people build to. 80-storey buildings, 100-storey buildings. Here it says that in the south, some soar to a staggering 150 levels. This is how the average groundscraper in Kowloon has been described to me. Your reports mention minimal use of metal rods due to the scarcity of steel in Kowloon. Moreover, most of these buildings are put together by ordinary people who likely never stepped into a civil engineering class. It doesn’t take a genius to see the marvel in the concrete, its raw strength the backbone holding Kowloon upright. If it as tough as we think, we’d like to study and use it in our own constructions on the surface.’

  Puyin sat up straighter. He almost smiled, then caught himself. Emperors did not smile at men who lectured them their own history. ‘Yes, you’re spot on. It’s extraordinarily light but strong. We extract it from a network of submerged mines beneath the Huang Wildlands, where geothermal activity is intense. Mind you, the water down there is a toxic concoction of dissolved poisons and noxious gases. But from its deepest vents, we engineer a substance that binds my empire together – our concrete.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Hwa-Chee mused, his gaze fixed on the Emperor. ‘So, my hunch was right. Now, have you ever heard of the Romans? No, silly question. Of course, you haven’t—’

  ‘Well, actually,’ Puyin interjected, ‘our most revered prophet, Songzu Dong, extensively studied the great empires during his time on the surface. In our scriptures, he identifies the Romans as the original custodians of Christianity, the very faith Dongism emerged from.’

  Hwa-Chee blinked. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Songzu Dong was a Christian. Dongism started as a reformist sect, not a new religion. We still respect the Bible as God’s word, although for a different social context. His will for humanity is not static, so Kowlooni Christianity reformed and evolved to understand God’s message better fit for our society, becoming its own faith after generations of converts shaped Dongism into something distinct. But the Roman Empire and the Yaozhi dynasty became intertwined, spiritual and imperial successors to one another.’

  Hwa-Chee chuckled. ‘You wouldn’t be the first claimant to their great empire.’

  ‘And that does not surprise me. When Dong returned to Kowloon after four annui-cycles, the Emperor of his age became utterly enthralled with Roman legend. He renamed our military hierarchy after Roman ranks and styled himself after their emperors; cunning, ruthless, and absolute. For some decades, we even called the Emperor Sai Saat.’

  ‘Sai Saat? Like “Caesar”?’ Hwa-Chee asked.

  ‘Yes. Though the title fell out of use when the fascination with Rome died with Emperor Hongwu. But his reforms remained. Roman legacy still runs through every vein of our bureaucracy.’

  ‘Interesting. So you are aware of Roman concrete?’

  ‘Roman concrete… Roman concrete…’ Puyin cast his mind back, trying to remember every detail of his history and religion classes, but failed. ‘I don’t seem to recall that from my studies…’

  ‘Well, Emperor Puyin, perhaps there are things your prophet missed. Roman structures have endured here on the surface for over 3,000 years due to phenomenal self-repair mechanisms, but replicating their technology today is no simple feat. During the ancient times, the Romans relied on volcanic ash to create their cement – a resource that is nearly depleted in the modern era. Now, we’ve turned to the stars and are farming space resources to meet our needs. For instance, the superstructure between Kowloon and the surface – what you call No Man’s Land – was made from minerals mined from asteroids in the Kaiper Belt near Neptune. Space farms can produce concrete in abundance, but its strength remains average. That is why I’m so interested in Kowlooni concrete. Perhaps we can synthesise it one day.’ Hwa-Chee paused for a moment before continuing.

  ‘But there is a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Puyin asked, raising a brow.

  ‘If we’re trading raw resources, we’ll need value ratios. Set an exchange rate, mass for mass. Tell me, Emperor Puyin, how do you Kowlooni’s calibrate your basic units?’

  Puyin remained silent. What does he mean?

  ‘I ask because our atomic clocks drift by microseconds every decade, even with full access to solar synchronisation. Down there, without the sun, your clocks must have drifted centuries. Any data or metric you send will be meaningless without re-alignment. How can I be sure your kilogram and my kilogram are the same values? Your cubic volume? The very measurement of a second?’

  Puyin felt his cheeks grow warm. He had no idea what the man was talking about; science had never been his strength. He turned to Zexu, who gave a reassuring nod and stepped forward.

  ‘Sir Hwa-Chee, this is Grand Chancellor Lin Zexu speaking.’

  ‘Ah yes, the advisor. Do you have something to say?’

  ‘Yes. His Majesty is not aware of such technical details, as his focus is rightly on matters of governance. However, we calibrate our fundamental units, including our research clocks, using isotope decay constants.’

  ‘A little dated, but that technology will do. I will have my scientists send down the necessary forms so we can synchronise our units. Then we may begin trade. But why stop there? We should think beyond steel and concrete. Kowloon has a distinctive market, with products that could draw buyers from across the world. Expanding trade could bring unprecedented growth to both our economies. It would serve your grand renaissance well… What is it you call it?’

  ‘The Zhaisheng,’ the Emperor answered quickly.

  ‘Yes, that. If you want its ambitions to soar, you will need my help. Trust between our peoples will only grow when our markets intertwine. Trade is the universal language of coexistence.’

  Puyin’s posture went rigid, his chin tipping upward by a hair to mask how sharply the comment had stung.

  “You will need my help,” Puyin thought. His jaw tightened, the faintest tremor running through his fingers on the armrest. Did this surfacer truly think Kowloon’s rebirth depended on his charity? The way he spoke of open markets, of integration, of “trust,” sounded less like cooperation and more like capitalistic conquest dressed in courtesy.

  He forced the tension out of his shoulders, straightened his back, and steadied his voice. ‘For now, let us keep to trading concrete for steel. Opening free trade is no small matter. It is a monumental decision, one that would reshape Kowloon from the ground up. I will reflect on it and consult with my advisers.’