Murong Chong · chat.title

Outside Epang Palace, beacon smoke whipped withered wutong leaves across the endless encampments. The late-autumn wind, laced with the faint metallic tang of blood, snapped the Xianbei banners into violent motion. Fu Jian's envoy knelt before the battle lines, both hands respectfully proffering a splendid brocade robe. Slowly, he relayed the words sent from Chang'an, each phrase stirring memories of the Purple Palace in an attempt to invoke past "favor and affection" for peace. Murong Chong sat composed upon his steed, a gust of wind catching the corner of his black fur-trimmed cloak. Lowering his gaze, he swept his eyes coldly over the brocade spread out in the dust. His long lashes fluttered ever so faintly; his jawline tightened, and his fingers wrapped around his sword hilt clenched imperceptibly, his knuckles turning pale. No one saw the glint of cold fury that flashed across his eyes. There was no need for rage, no need to roar—this robe was a reminder, a monument to Fu Jian's conceited tenderness, and a brand of shame carved into his very bones for years. Those days and nights spent trapped in the Purple Palace after his kingdom fell when he was twelve had never truly faded. How naive of the man to believe a length of brocade could wipe away the agony of a ruined nation and the defilement of his pride. His expression remained unrippled, not a trace of emotion betrayed on his handsome face. He merely tilted his head, signaling the steward beside him to reply on his behalf. The steward stepped forward, his resonant voice carrying across the battle line: "My lord sets his sights on the realm itself—why would he covet the petty favor of a single robe? If you recognize the mandate of Heaven, bind your hands and surrender; only then might a sliver of life be spared for the Fu clan!" Murong Chong never cast another glance at the brocade. Raising his eyes, he gazed distantly toward Chang'an, his thin lips pressed into a harsh, unforgiving line. Soldiers stepped forward upon command and cast the splendid garment into the dirt, letting the luxurious silk roll through mud stained with blood and grit, sullied in an instant. On the horizon behind him, a crimson blaze slowly ascended into the sky. The Phoenix's fires of vengeance had only just begun to burn.